#president bradshaw | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

lewmagoo · 7 months

Text

to my heart, he carries the key | bob floyd

sequel to someone to watch over me (i recommend reading the first part beforehand so this makes more sense)

description: in which a threat is made against the president’s daughter’s life, and agent robert floyd is tasked with carrying out ‘operation hidden angel’

characters: secret service agent bob floyd x f!reader, pete mitchell, beau simpson, dagger squad as their own respective characters

warnings: 18+, mentions of domestic terrorism, military, secret service and us gov’t inaccuracies, smut, unprotected sex, forbidden love, gun violence, attempted kidnapping, hospitals, broken bones, angst, hopeful ending

Things had changed in The White House.

It had been three months since that fateful night during a charity event, where a man in the crowd targeted the First Daughter of the United States. Agents Robert Floyd, Jacob Seresin, and Reuben Fitch intercepted the perpetrator, and he was disarmed before he could harm anyone. He had been taken into custody, and after weeks of extensive questioning and investigation, The Department of Homeland Security had determined that this man was not working alone. He was a member of a homegrown terrorist organization.

The only thing they couldn’t get out of him was the location of the organization. He refused to give them up, but he was adamant that in a few short months, they were going to go through with their next act of violence. And this time, people were going to die.

It was very calculated. Every last detail was planned out. How they would get the attention of the American public. How they would carry out their threat against the US government. And the way that they planned to do that?

Why, kidnapping the president’s daughter, of course.

During the time it took to obtain that information from the perpetrator, there was unrest in The White House. A changing of the guard, so to speak, was taking place. Tragedy had struck in the personal life of Pete Mitchell, head of White House security.

His husband of over thirty years, Tom Kazansky, had passed away after a bout with cancer. Pete took it hard. Hard enough that after the funeral and the burial and everything in between, he decided that it was time to retire from his decade long position as head of security.

It was not a decision that he took lightly. In fact, he’d agonized over it before finally biting the bullet and placing his letter of resignation upon the president’s desk.

“The truth is, I’m getting too old for this,” he told his team of agents, as he addressed them on the day he left. “I know, I know, it’s shocking to most of you,” he teased, as lighthearted chuckles filled the room. “But…it’s time for me to step down. Tom’s death showed me how fragile life is, and how much I should be cherishing it. I have grandchildren on the way, and I plan to be here to watch them grow up.” He glanced at Bradley Bradshaw, and the pair shared a silent understanding. Bradley’s wife was expecting. Pete didn’t want to miss a moment of that little one’s life.

“So, in my stead, Beau Simpson has agreed to take on the position as the new White House Head of Security.”

And thus, new leadership walked onto the stage.

At first, things weren’t that much difference. Your personal security detail, with Bob as the head, remained the same. Everyone missed Agent Mitchell, but life had to go on. And go on, it did.

Bob, for one, wasn’t the biggest fan of change. But change was part of the job, it was part of life, so he couldn’t make a big deal about it. When Simpson began to implement subtle changes into the way things were done, Bob bristled, but he didn’t speak out. He held his tongue, because he had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to rebel against Simpson’s leadership, he’d lose his job faster than he could even blink.

So he simply observed silently and waited to see just how many changes Simpson was going to make.

And then, one day, Bob was called into the president’s office, where he stood before Agent Simpson and POTUS himself. “Do you know why we’ve brought you in, Agent Floyd?” Beau asked.

“No sir,” came Bob’s simple response. He didn’t get the sense that he was losing his job, so he had no idea why he was standing here in the Oval Office.

“I’m sure you recall three months ago, when a threat was made against the president’s daughter.”

“Yes sir, vividly.” He’d never forget that night. Never forget the terror in your voice as you called out for him.

Then, the president interjected. “As Agent Mitchell previously briefed you, the perpetrator was part of a domestic terrorist organization here on our soil. Recently, he confessed to agents that this group will be carrying out an act of violence upon the American people. We aren’t sure where, or when exactly, but what we are sure of, is that they’re going to go after my daughter again.”

Agent Simpson picked up where the man left off. “Listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. What we talk about here is strictly confidential. It is a matter of national security.” Then he leaned closer toward Bob. “I am going to give you a set of coordinates. No one else but you, me, and the president know them. Once I give them to you, I want you to be prepared for my signal. When I deem it necessary, you will go to the Residence, retrieve his daughter, and escort her to this location. You will not bring any other agents with you. Just you, and herself. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes sir. But why am I being given coordinates contrary to the location of the safe house that was already put in place?”

“Because that location has been compromised. You must only escort her to the coordinates I give you. Her life depends on it.”

“And when we get there?”

“You wait for my all clear. It won’t be safe to bring her back home until the threat is neutralized. Can you carry out these orders?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now memorize these coordinates.” Agent Simpson recited the numbers twice. Bob had an excellent memory, and stored away the information easily. Once he confirmed the coordinates by reciting them back to the man, Beau nodded. “From here on out, you will be prepared at all times to carry out Operation Hidden Angel.”

Bob breathed in, then out. Then he nodded. “I will be standing by awaiting further orders.”

The president stood from behind his desk. “I trust you to do whatever it takes to protect my only child, Agent Floyd. Don’t make me regret it.”

“Whatever it takes, sir.”

He was dismissed from the office, and his head was spinning. Suddenly, he was burdened with a deep sense of pressure. The need to do his job well. Not because your father and the entire country was depending on him, but because you were depending on him.

He had taken an oath to serve and protect. And he meant it. Even before he knew he loved you, he had made good on that oath. And now, even more so. You were infinitely precious to him, and he would do whatever it took to ensure your safety.

Even if it meant giving his life to ensure it. He was fully prepared to go to that length if he needed to.

That night, he couldn’t sleep. His mind kept drifting to you. To how much he loved you. How much he missed you. He saw you everyday. He escorted you to wherever you needed to go. But those moments did not allow him to be alone with you in the way that you both wanted. There were always prying eyes. Other members of your security detail. Cameras. Nosey reporters. Your relationship had remained secret all this time, and you couldn’t risk exposing it.

So he would continue pining for you, desiring you, hoping for a private moment to at least hold you in his arms. Little did he know he was about to get that opportunity, just not in the way that he was expecting.

The orders came one Friday afternoon. The work day was coming to a close. At that moment, you were in your quarters getting ready. That evening, you had a dinner engagement with a friend from college. Bob had only just finished briefing the rest of your detail on what the itinerary was for the night. Everyone was prepped and on the same page.

And then, Agent Simpson’s voice spoke into his earpiece.

“Agent Floyd, it’s time to enact Operation Hidden Angel.”

He tensed, his heart seizing in his chest as a shock of dread shuddered down his spine. This was it. His worst fear was coming true. Your life had been directly threatened, and it was time to take you to the designated safe house deep in the Virginia mountains.

And when Bob received that command, he had no choice but to act on it. He touched his fingers to his earpiece and responded. “Copy that. Operation Hidden Angel commencing.”

And then he was off, his shoes tapping rhythmically against the polished wooden floors as he rushed down each hallway and corridor. Adrenaline drove him forward, and he soon came to the entrance to the residence. Breathing in deeply to steady himself, he knocked twice before he opened the doors.

He knew where you were. He didn’t have to search. You were in your bedroom, readying yourself for the night ahead. For propriety’s sake, he knocked softly. If he hadn’t been afraid that someone might see him, he would’ve just burst into the room.

He still had to keep up the appearance that you were not romantically involved.

On the other side of the door, you were just setting out the outfit you would wear that night. You were entirely oblivious to the looming danger, eager for an eveningof catching up with an old friend. “Come in!” You called out as you debated which accessories to add to your outfit.

You were surprised to see Bob in your doorway. You smiled at the unexpected visit, but your smile soon faded when you saw the urgent look on his face. “You need to grab your emergency bag and come with me. Now.”

Your stomach dropped. “Bobby, what—”

“Just come. It’s not safe for you to be here right now.”

Deciding it best not to ask any further questions in the moment, you rushed to your closet, trembling hands yanking out the bag of packed necessities you kept for emergencies such as this. Then you shoved your feet into your shoes and rushed after him.

“What’s happening?” You asked as you followed Bob out of your room and down the corridor that led out of the residence.

“Can’t tell you the details. Just need to get you somewhere safe.”

“But-”

He turned, stopping you in your tracks. “Do you trust me?” He asked, blazing blue eyes locked with yours.

“With my life,” you replied without hesitation.

“Then stick with me. I’ll keep you safe.”

So you stopped asking questions. You followed Bob through the back hallways of the White House, allowing him to lead you, trusting in his guidance. You knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that he would protect you. He always had. When there was a threat against your safety, he was the first to run toward the danger.

But now, you were both running from it. You knew it had to be serious if you were being removed from The White House. Someone had likely made a significant threat, and Agent Simpson had advised you be removed from the premises until the threat was neutralized.

But would the danger ever be gone? Even if this particular instance was taken care of, others would come up in the future. You would never be safe, because that was just your life as the president’s one and only child.

You did, however, feel safe with the man in front of you. His large, warm hand engulfed your own as he led you down beneath the building. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to ensure your protection. Not only because it was his duty, but because he couldn’t live with himself if something happened to you. He loved you too much.

And that was the sticky part of the situation. No one knew about your secret love for one another. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Someone did know. Bradley Bradshaw, Bob’s secondhand man on your security detail, had silently put two and two together. He’d never outright told either of you that he knew, but there seemed to be a silent understanding between him and Bob. A way of communicating that had come with years of working alongside each other in the same military branch. Neither one of them had to say a word, but they knew what the other was thinking.

Bradley had kept your secret all this time. You were often surprised that no one had found out, and both you and Bob lived in fear that one day, your father would find out. And if that were to happen, you would lose Bob. He would be dismissed from his duties and you would likely never see him again. The thought broke your heart.

But for the time being, you were able to slip under the radar. Now, especially, because it was just the two of you. And for a moment, you wondered why the rest of your detail wasn’t with you. “Bob, where’s the rest of the team?” You asked as he pulled you to a stop outside a sleek black sedan. He grabbed your bag and threw it in the backseat before motioning for you to climb in alongside it.

“I’ll explain later.” He ushered you into your seat before he scurried to the driver’s side and slipped into the seat. The engine roared to life seconds later, and he glanced back at you. “Buckle up.”

You did.

Then he was taking off, headed out of the parking garage. As he hit the gas, he spoke into his earpiece. “Angel is flying.”

“Bob, why is it just the two of us?” You reiterated your question from a few moments earlier.

He glanced at you through the rearview, debating just how much he should tell you. “The more people that know where we’re going, the more danger it puts you in. Only your dad and Agent Simpson know where we’re going.”

“Where are we going?”

“Just…just don’t ask questions, okay, honey? The less you know, the safer you are.”

You heeded his words and settled back into your seat, your heart racing against your ribcage. This was more serious than you realized, wasn’t it? And as you thought about it, the more fearful you became. Your life was in danger, and it was an odd feeling.

Who were you, that someone wanted to kill you? Your father’s decisions were not a reflection of your own morals or beliefs. You had no control over the way he chose to run the country. But there were times when his decisions put a target on his family’s back. Yours especially, because as his child, you were his biggest weakness. Remove you from the equation, and one would have the President of the United States in the palm of their hand, willing to do whatever they asked just to get you back.

This was why proactive measures were being taken. You couldn’t be used as a bargaining chip if you were in hiding. But oh, how you hated it. This was your father’s second term. You had been living in the White House for much too long, and you were tired of it. Tired of the world’s eyes being on you at all times. Tired of the politics and the responsibility. You had never asked for this. This was your father’s endeavor, you were just along for the ride.

But it had resulted in you being placed into the back of a bulletproof car and driven off to some top-secret location just to keep you safe. And from the back of that seat, your eyes observed the singular agent in charge of maintaining that safety. He wasn’t looking at you through the rearview, his eyes were on the road where they belonged. But you could see the conflict in those beautiful blues. You could see the fear.

Whatever this threat was had scared him. And that was saying something, because Bob Floyd didn’t scare easily. But when it came to protecting you, he did get scared. Terrified, even. He just didn’t let you see it. He wanted you to trust him, to feel secure. And you did. In fact, no one else made you feel as secure as he did. Yes, the rest of your detail did a wonderful job. You knew you could trust them with your life.

But because you loved Bob so much, you sought him out for shelter and protection. He was the first you turned to when you were frightened or felt unsafe. And he loved being that for you. Loved that you looked to him for those things.

However, he sometimes thought about the day he might fail you. Would his feelings for you hinder his ability to protect you effectively? Would he be blinded by love? It hadn’t happened yet, but he knew if he was even a smidge off his game, Agent Simpson would be able to sniff it out. And he would not let Bob off the hook for it, either. He’d instruct him to end his relationship with you immediately. And there would be no second chance. Beau would tell the president, and Bob’s position would be terminated.

But it had not gotten to that point, and you prayed it never would. You much preferred sharing this intimate little secret. It did make maintaining your relationship a little difficult, because there were times when you wished you had the guts to tell your father, to tell the world. But the thought of the repercussions that would follow always made you decide against it.

You wanted to relish in this secret for a little longer. If the time ever did come to reveal your relationship, you would know. Until then, you remained under the radar, stealing private moments when you could, and otherwise keeping your distance when it was appropriate.

But now you were entirely alone. No prying eyes. No risk of being caught. You were alone, because Bob was the only one your father trusted to watch over you. Because some unhinged madman had made a threat against your life and Bob would sooner die than let any harm come to you.

“You’re taking me to the safe house, aren’t you?” You spoke up. You had no idea where the house was located, but you had heard of presidents in the past utilizing safe houses. If you were being physically removed from The White House and taken elsewhere, a safe house was the only logical destination you could think of.

Bob caught your eye through the rearview mirror. His expression was bleak, and he said nothing, but it confirmed what you were asking.

The drive to the safe house was two hours. You left behind the bustling area of Washington, D.C. and headed into the mountains of Virginia. And as you went, the sun began to sink lower in the sky, allowing eventide to grace the land.

You and Bob hardly spoke, which was uncommon. But you could tell he was harrowed by this situation, and in turn, you were just as scared. It rendered you both silent for the rest of the ride. Instead, you stared out the window, watching the landscape go by, wondering how long you would have to stay here. A night? A week? A month? How serious was this threat made against you? How immediate was the danger?

All these questions swirled in your mind as Bob drove up a winding, dirt drive. It seemed to go on forever, and the farther he went, the darker it got. But he kept going, until finally, he was pulling up outside a small cabin.

You stared in confusion. Surely this couldn’t be it, right? When thinking of a safe house, you imagined concrete walls and impenetrable security systems. This was just a cabin in the middle of nowhere.

Bob was confused as well. An odd feeling churned to life in his gut. Something didn’t feel quite right about this, but these were the coordinates he was given. He had not made a mistake in his navigation. You were where you were supposed to be.

“Are you sure this is the place?” You asked as he pulled the car behind the house, intending to keep it hidden from view so as not to raise any suspicions if anyone were to happen upon the place.

“These are the coordinates I was given. I followed orders,” Bob replied, a little sharply, but his annoyance wasn’t directed at you. It was at whoever had designated this as a safe house. Surely the US government could afford something more than this, right?

“I just…was expecting something more grand. A fortress or something,” came your explanation.

Bob softened. “Honestly, me too. I didn’t know what to expect. They gave me the coordinates when I first took charge of your detail. I always assumed the safe house was a bunker.”

Both of you were wrong. Instead, it was a quaint cabin that looked like any normal cabin in the forest might look. However, when you got up to the porch, you found a keypad on the door. It had to be unlocked by a code.

Bob spoke into his mic. “Angel has landed safely.”

Seconds later, Agent Simpson’s voice crackled to life in his ear. “Copy that,” he said. And then, “zero one zero two nine three.”

Bob typed the numbers into the keypad, and the sound of a lock turning reached his ears. Seconds later, the door was unlocked. He opened the door and took a look inside, scoping out the place.

It looked like a typical hunting cabin, except more well furnished. a seating area off to the left, complete with a bearskin rug. A small kitchen off to the right. An old oak dining table in the middle of the main room.

“Let me see,” you spoke up from behind him.

He stepped forward into the house and allowed you to follow suit. As soon as you were both safely inside, he shut the door, manually locking it. He was surprised at the addition of windows to the cabin. As you wandered around and explored the place, he parted the blackout curtain that hung upon one of the front windows, tapping the glass with his fingertips. It was bulletproof.

He eyed the architecture of the house, assessing what it was made out of. It he had to guess, there was also bulletproof material within the wall panels. Although the cabin looked normal, it was anything but. It was designed to blend in, to not raise suspicion.

And then his eyes traveled to the bearskin rug, and something told him to check it out. As you were rifling around in the kitchen, he stepped over to the seating area and kicked at the rug with his foot. It seemed to be fastened to the floor. So he knelt down and pulled at each edge until one gave way, lifting up to reveal a hiding space beneath the floor.

He grabbed his small utility flashlight he kept on his belt and shined the light inside. This was the bunker he’d assumed he was taking you to. It was very clearly designed to withstand any sort of disaster. I hoped he wouldn’t have to utilize it.

“What’s that?” You came up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“Bunker.” He slammed the door shut. With the rug overtop of it, it didn’t look out of place at all. Bob turned to you, his expression serious. “If anything happens, we go down there.”

You held his gaze, your own fearful. “Bobby…how bad is it?” You wanted to know the severity of the threat. You wanted to know if you’d be forced to hide in that bunker.

Bob stepped closer to you, allowing himself the physical connection he’d deprived you both of in his haste to get you here safely. His hand came up to cup your cheek. “Bad enough that your dad was spooked. Bad enough that Simpson thought we should bring you to the safe house.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, lifting your hand to rest it gently overtop of his own. “I’m tired of this,” you whispered.

“I know,” he whispered back. He wanted to assure you that he’d protect you. That you were safe with him. But the words felt so insignificant. Yes, he would protect you, but that didn’t change the fact that a threat had still been made to your life. You, the most precious soul he’d ever known. You, kind and giving and compassionate. You, the one who loved him. How could anyone target you?

You leaned in close, and his mind ceased its wandering. Your free hand was placed gently against his chest, over his heart. And then you spoke. “Do you think that maybe…we could pretend, just for a little bit, that life is normal? That we’re just two people living in their little cabin in the woods, who aren’t actually in danger of a terrorist trying to take their lives?”

Bob’s mouth curled into a halfhearted smile. “Yeah…yeah, we can do that, little love. Whatever you want.”

Little love. The endearing nickname always made your heart warm in your chest. You nestled yourself against him, lifting your head and seeking out his kiss. He gladly returned the affection, mouth fitting against yours like it was always meant to, lips meeting in a tender kiss.

For a fleeting moment, everything felt alright. There was no looming danger. No president’s daughter and secret service agent. It was just two people, very much in love, sharing an impassioned kiss in their living room.

And then you parted, and as Bob rested his forehead against yours, you said, “You hungry? I found a box of MREs stored away in the kitchen.”

He smiled, humming softly in amusement. “Mm, my favorite,” he teasingly replied.

Your hands now rested on his chest. “I’ll get them ready.”

You shared one more kiss before you slipped away to saunter over to the kitchen. As you did so, Bob grabbed your duffel bag and carried it to what he assumed was a bedroom. When he opened the door, his assumption was confirmed.

A double sized bed was positioned in the middle of the sparsely furnished room. There was a nightstand on one side of the bed and a dresser along the opposite wall, facing the bed. An empty closet was across the room.

Bob set your bag down on the bed, and he assumed the two of you would be sharing this bed. His heart yearned for it. It had been a while since the two of you had shared a bed and spent the night snuggled up close. He missed it so.

Although the situation that had brought you here was less than ideal, at least you would be able to spend time with each other, without having to sneak around.

With a soft sigh, Bob stepped out of the bedroom, pulling the door shut before he quickly made his way back outside, with intentions of doing a perimeter sweep to make sure the area was secure. Once he was satisfied, he made his way back to the house, stopping only to grab his own overnight bag that had been stashed in the trunk of the sedan.

Moments later, he was inside with you again, the door locked securely behind him.

In the meantime, you were at work in the kitchen, reading the directions on your MRE packet. When he entered the room, you looked up, and then motioned to the bin of pre-packaged food kits you had found.

“Take your pick. There’s macaroni in tomato sauce, chili, spaghetti, and some bean and cheese thing.”

He chose the macaroni in tomato sauce, assuming it would be the safest option. Together, you prepared your respective meals, and you couldn’t help but find it a little humorous that your first time cooking together consisted of making military grade survival meals.

“I haven’t eaten one of these in years,” Bob mused, as he activated the heating element. A memory flashed in his mind. A not so happy one. “Last time I had one was when my plane went down during a mission. Natasha was flying with me then. We were stuck in the woods for days.”

You frowned softly at his admission. “How did you make it back?”

“Some nice farmer saw us along the road and we were able to hitch a ride with him into the nearest town. We radioed for help.”

“Why didn’t search and rescue come for you?”

“Partly because we went down in enemy territory. And because our plane literally exploded into a million pieces. We were presumed dead.”

Your previously chipper mood was dampened a bit as you imagined him and Natasha, yet another trusted agent in your security detail, lost and potentially injured in unfamiliar territory. “Did you get hurt when the plane went down?” You asked.

He nodded. “Got some nasty cuts. Some burns, too. You know the scar on my side?”

You hummed in realization. You did know it. You’d run your fingers over the six inch long scar many times while laying in bed with him.

“That was shrapnel from the blow. Cut me pretty good. Nat stitched it up for me, actually. Kind of embarrassed to admit I passed out during it.”

You reached out, touching his arm gently. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. I can’t even imagine, Bobby. That must’ve been awful.”

He nodded. “But we got through it. Nat’s one determined gal. She told me she was gonna get me home safe. And she did. If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t be alive right now.”

Your hand moved from his arm, resting against his back, thumb stroking circles along his spine. Your touch grounded him. “Remind me to thank her.”

He smiled softly as he finished preparing his food. He was beyond grateful that the Fates had decided to spare him. Had they not, he never would have met you, the best thing to ever happen to him.

Joining the Secret Service had never been part of Bob’s plan. He’d never even considered it. But Agent Mitchell had recommended him to the president, and after Bob had fulfilled his commitment of time to the Navy, he’d moved over to The White House, where he became part of security.

In fact, the entirety of your personal security detail had been recommended to your father by Pete Mitchell. With you making more public appearances and doing charity work, it put you on the radar. Your father wanted the best security detail possible for you, and because he trusted Pete’s judgment, he brought them in to begin the interview process. In the end, all of them were hired.

But only one was the head of your detail. Only Bob was entrusted with every minute detail of your safety. Not because the others couldn’t be trusted, or because they were incapable. Far from it. It was his sharpness and his ability to assess threats quickly. It was his respectfulness and penchant for following the rules (or so everyone thought). Out of the group of agents assigned to you, Bob stood out above the rest.

In the words of your father, Seresin was too cocky, Bradshaw too aloof, and Trace too emotional. You strongly disagreed with his words. You didn’t like the assessments he’d made of each agent. You thought he was being unfair and harsh. Especially with Natasha. Calling her too emotional was crossing over into sexist territory, you felt. If anything, Bradley was the emotional one. But you didn’t argue with your dad. Whatever POTUS says, goes.

None of the supposed “downfalls” your father saw in each agent affected their ability to protect you. All of them put their lives on the line every single day to ensure your safety.

But in the end, they hadn’t been put solely in charge of your security team. Bob had. And now here you stood, in safe house in the middle of the Virginia wilderness, eating survival food and pretending everything was fine. Just you and him.

Strangely enough, you were grateful. Grateful that he was the one you were with. And maybe it was for selfish reasons, but you didn’t care. You just hated that your only opportunity to be alone with him as of late was because of the imminent danger posed to your life.

But you would cherish the time you were allotted.

That night, in the quietness of that little cabin in the woods, the two of you sat at the oak dining table adjacent to the kitchen, with your feet resting in Bob’s lap. You drank the electrolyte drink mixes that were provided in your MREs, pretending they were some sort of fancy alcoholic cocktail, if only for your sanity’s sake.

For the rest of the evening, you didn’t acknowledge the circumstances that had brought you here. Instead, you talked of anything and everything. It wasn’t often that you had a chance to have such meaningful conversations with one another. Your time together was usually short. Secret meetings under the cover of darkness. Stolen moments of passion in hotel rooms. Intimate embraces where no prying eyes could see.

But flashes of reality still shocked you like a splash of cold water to the face. Such as the fact that Bob’s gun was still strapped to his hip. Or the fact that he went around the house making sure all the blackout curtains were drawn, and double checking the lock system on the door.

You tried to ignore it. Focused on cleaning up your haphazard dinner instead. But there was still a feeling of unease in your gut. Bob seemed to notice your anxiety, ever observant, and he approached you as you wiped down the table with a dish cloth you’d found in one of the drawers. His arms encircled your waist, and you sighed, leaning back against him, letting your eyes flutter shut.

“Hey,” he whispered, nuzzling his face against the back of your neck. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”

You turned around in his hold, placing your hands upon his chest. “I know. I just…I’m trying to pretend everything is fine but it’s hard when there’s a literal bunker beneath us, and you’re walking around with your gun on your hip, and checking the state of the art locking system on the door over there.”

Bob glanced down at the weapon in its holster. “Here,” he said. He stepped back, removing his belt, and taking the holster along with it. He took the gun and carried it into the bedroom, where he placed it on the singular nightstand beside the bed. Then he rejoined you in the main room.

“Is that better?” He asked.

“A little,” you replied with a nod, welcoming him into your arms again.

He dipped his head low, capturing your lips in a tender kiss. “I love you, sweet girl.”

Your chest warmed. “I love you too.”

A large hand lifted up, fingers stroking your cheek. “You want to play pretend? We’ll play pretend.” His arm then came down to wrap around your waist, palm pressed into the small of your back. “This is our homestead, right? And you…you are my pretty little wife.” His free hand tapped your nose with his fingers.

“Oh? I like the sound of that,” came your soft reply.

His arm tightened around you. “Mhm. And I just came in from a long day of workin’ the land. Looks like we’re gonna have a good harvest, too. Won’t go hungry this winter.”

Your mouth curved into a fond smile. His accent was coming through. Picked up from summers spent on his granddaddy’s ranch. “Take such good care of me,” you said. “My strong, handsome man.”

He kissed you again, this time more languidly. “Always gonna take care of my wife.”

That promise translated outside of this silly little roleplay, too. You knew he’d always look out for you. “What would I do without my Bobby?” You asked.

He gently bumped noses with you, enjoying the closeness. It made you a little dizzy. You hadn’t been in his big, strong arms like this in a while. You’d missed it more than you realized. The close proximity of your bodies had you growing breathless, and your fingers grasped at the fabric of his button down.

“I…can we…” You couldn’t get the words out. But he knew what you wanted.

“You need me, honey?”

You nodded, caught off guard when tears welled in your eyes. “Please,” you whimpered pitifully. It hit you hard, like a blow to the chest. You hadn’t expected the feeling to be so intense, but now you were leaning into him for support, afraid your knees would give way if you tried to stand on your own.

“I’ve got you. Let’s go to the bedroom, okay?”

With his arm secured around you, he led you to the room. There, he guided you to sit on the bed before he turned on the little beside lamp on the nightstand. It didn’t give off much light, but it did cast a soft, warm glow over the bed.

And then he was in front of you again, but this time, he was kneeling, placing his hands on your knees as he looked up at you. “If you want to stop at any time, you tell me, alright?”

You nodded.

“Words, lovey.”

“Yes sir.”

He wanted to be a little more careful with you in this moment. Not that he wasn’t careful with you all the time, but he had a feeling you needed a little more tenderness than usual. Having your life threatened was a harrowing experience. He wanted to give you the intimacy and closeness you needed. He wanted to be a comfort to you.

As he rose to his feet, a big, gentle hand cupped your cheek. You lifted your head, gazing up at him. His thumb lovingly stroked your bottom lip, and you instinctively opened your mouth, wrapping your lips around the digit.

He watched in awe as your eyes began to grow glassy, and your gaze softened. All it took was his thumb in your mouth to turn you pliant. He smiled fondly, his eyes twinkling.

And what beautiful eyes they were. You gazed up into them, so clear and blue, but somehow dark in the lowlight, as if the bright blue had turned brown. You could feel the tension leaving your body as you suckled on his thumb. The taste of his skin was familiar and soothing.

“Poor thing. Just needed to shut your brain off for a bit, huh?” He murmured.

“Mhm,” you hummed around his thumb.

“I’ve got you. Don’t have to do any thinking with me. I’ll do it all for you.”

You liked the sound of that. You could let go of the stressors. Your circumstances. Your position as daughter of the President of the United States. Your political commitments. All of it could be forgotten, if only for a little while.

So you gave yourself to him. To your Bobby. You let him take care of you, because he knew what was best at that moment in time.

“C’mere,” he said. He took a seat on the bed, his back leaning against the headboard. As you scrambled over to him, he caught you, pulling you into his lap so that you were straddling him. His hands rested at your hips. Your own fell to his broad shoulders. The muscles rippled beneath your touch.

With your body slotted against his like this, you felt so warm and secure. Like you were meant to fit together. In the warm glow of the lamp, and in the softness of the bed, it all felt so domestic. As if you truly were husband and wife, living in your little cabin in the woods.

And then your mind began to wander, and you considered what it might be like if he truly was your husband. If you were allowed to live out your relationship without fear of being found out.

You wanted that, you realized. You wanted it so badly. But you couldn’t have it. Not yet. So instead, you played pretend. You dove forward, connecting your lips with his, kissing him deeply, pouring all the passion you had into it. And he kissed you back with just as much fervor.

Your hands moved from his shoulders to rest upon the sides of his neck. Your fingers slipped through the hair at the nape of his neck, nails ever so lightly scraping at the skin, making him shiver against you and moan into your mouth.

You rotated your hips downward in the process, and he gasped, his grip tightening on your waist. So you moved your hips again. And again. Soon, you were rutting against him, searching out that delicious friction. The seam of your shorts caught against you in just the right place, and the stimulation had his cock hardening beneath you.

He let his head thunk back against the headboard, biting his lip and closing his eyes. “Oh, just like that, honey,” he encouraged, breathless.

“Feels so good,” you whined.

“I know. Been too long, hasn’t it?” he cooed, bringing you closer so your forehead was pressed to his.

“H-how long?” you wondered, shivering as he lifted his hips to meet your own.

He remembered. Of course he did. “Last month. When you visited that one university.”

Oh, yes. Now you remembered. You’d really gone an entire month without touching him? No wonder you ached so terribly inside. You needed him.

“Bobby,” you whimpered then.

“I know, baby. I know.”

He was kissing you again, except this time, he rotated you, gently easing you onto the bed so he could hover over you. Then he began the reverent undressing of your body. He pulled your shirt over your head, leaving a kiss against your clavicle as he easily rid you of your undergarments. Then came your shorts and panties, tossed aside carelessly.

This left you entirely bare to him, and oh, how naked you felt. But he distracted you from any trepidation you felt. He took your hands in his own, lifting them to his shirt, prompting you to unbutton it. Those big hands hovered over yours as you did, there to help if you were trembling too much to do it.

In no time, the shirt was unbuttoned, and he tossed it to the floor before he made quick work of removing his white undershirt. Immediately, your hands splayed across his chest. Well-defined because he worked his ass off staying fit. His job was not for the faint of heart or body. He had to stay on top of his game.

“If ya can stop ogling my chest for a minute, I’ll get my pants off,” he teased.

You looked up at him before turning your head away shyly. He couldn’t help but hum in gentle amusement. You were just the most precious thing.

Quickly, he shoved his pants and boxers down his legs, kicking them asunder, leaving you both naked as the day you were born. As soon as his body was slotted against yours, you sighed in deep relief. Finally.

His mouth was on yours again, and his arms were at either side of your head, effectively caging you in. He overwhelmed your every sense, and it was glorious. In such close proximity, you could smell his cologne, and that natural, heady scent that could only be described as him.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered in awe, his mouth trailing down your jaw, across your neck, over your collarbone. Reverence. Worship.

As he kissed your heated skin, he moved to slip his hand between your thighs. Deft fingers tenderly parted your delicate folds, prodding at your entrance. First one finger, slid in deep. Then two. You whined into his mouth as he crooked those fingers upward, intent on locating that spongey little spot that made you shiver.

It didn’t take him long. He knew your body so well. Knew exactly what to do to have you purring for him. You were so responsive to his touch as it was.

“Gotta open you up for me, lovey,” he soothed. “Been a while since you took all of me.”

Those fingers pumped in and out of you, and his thumb came up to swirl around your clit as he did so. You were oversensitive. Not only had you not been touched by him in over a month, but you hadn’t touched yourself, either. You’d hardly had any downtime, and when you did, you spent it resting. Now, you were so pent up that Bob’s gentle stimulation of your neglected pussy was already beginning to overwhelm you.

In the meantime, he continued to trail searing kisses across your skin. Over the softness of your breasts. Teeth gently tugging at your pebbled nipples. Tongue soothing the sting.

In the meantime, you grew wetter around his fingers, your body opening up to him, welcoming him in. And then he added a third finger, and you squealed, jolting against him. You felt his mouth curl into a smile against you.

Then he lifted his head to gaze down at the way your cunt stretched around those fingers. “Oh, look at this sweet little pussy. My fingers barely fit. I don’t know if it’ll be able to take my cock.”

He was teasing you. But in your hazy state, you took him seriously. “No! No, I can take it! Please, I need it!” You gasped.

This prompted him to place his thumb in your mouth again. “Shh, I know. I’m gonna give it to you, I promise.” A gentle kiss to your lips before he leaned back. He removed his fingers from you, and you watched as he used the slick of your arousal as lubricant for his cock, smearing it over the velvety skin. You whimpered at the sight.

You so desperately needed that cock inside you. Thick and heavy, with a blushed tip that was dripping with his own desire. You found yourself reaching for it, wrapping your fingers around him, longing to feel the heaviness in your hand.

He gasped softly as your grip tightened and your thumb brushed over that pretty pink head, gathering the wetness that had gathered at the slit. You found yourself salivating, suddenly wishing he was in your mouth, warm on your tongue. But at the same time, you wanted to be filled by him so badly. It made you ache.

Gently, he lifted your hand away, replacing it with his own. He slid the underside of his cock through your slick, and you both moaned lowly when the plush head caught at your clit. Again, he thrust his hips forward, teasing you. When he pulled back, he positioned himself at your entrance, slipping in only ever so slightly, enough to pull a desirous whine from you before he pulled back.

“D-don’t tease,” you squeaked out.

“I know. Just tryin’ to savor it. Might not get to do this again for a while.”

You pulled him down, kissing him deeply. “Don’t think about that right now. Just fuck me, Bobby. Please.”

“Uh-huh.” With his mouth open against your own, he finally inched his hips forward, moving so his arms were at either side of your head again, and his chest was pressed to yours. Forward, forward, forward, until…

“Oh!”

He was fully sheathed inside you, every last inch. It was the thickness that took your breath away. He felt so big, yet at the same time, it felt as if he was made to fit inside you in this way. You would never tire of the feeling of his body connected to yours.

Bob couldn’t help but glance down, marveling at the way you stretched around him. He allowed himself a moment to bask in the feeling of the snug warmth. He had missed it so much. Missed you so much. “I love you,” he said with conviction. It warmed you to your core.

“Love you too,” you sighed out blissfully, eyes fluttering shut as you wrapped your legs around his waist, and your arms around those broad shoulders of his.

His hand caressed your face as he began to move, nudging his hips into yours. He kept things slow to begin with, intending to build up to a glorious crescendo. All the while, he held you close, resting his weight upon your body, grounding you, surrounding you. He cherished it all. The feeling of your warmth, the beating of your heart. A reminder that you were safe, that you were alive, that you were here, with him.

His mouth found its way to yours again, trailing down further to lave his tongue against your pulse point. “You are everything to me,” he breathed against your feverish skin. You were his life, his love, his angel.

You couldn’t speak, for you were too overwhelmed. Your heart sang, and the true reason for being here in thise safe house seemed to fade into the background as white noise. Your Bobby was on the forefront, infiltrating every one of your senses, wrapping you up in his love and adoration. You never wanted it to end.

As he began to quicken his pace, you held onto him tightly, every inch of your bodies touching, warm and familiar, safe and secure. You let yourself be vulnerable, let him chip away at the armor you always protected herself with. Oh, how good it felt to let him be your protector. He encased you in his warmth, and that warmth began to radiate throughout your body, thrumming deep within your belly. He kissed yu repeatedly, lips ever brushing against yours, swallowing your precious whimpers and moans, holding onto those sounds, locking them away in his memory.

In the back of his mind, he partly wondered if this would be the last time you were able to make love to each other. What if he slipped up and was dismissed from his duties, effectively barring him from ever being with you again? He hated that his mind went to such a morbid place, but it was hard to ignore.

But then you were drawing him in again with those soft sounds, sighing out his name, and your sweet pussy was fluttering around him, and he was brought back to the present moment. How could he let himself be anywhere else but here, with you in his arms? How could he let himself be distracted when the love of his life sighed and shivered in pleasure beneath him? Because of him?

“Feel so good,” you squeaked. Your eyes were closed, your brow furrowed in utter bliss. You looked rather adorable this way. He was so in love.

You were so wet, and he realized that you were quickly growing wetter by the minute. He could feel you dripping down against his heavy balls, and onto the bed covers below, and it only urged him to change his pace. You tightened your legs around his waist, inviting him deeper inside. As he thrust particularly deeply into you, you cried out softly. He’d bumped into that wonderful spot within you, sending you tightening around him, arousal slicking down the base of his cock.

“Oh, right there!” You exclaimed, fingernails pressing crescent shapes into the skin of his back. He ducked a hand between you then, stimulating your sensitive little clit in such a way that your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open. The way you clenched around him again had him growling lowly, the heat of impending release already beginning to warm in his pelvis. How was he already so close? And then he remembered how long it had been since he’d had you like this, and it made sense.

He applied more pressure with his fingers, driving his hips forward with more force. He was hit with a sudden wave of desperation, wanting, needing you to come before he did. He’d stave off his own pleasure for as long as possible if it meant making you feel good. Beneath him, you were on fire, arousal rushing through your very being like raw electricity, consuming every part of you in its wake. And you let yourself be swallowed up in the feeling, suddenly overcome with intense emotion as tears began sliding down your cheeks.

Bob cradled you against his chest, though he didn’t slow down. You needed him to keep going, and he wasn’t going to stop until you fell apart. And it was so close you could taste it, building and building and building. A vibration that began in your core, a peak that you were hurtling towards but couldn’t quite reach yet. It was a height that only your lover could bring you to.

Sweet, tender love making turned into something so much more primal. His chest heaved against yours, and he growled deeply, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he kissed you. Warmth blossomed between you both, growing into a wild flame. Your bodies fell into a desperate push and pull, faster and harder and deeper, chasing the pleasure high that you knew was inevitable.

He could feel you tighten around him like a vice, and he knew you were close. He let his forehead rest against yours, though he never stopped his movements. “You’re close, I can feel it,” he spoke in a broken whisper.

“I-I am,” you whimpered pathetically, clinging to him tightly.

“Then come for me, my love. Just let go.”

He continued to work you over, carrying you toward that edge. You trembled fiercely, breathing labored, growing even more so. Pleasure began to fizz through you like a firework brought to life, or a pack of Pop Rocks sprinkled on the tongue. Starting at your core and bubbling all the way to your fingers and toes.

Your body went taut against his as the first waves of it began to hit you. Almost there, almost there, almost there. And then, without warning, it hit you. Washing over you like an enormous wave, intense as could be. Seconds later, you came with a wail, convulsing beneath him as the fire of your orgasm ravaged you, surging through the entirety of your being. You cried out his name, and he was there, holding you in his arms as he watched you come apart, losing yourself because of him.

And as you came down, you sobbed. You buried your face against his chest, crying openly, still wrapped tightly around him. And he let you cry, keeping you close. But he also needed to find his own release, you realized. Even in your state of emotion, she pulled back a little, looking into his face. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were blown, but there was still a tenderness in his gaze. He wouldn’t pressure you for more if you weren’t ready to move on yet.

“P-please, Bobby. Wan’ you to come in me.”

How could he ever say no when you asked so sweetly?

Satisfied with your plea, he began moving again, finding the rhythm that he needed to bring himself to his end. “Yeah? Want me to fill you up, lovey?” He breathlessly spoke.

Glassy eyed, you nodded, bottom lip quivering. “Need it so bad,” you begged.

His face contorted into a look of beautiful euphoria. His jaw went slack, his eyes fell shut, and he let his head fall to the crook of your neck as the climax began to overwhelm him entirely. It washed over him with great force, rendering him absolutely boneless as he keened, your name falling from his lips in a soft whimper. Beneath him, you relished in the feeling of his essence seeping into you, even as tears continued to stain your cheeks.

His hips stuttered a few more times against yours as he made sure to fill you with everything he had to give. And as he came down, trying to catch his breath, you made no move to part from one another.

There you lay, holding each other, basking in the afterglow as the weight of his body settled atop yours. When your tears ceased, Bob very carefully slid out of you, soothing your mewl of protest with an open-mouthed kiss. As he moved to rest upon his back, he tucked you into his side, and you rested your head on his chest, right over his still racing heart.

Gentle fingers traced circles along your arm. You hadn’t realized that you’d zoned out a little, still drunk off pleasure, until his touch brought it back down to earth.

You placed your hand against his chest, eyeing the rise and fall of each breath he took. For a while, neither of you said anything. And when the silence finally did break, it was Bob who broke it.

“Need to get you cleaned up, lovey. Can’t let you fall asleep like this.”

Despite your murmur of protest, he gathered you into his arms and carried you out of the bedroom and into the bathroom just a few feet away.

You were so sleepy, it seemed that the events of the day were finally catching up with you, paired with the romp in the sheets you’d just gone on with Bob. You were in a haze as he tenderly cleaned you up and urged you to use the restroom.

“I’ve got you,” his low, comforting voice assured you. You could allow yourself to remain in that hazy state, because you knew he would take care of you. He always did.

He led you back to the bedroom, where he helped you change into the pajamas you had brought. Once you were taken care of, he tucked you into bed and kissed you on the forehead before he proceeded to ready himself for bed. A shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Easy, in case he needed to jump out of bed and tend to a threat in the middle of the night.

Then he slipped into bed beside you, and you immediately snuggled into him, content to be in his arms, enjoying his warmth. You would cherish every last moment you had with him. Safe and secure, your head on his chest, listening to the steady thumping of his heart. Oh, how you loved him.

You were lulled into a deep, comforting slumber. In fact, it was the best sleep you’d gotten in weeks. Just his presence alone gave you rest.

But while you slept peacefully, Bob remained awake. He couldn’t sleep, not when he had to watch over you. He was tempted to get up and do a perimeter sweep outside, just to make sure everything was safe. But you were sleeping so peacefully in his arms that he didn’t want to disturb you.

At some point during the night, he did drift off into a light slumber, still partially alert, always ready to address danger, should it come knocking on the door.

And, unfortunately, it did.

At around 0400 hours, Bob was alerted to movement outside. It wasn’t loud. But there was a strange rustling in the woods, and the snapping of twigs. Instantly, his eyes were open, and he held his breath, hoping he’d just dreamt the sounds. But then he heard it again, and his heart seized in his chest.

Without hesitation, he eased you out of his arms, and you remained sleeping while he slipped out of bed, grabbing his gun from the nightstand and rushing to put his earpiece back in his ear so he could communicate with White House security if need be.

There were no windows in the bedroom, so he quickly and quietly scrambled to the front of the house, where he stopped at the window and discreetly lifted the edge of the curtain to peer outside. Sure enough, he saw two figures dressed in black gear approaching from the tree line.

And that’s when he realized one of them was already at the door, working on the security keypad. Bob knew, in that moment, that he should have trusted his gut feeling from the beginning. Where the hell had Agent Simpson sent the two of you? Because there was no way this was a safe house if it was this easy to get into.

But there was no time to debate the security of the house. Danger was right on the doorstep, and his first priority was protecting you. So he sprang into action, rushing back to the bedroom where you slept peacefully.

“Safe house is compromised,” he reported into his mic, just before he leaned down to shake you awake.

“Copy. Get into the bunker. Sending backup now,” Simpson’s voice crackled to life in his ear.

Bob didn’t reply. He was too focused on waking you. “Hey, hey, need you to wake up for me, honey.” He shook you vigorously until you stirred from your slumber.

You stared up at him in confusion, your eyes bleary. “Bobby? Wha-?”

“No time. Get up, we need to get under the house now. They found us.”

That woke you up. Your eyes widened, and you sat upright, throwing the covers from your body as you swung your legs over the side of the bed. “How?!”

“I don’t know! Just come with me!” He yanked you to your feet, hands tight on your arms, catching you when you stumbled.

Adrenaline coursed through you, wiping away the sleep-induced fog that had been cast over your brain. Bob’s remained closed firmly around your wrist and he pulled you after him out of the bedroom, intending to take you down into the bunker. But in a split second, he stopped abruptly, and you ran into his back with a surprised gasp.

He could only just catch sight of the door coming open. There was no time to make it to the trap door that would lead you to safety beneath the house. Going for it would result in the two of you being spotted and killed instantly. He had a split second to make a decision. This was life or death.

He whirled around, and in the darkness, you could see the wildness in his eyes, and it sent an icy shock of terror through you. Without a word, he clamped his hand over your mouth, silencing you before he pushed you back toward the bedroom.

Your heart pounded against your chest, your entire body trembling with fear as he released you and turned to shut the bedroom door silently. Thank God there was a lock on it, which he promptly turned, careful to do it silently. Then he whirled back around to face you. “Get under the bed. No matter what happens, you do not come out unless I tell you to.” His voice was so low it was barely audible, but you heard every word. And then, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” you whispered, your eyes filled with tears. You didn’t hesitate to follow his instructions, sinking to your knees and maneuvering your body underneath the bed. Bob yanked the covers down so they were hanging from the edge of the mattress, effectively obscuring you from view. It was only a temporary solution, but it would do.

Then, his hand closed around the cool metal of his gun, which he pulled from his waistband and positioned himself a few feet away from the door, weapon drawn, hands steady as he flipped the safety off. He could hear Simpson’s voice in his earpiece, asking for confirmation that the two of you had made it down into the bunker. But Bob couldn’t answer. Silence was what was going to keep you alive at the moment.

He placed his finger against the trigger, ready to pull it at any second. Whoever was on the other side of the door was quiet, but he could still hear them. Creeping closer and closer, inch by inch. And then, the doorknob rattled, and Bob felt his breath catch in his throat.

You pressed your own hand over your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut. Bob’s eyes never left that door. He counted down in his head. Five. The silence was broken as the person threw their weight against the door. Four. Again, their body thudded against the door. Three. Two steps backward. Two. Bob realized what was about to happen. One. He threw his body to the side just as the sound of a gunshot rang through the house. Wood splintered. Smoke curled through the air.

Bob had moved aside just in time. A second too late and he would be suffering from a gunshot wound. But just as quickly as he moved, his gun was in the air again, held steadily in front of him. As soon as he had the assailant in his sights, he fired.

Beneath the bed, your hands came up to your ears, protecting them from the awful sound. You couldn’t see around the quilt obscuring your vision. You prayed silently that Bob was unharmed. And he was. He’d just put one perpetrator down. You’d heard the thud of the body hitting the floor.

But he had no idea how many more there were.

He would soon find out.

Seconds later, more footsteps. Bob fired. But the second man was expecting it, and kept his body partially hidden by the doorway as he lifted his rifle and aimed it at Bob. The secret service agent ducked quickly, firing his own weapon in retaliation.

He put up a good fight. Really, he did. Bob had always been seen as a pacifist, and by nature, he was. But that didn’t mean he shied away from a fight. And when he did have to utilize physical force, there was a calculated tenacity with which he fought. He was a worthy opponent.

He disarmed the second man quickly. Grazed his cheek with a bullet and used that split-second distraction to dive for the gun that belonged to the dead man on the floor. But then, a voice stopped him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Bob looked up to find three men pointing rifles at his head. He was cornered.

“Drop the fuckin’ weapon.”

He did. He was severely outnumbered. If he tried anything, he’d be shot dead on the spot. That would leave you entirely vulnerable and alone.

The one in the middle stepped forward. He was tall. Dark hair. Beard. couldn’t have been much older than Bob himself. Dark eyes stared murderously at the agent kneeling on the ground. He never lowered his rifle.

“We’re just here for the girl. Tell us where she is.”

“She’s not here,” Bob lied through his teeth.

“That’s bullshit and you know it. We staked you out. We know you brought her here. Now where is she, huh?” Then, he called out into the room in a singsong voice that made your skin crawl, “come out, come out wherever you are!”

“She’s not going to come out, because she’s not here!”

The stranger rolled his eyes. “Alright, then you won’t mind if I fire a couple of precautionary shots, right? Just to make doubly sure?” He aimed his gun at the bed you were currently stowed beneath.

Bob’s stomach dropped. “Hey, there’s no reason to waste ammunition on–”

“Ah! So she is here!”

And just like that, it all fell apart.

One of the assailants forced Bob into a prone position on the floor, his gun pressed to the back of his head. He reached down and ripped Bob’s earpiece out of his ear, tossing it to the hardwood floor and stomping on it, effectively cutting off any and all communication with The White House. And then, Bob watched helplessly as you were dragged from beneath the bed, kicking and screaming.

And all he could think, was that he’d failed you.

“Bobby!” You wailed.

“Hey! What is it that you want, huh?! Money?! We’ll give it to you, I can make a call to Washington, get it wired to–”

“Shut your goddamn mouth,” the man above him snarled, smacking him square in the back of the head with the butt of his rifle. Bob’s vision went white as searing pain radiated through his skull.

“It’s not about money,” said the one who had wrestled you from beneath the bed. “It’s about sending a message to her daddy.”

You whimpered in fright as he grabbed your face, squeezing your cheeks hard. His expression was full of hatred. It chilled you to your very core. “We’ll make him wish he’d never taken office.”

“Let her go!” Bob cried desperately from the floor, though he was in no position to be making demands.

“No, I don’t think we will.” The man began to haul you out of the room, his hand clamped over your mouth to muffle your screams. He glanced at the one standing over Bob. “Make sure he can’t follow us.”

As you were dragged into the hall, you heard the sound of a single shot ring out, and you sobbed behind the hand pressed to your mouth. No!

But Bob wasn’t dead. He was very much alive, his teeth clenched so hard he was sure he would break them, letting out a muffled, tormented scream behind them. White hot pain traveled up his thigh, and with it, a violent sense of nausea overwhelmed him. His assailant had shot him in the leg.

And then he was left alone in that bedroom, helpless to do anything as you were carried away, putting up a fight despite being overpowered. Crying out in absolute agony, Bob fought to drag himself upright, though his head spun and his leg throbbed wickedly. He had to stop them. Had to get to you.

It took every ounce of strength in his being to pull himself upright, but by that time, it was too late. They had taken you outside. He’d never reach you in time. After everything he had done to keep you safe, he had lost you in the end. He would never forgive himself as long as he lived.

But then, hope.

All of the sudden, the sound of a helicopter approaching could be heart, and not long after, blinding white light shone through the front door. Moments later, a magnified voice called out, “Homeland Security! We have you surrounded!”

What happened next was a blur. There was shouting. So much shouting. Outside, you were blinded by the lights, reaching your hands up to shield your eyes. The sounds around you were deafening. Someone fired a shot. Then another. Hands grabbed at you. You had no idea who they belonged to. But they pulled you away from the men who had taken you, guiding you to the sidelines, away from the danger.

But you didn’t want to go to the sidelines. You wanted to run back to your Bobby. “Let go! I need to see if Bobby’s alright!”

“Miss, we can send someone to check on him, right now I need you to—”

“No! They shot him! I have to know that he’s okay!”

You argued back and forth for a moment before you got the drop on the agent trying to restrain you. You threw your weight downwards and she released you out of surprise. You didn’t feel bad when you elbowed your way past her. You probably should have, because after all, she was just trying to do her job. But nothing else mattered to you in that moment than knowing Bob’s fate. If he was dying, you needed to be by his side to say goodbye. You weren’t about to miss your last chance to be with him.

So you made a dash for the house, ducking back inside, frantic.

“Bobby!” You cried out, scrambling toward the bedroom. Sickening dread coursed through you. What were you about to walk in on? Would you find the love of your life dead on the ground?

But then, you heard it. “I-in here!”

As soon as you burst into the room, you saw him. He’d tried to stand, but had crumpled to the ground in severe pain, and was now leaning back against the side of the bed, injured leg stretched out in front of him.

“Oh dear God.” You rushed to his aid, dropping to your knees beside him. “I’m here! I’m right here!”

His pant leg was soaked with crimson, and he’d placed his hand over the wound, in effort to slow the bleeding. “I-I’m okay,” he assured you, gazing into your frightened face. “Can you get my belt for me? It’s on the floor on the other side of the bed.” It sounded as if it took great labor for him to get the words out.

You didn’t hesitate. You jumped up and ran around to the other side of the bed, grabbing his belt. As soon as you handed it to him, he got to work tightening it around his thigh as a makeshift tourniquet.

Voices could be heard out in the main room of the cabin. You knew that you would soon be separated. It sent a terrible wave of dread through you, and you reached for Bob.

“Bobby,” you tearfully spoke.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he assured you, his tourniquet finished. His clean hand came up to cup your cheek. “You’ll be in good hands. I’ll see you again real soon.”

“But I don’t—”

“Honey, listen to me. Need you to be my brave girl, okay? I can’t go with you. They’re gonna take me to the hospital. And after that there’s a whole protocol I have to go through. But those agents out there, they’ll get you to safety. I promise you.”

Weeping, you wrapped your arms around his neck once more before you pulled back, just as none other than Agent Simpson walked into the room, his gun drawn.

Bob protectively placed an arm in front of you. “It’s all clear!” He called out. The assailant on the floor a few feet away from you both had long since been dead and did not pose a threat. Simpson still turned him over with his foot just to make absolutely certain that he was dead.

Beau approached you, kneeling so that he was eye level with you. His expression was neutral, but there was sympathy in his eyes. “I need you to come with me. I’ll see to it that you get back home safely. The threat to your life has been neutralized.”

“Agent Simpson, he’s been shot,” you whimpered, motioning to Bob.

“I see it. I’ve got a medic chopper on the way. We’ll transport him to the hospital. Right now, you’ve got two parents who are worried sick about you. Let’s get you back to them.”

“But—”

“Go with him,” Bob gently coaxed. “There’s nothing else you can do for me here. I’ll be fine.”

You gazed into his face, tears blurring your vision. “O-okay,” you whispered.

You wanted so badly to kiss him goodbye. But even now, you were hyper aware of Simpson’s presence and you knew you couldn’t openly show romantic affection to Bob in front of him.

So you allowed Agent Simpson to escort you from the room. You cast one more glance over your shoulder at your injured lover, before you finally left him behind. It felt like your heart was being torn in two. You longed to stay by his side, to board that medical helicopter with him and wait at the hospital while they tended to his injury.

But you supposed you did have one thing to be grateful for. At least he wasn’t dead.

As you were led outside, the early morning light was just beginning to peek over the horizon. It illuminated the carnage that had taken place. You gasped as you realized that the three remaining men who had tried to take you were dead. But there were others. Others you hadn’t seen. They were in custody, ready to be taken in for questioning. In one night, Homeland Security had succeeded in taking down a homegrown terrorist organization.

But that begged the question: why on earth had they been after you? It didn’t matter, because no one would answer your question, anyway.

You were led to a waiting car, where you realized Bradley Bradshaw and Natasha Trace were waiting for you. After what you had been through, you were relieved to see them.

“Hey kid,” Bradley greeted you.

“I sure am glad to see you,” you breathed.

“We’re glad to see you, too,” Natasha replied.

Bradley opened the door, and Nat slid into the seat first before you took your place in the middle, while he brought up the rear and closed the door behind him.

Javy Machado, who was driving, glanced back at you. “Good to see you safe and sound,” he said with a small smile.

You didn’t feel safe and sound. You felt harrowed and anxious.

The entire drive to The White House, you didn’t say a word. You stared out the window and fought to hold back your tears. What had gone wrong? How had those men found you? It seemed too easy. As if you and Bob had been nothing more than sitting ducks.

You were fortunate that all he had sustained was a shot to the leg. And you were even more fortunate that you had not been physically harmed. You were more emotionally scarred than anything. You weren’t sure how long it would take you to recover, but you knew you needed time. And most of all, you needed Bob.

But that was out of the question.

Instead, you had to hold your head high as you climbed out of the car once you had arrived at The White House. Waiting for you were Jake, Reuben, and Mickey. They reported your safe arrival through their mics, and then carefully led you into the building.

“Glad you’re home safe,” Jake softly told you.

You didn’t say a word. You couldn’t muster one. You were already steeling yourself for being reunited with your parents. You knew your mother would be teetering toward hysterics, and your father would likely be stoic, as he often was. You loved them, but you were overwhelmed.

Your mind was elsewhere, longing for your Bobby.

Meanwhile, he was just arriving at the hospital, where a team of medical personnel had already been warned of his arrival. He was a little delirious from the blood loss and the pain, but he could hear the terms they were throwing back and forth.

They were going to operate immediately.

“Agent Floyd?” A woman’s voice filled his ears. She was strawberry blonde, with kind blue eyes that reminded him of his mother’s. “I’m Doctor Vitarella. We’re gonna get this bullet outta you as fast as we can, alright?”

He mumbled something in reply, but his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. Then an oxygen mask was placed over his face, and he found himself slipping into a dark and dreamless slumber. The first thing he noticed when he woke a few hours later was the cast.

As consciousness washed over him, he gazed down at it, stretching from his foot to the top of his thigh. Still groggy, he glanced around the room, and saw a nurse walking into the room with a clipboard in hand. She looked up and realized that he was awake.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Mr. Floyd,” she said with a smile. “I’ll go get the doctor. She’ll want to talk to you.”

She scurried away before he could say anything. About five minutes later, the woman he vaguely remembered as Doctor Vitarella walked into the room. “You, sir, gave me a run for my money in the operating room,” she said.

Bob looked at her confusedly, still not fully out of his anesthesia-induced haze.

“When the bullet entered your leg, it fractured your femur. I inserted a rod into your leg to provide solid support to the bone. But you should know that the second it came in contact with the bone, the bullet broke into a bunch of tiny little pieces. My team and I did the best that we could, but I must inform you that there are still leftover fragments in your leg. I could not get those out without causing more damage.”

As he mulled over her words, Bob only had one question. “Will I be able to use my leg again?”

“With proper physical therapy, yes. But you’ll likely live with lasting pain. I wish I had a better prognosis for you, but what matters is that we stopped the bleeding and set the bone.”

He nodded solemnly. There were still bullet fragments in his body. A constant reminder of what he had been through. He felt as if he hadn’t let it fully sink in yet. Everything had been such a blur. Being carried on a stretcher out of the safe house because he couldn’t walk. Being placed into a helicopter and then rushed into the hospital.

And now here he was, on his back in a hospital bed, his leg aching something fierce. No, not aching. Throbbing. As the fog began to clear from his brain, the pain set in, and he groaned softly. His head was pounding. His leg hurt enough to prompt him to clench his teeth. “Could I get some, uh, pain meds?” He asked.

“I’ll have the nurse bring you some.”

A while later, he had been given his medicine, but it just barely took the edge off the pain. There was no distraction from it. He didn’t want to watch whatever mindless show that was playing on the television. He didn’t have his phone to scroll through. He had nothing. The only thing that made it even slightly bearable was the thought of you.

He wondered how you were faring. He wondered if you even knew of his condition. Had anyone updated you? He imagined that you were demanding to know how he was.

And you were. You had informed Agent Simpson yourself that you wanted a report of Bob’s health. You had to know that he was okay. Thankfully, as soon as Beau knew something, he called you right away.

“He’s gonna be okay, kid,” he said, “bullet fractured his femur, and they put him in a cast. But he’s gonna be okay.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, thanked Beau for the update, and hung up the phone. Seconds later, you burst into tears. Your Bobby was going to be okay.

But his worries were far from over.

He was given a couple days to rest, but on his third day in the hospital, Agent Simpson walked through the door of his hospital room, and he knew it had begun.

“How are you feeling?” He asked, making courteous small talk.

“Like hell,” Bob muttered in reply.

Beau nodded. “Sorry to hear that.” And then, he brandished a folder from a briefcase. “I hate to jump right into business, but…I have no other choice.” He pulled up a chair and sat at Bob’s bedside. “There are a few things I need to clear up.”

“Go ahead.”

“First and foremost, why did you not utilize the bunker beneath the house? The two of you were sitting ducks where you were.”

Bob stared at his superior. “I tried. But they were in the house before I could get her there. So I hid her under the bed.”

“And why were you not aware of the threat before then? Did you not do a thorough enough perimeter sweep?”

His tone was slightly accusatory. At least, Bob took it as such. His eyes narrowed. “No disrespect, sir, but what the hell kind of safe house was that? They never should have been able to breach it that easily.” He paused for a beat, awaiting an explanation.

“I think you might already know the answer to that, agent.”

“It wasn’t a safe house at all, was it?”

Beau sighed, shaking his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

Now Bob was angry. “Y’know, my gut told me that something wasn’t right, and I just brushed it off. But I should’ve listened. You used her as bait, didn’t you? And I went right along with it like a fool.”

“Floyd, this was a tricky situation we were dealing with here. We’ve been tracking this group for months. Our only chance at luring them out was to use her as a decoy. By doing that, we in turn saved her life.”

“How is that any better?! You can’t just use someone as live bait!”

“I didn’t like doing it either, in fact it was my absolute last resort. But it worked, didn’t it? President’s daughter is safe and sound. Terrorist group has been disbanded. We have the few remaining ones in custody. It’s over. The threat to her life and our government has been neutralized.”

“And what if it didn’t work? What if she’d been killed?”

“But she wasn’t. There’s no use thinking about the what ifs. What’s done is done.”

“Does she know she was used as bait?”

Simpson shook his head, his gaze hard. “No. And it’s going to stay that way.”

Several moments of silence passed. Bob processed what he’d just been told. This entire time, he had tried so hard to keep you safe. Tried so hard to keep the danger away. And yet, the danger had still found you, all because the very administration he worked for had led them right to you.

A sick feeling churned in his gut. He felt dirty. He hadn’t been protecting you at all. He’d been offering you up to the very men who were after you, and he didn’t even know it.

“What did the president think about his daughter being used to lure her potential killers in?” His tone was bitter. He couldn’t help it.

“He was in agreement that it was the most effective way of eliminating the threat.”

“So I was the only one who wasn’t clued in to this plan?”

The agent looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Yes, because just from my own personal assessments and observations of you as an agent, I knew you wouldn’t go along with it otherwise. And she needed to be kept entirely in the dark. It was better that way.”

Bob’s head was spinning. “So really I was just used as a pawn?”

“You have to understand that this was a matter of national security. And sometimes you have to play dirty for the sake of the greater good.” He firmly believed that this had been the most effective course of action.

“I…I’m gonna need a minute to sit with this,” Bob continued.

“You don’t have a minute, Bob. I’m going to need you to fill out a report about what happened. You do not say one word about what I just shared with you. Just report what you saw, how you reacted, and nothing more or less.”

“So you want me to lie.”

“Some things are meant to be confidential. This is one of those things. Just report what you witnessed, agent. I’ll handle the rest.” He placed the folder, marked CONFIDENTIAL, onto Bob’s lap. Then he clicked a pen and set it on top.

Bob stared at it. Could he really do this? His superior expected him to. The president expected him to. But his mind wandered to you, and the senseless trauma you had endured because of it. In his heart, he knew that if Agent Mitchell was still in charge, this situation would have been handled differently. He would have done everything in his power to ensure you were not used as bait.

But Pete Mitchell’s days in The White House were over. Bob had no choice but to follow the new leadership put in place. So he went along with what was being asked of him, even though it went against everything he stood for, everything he believed.

He penned a lie on that report. Described what had happened, as if he had no idea about the plot to use you to lure your attackers straight to you. He dotted every i and crossed every t. And when he was done, he shoved the file back into Beau Simpson’s hands.

“You got what you came for. Now get out.” Bob didn’t care that he was speaking disrespectfully to a superior. It didn’t matter anymore.

Simpson left without a word. And Bob was alone again.

That interaction changed everything for Bob. It made him question his very morals. Could he really allow himself to be part of an administration that purposely put the very members it was supposed to be protecting in harm’s way? This left him with much to consider. He had a decision to make.

He finalized that decision the day you came to visit him.

Escorted by Bradley, Jake, and Natasha, who all respectfully waited outside the room once they brought you to it, you came through the door, so eager to see the man you loved. You shut the door behind you, allowing you both some privacy.

As you took in his form, tears sprang to your eyes. His left leg was in a full cast. There was a bandage around his head from the injury he’d sustained from being hit in the head with a gun. But what mattered was that he was alive, and he was going to be okay.

“Oh, Bobby,” you whispered as you approached him, unable to keep the tears from sliding down your cheeks.

He mustered a smile. “Hey there, sweet girl.”

You leaned down, oh so carefully wrapping your arms around him in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”

“Nothin’ to be sorry about. I’m okay.”

You pulled back, looking into his face before you lovingly stroked his cheek. He let his eyes flutter shut, relishing in your touch, so comforting and familiar. It distracted him from his pain and made him feel less alone.

“They told me the bullet fractured your femur?” You finally found your voice a few moments later. As you spoke, you took a seat on the edge of the bed. Bob’s hand lifted to rest in your lap, and you placed your own hands over top of it.

“Yeah. They put a pin in me. Got a bionic leg now,” he teased. But then, he grew serious. “When the bullet hit my bone, it broke into a bunch of little fragments. They took out most of them, but I’ve still got some floating around in there.”

You frowned, wiping at your tear dampened cheeks with the back of your hand. “How does that work? Will they ever be able to get them out?”

“The doc told me she couldn’t. Said it would cause more damage if she tried. So I’ll just have them inside me forever.”

Your heart broke for him. “I’m sorry they did this to you. All because you were trying to protect me.”

“Hey,” he interjected, hand moving to tip your chin up. “Don’t you ever think of blaming yourself. I’d do it again a million times over as long as it meant that you were safe. You’re what matters most to me in this world. I don’t want to live in one without you in it.”

“And I don’t want to live in one without you in it, either,” came your reply.

His fingers wiped away your tears. There was so much he longed to say. He wanted so badly to tell you the truth. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. What good would it do? It would only bring more grief upon your shoulders. He didn’t want to cause you anymore pain than you’d already been through.

But, with his next words, he ended up hurting you anyway.

“I need to tell you something.”

His tone gave you pause. He was serious. “What is it?” You cautiously asked.

“I…I’ve decided to step down from my job.”

You stared at him. “What?”

He sighed softly. “This injury’s going to have me out for months. And honestly, by the time it does heal, I just have this feeling that it won’t ever be the same again. I won’t be as effective at my job as I was before. So I’m making the decision to resign.”

But you were shaking your head, a fresh wave of tears filling your eyes. “Bobby, no. You can’t leave. I need you.”

“Sweetheart, my mind is made up.”

“Why? Because I know this isn’t just because of your leg. What happened? Did my dad threaten you?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“Then what?”

He sighed, shaking his head. How could he word it in a way that wouldn’t expose what he’d just sworn to keep secret? “I…I was asked to do something that goes against everything I believe. And I just can’t remain with this administration while knowing I was asked to do it.”

Your brow furrowed in confusion. “What—”

“That’s all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”

“Then what? You’re just going to leave? What does that mean for us?”

“We’ll figure it out. I know we will.”

You paused for a moment, looking down at your intertwined hands. More tears welled in your eyes. “I don’t want you to leave,” you whimpered. “You’re the one I feel safest with. I-I know everyone else is just as capable of looking after me but I want you, Bobby.”

It broke his heart to do this to you. And it filled him with uncertainty, too. He wasn’t sure what this would mean for your relationship. But he knew he couldn’t keep going on in secret. And he couldn’t continue to serve an administration that could potentially put you in danger again in the name of national security.

“I don’t want to leave, either. But I have to.”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish. You should be allowed to make this decision without me causing a fuss about it. Do what you feel is best. I’ll support you no matter what.”

He lovingly stroked your cheek. “That means the world to me, honey. I’m sorry to break the news to you like this, after everything you went through. But I just wanted you to know before anyone else. I haven’t even told your dad or Agent Simpson yet.”

“Well, thank you for telling me. But I don’t know what I’m gonna do with myself, not seeing you everyday. God, I’m going to miss you so much, Bobby.” Your voice wavered. You were barely holding it together.

“Hey, c’mere.” He pulled you in, wrapping his arms around you, letting you rest your head on his chest, over his heart. “We’re gonna be okay, you and me. We’ll figure it out. Somehow, some way.” He kissed the top of your head.

You hoped he was right.

After that initial visit to the hospital, you tried to visit him as often as possible. Your security team was more than happy to tag along each day, because they loved Bob, too. And you cherished those quiet moments in that hospital room, without the eyes of the world on you.

Outside of that hospital, you had to face the public. Had to deliver statements about what happened that night in the safe house. Had to assure the American people that you were just fine, that the brave United States Secret Service and Homeland Security agents did their jobs well. Because of them, an entire domestic terrorist organization had been quashed. In America’s eyes, it was a great victory.

But you couldn’t help but feel like a spectacle. The girl who’d survived a harrowing attack on her life. You were made to relive that night over and over and over again. And finally, in the end, you’d had enough. In the following weeks, you came to terms with a lot of personal things.

Namely, you came to terms with wanting to separate yourself from your family’s administration. You would never be able to erase the fact that you were the president’s daughter. And your life would never be normal. You would need a security detail for the rest of your life. But you were done living within the confines of The White House.

The only time you had ever been away from it was when you were at college. After graduation, you came back to work as part of your father’s administration. But for your own sanity, you knew you needed to step down and find your own path.

So you told your parents as much. You informed them that your mind was made up, that you were going to buy a home for yourself and live your life separate from them. You no longer wanted a foot in the door of politics. It was time to pursue your true passions.

And that was just what you did.

You bought a house deep in Wyoming, of all places. A nice plot of land, spacious enough for owning horses or cows, and for planting a nice sized garden. It was quiet and secluded and the perfect respite after spending the last six years in The White House.

In the time leading up to your move, Bob was in the throes of physical therapy. His leg was healing well, and he was working hard to regain his strength. During those months, the two of you decided that it would be best to distance yourselves from one another, only because you did not want to raise suspicions about your relationship. You attending each one of his physical therapy sessions came across as suspicious, in your mind.

So you allowed him to focus on getting better, while you focused on starting your new life. You missed him so deeply, but your separation was only temporary. You planned to meet again, as soon as he was ready to travel, and you were situated in your new home. You also wanted the media attention on your safe house to die down.

Eventually, it did, and the world moved on to something else to panic about.

But you? You tuned it all out. You stayed out of the news, you stayed out of politics, and you tried to bring some sense of calm normalcy to your life. You no longer needed a full security detail. It was with a heavy heart that you bid farewell to a few of them, leaving only Natasha, Mickey, and Bradley as your remaining security. They helped ensure that your home was always safe, and that you were protected.

But there was still one part of your life that remained incomplete. A void that could only be filled by your Bobby.

And finally, after several months, the day came that you would be reunited. He was strong enough to travel again. He had officially resigned from his job in The White House. He returned to civilian life, and packed up the minimal amount of belongings he had, placing them in the trunk and backseat of his car.

He drove over fifteen hours just to get to you. And it was worth it to him. After not seeing you for months, all he wanted was to hold you in his arms and never let go. So he drove. And he drove. And he drove. Until finally, he was standing at your front door, his hands trembling as Natasha let him in, and informed him that you were out back, in the stable.

So he ran. Ignoring the residual ache in his bad leg, he dashed behind the house, where the stable was, and he kept going into he was standing in the wide doorway. His feet skidded against concrete and hay, and his eyes searched. There you were. Dressed in jeans, riding boots, and a t-shirt. One he recognized as an old shirt of his, which you had snagged from him in the early days of your secret relationship.

You heard him approaching. Heard his feet skid to a halt at the doorway. And your heart quickened in your chest. You turned in what felt like slow motion, your gaze falling upon the man you loved, standing at the entrance of your stable, breathless.

“Bobby,” you whispered.

You weren’t sure who moved first. But in an instant, you were both running toward each other. You met halfway, arms coming out to catch the other, to embrace the other. “You’re here! You’re really here!” Came your cry.

“I’m here.” And then he was kissing you. Arms secure around your body, lips soft and familiar. He kissed you and kissed you and kissed you. And you kissed back. Not even your mingled tears caused you to part. You didn’t want to. It was as if you were afraid this would all be a dream if you pulled away.

When you did part, he was smiling. That sweet smile that made his eyes disappear behind his cheeks. That sweet smile that made your heart sing. “Oh, I missed you!” you sobbed.

“I missed you too, honey. So, so much.”

You embraced again. He spun you around in a circle, and you giggled musically, overjoyed. He was finally here, with you, where he belonged. After months of waiting, months of agony, months of uncertainty, he was in your arms. No longer as the head of your security detail, but as the man you loved.

“I just can’t believe this is real,” came your soft confession.

“Believe it. This couldn’t be more real,” he assured you.

You held his face in your hands. “Oh, my sweet, beautiful man. I’m never going to let you out of my sight again.”

“Good, because I’m here to stay.”

You shared several more moments in that stable, holding each other, still in disbelief that it was finally over. The years of secrecy, the sneaking around behind the scenes. You didn’t have to hide anymore. You were allowed to love each other freely and openly.

Together, you walked back to your house that night, arms around each other, swaying as you walked, happy and content and relieved. You enjoyed a wonderful dinner, just the two of you, as the three remaining members of your security team had excused themselves to their own quarters to allow you privacy.

A lot had changed in the time that you’d been apart. You told Bob all you’d been doing, and he informed you what stepping down from his job, and enduring all that physical therapy, had been like.

He was no longer part of the secret service, and he never would be again. The fear of being found out and losing his position was no longer on the table. There were no superiors to appease. No presidents to serve. He was free to be his own man. To live his life. To love who he wanted.

To love you.

Things were not automatically perfect now that he was with you. But they were better. You would have to figure out some things. And eventually, you would have to tell your family that you were in a relationship with him. But for now, you could live in peace, if only for a brief moment in time. You were safe, on your little farm in Wyoming, with the man you loved. It was your own little slice of heaven.

And after all the difficulty you had endured, you were more than content with that. You could figure everything else out later. For now, you would live in that domestic bliss for just a little while longer. You’d earned it, after all.

Finally, it was your turn to live your life the way you wanted to, and not the way others dictated you should.

taglist (a mix of those already on the list/who might be interested):

@bradshawsbitch @sebsxphia @rhettabbotts @delopsia @milesmillergf @ohtobeleah @purelyfiction @honeymurdock @ihavealewproblem @high-speed-r @happyrebelruins @chasing-fics @roostersgirlfrxend @bradshawsbaby @whisperofsong @hangmanapologist @callsign-magnolia @callsignmedusa @withahappyrefrain @up-thereinthesky @peachystenbrough @damrlova @lovinglyeternal @laracrofted @bobfloydsbabe @nobody7102 @agentorange9595

#bob floyd x reader #robert bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #bob floyd fanfiction #bob floyd

590 notes · View notes

the-ace-with-spades · 9 months

Text

The year is 1995 and Mav disappears off radars on a mission overseas. He's declared MIA and then when satellite pictures of an F-14's wreck show up, declared KIA.

It's a hot August evening when Ice opens his front doors to see a Navy officer with a precisely folded flag in his arms and a JAG lawyer with a suitcase full of documents. Baby Goose should be already sleeping upstairs, preparing for their planned camping trip the day after.

Ice lets them in without a word.

They walk past the living room where Ice had been checking their tent for rust, straight to the kitchen table. They don't sit down.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Navy—"

"Spare me the bullshit."

He's still holding the flag, letter on top of it, seal unbroken.

"Why are you even here? I'm not his—" Loved one. Ice was just—there. A close friend. A wingman. It doesn't matter whether he loves Mav or not, he will always be just someone in his life, not his loved one. "I'm just his best friend."

"Commander Mitchell stated this address as Bradley Bradshaw's main residence during deployment."

Jesus Christ. He can't—Bradley. What was he going to tell Bradley?

"Commander Mitchell's sole beneficiary is Bradley Bradshaw, and since he's a minor, we need to execute his will alongside our condolences." Bradley lost another parent. And all he has left is a will. "You've been named as Bradley Bradshaw's legal guardian if Commander Mitchell was—unable to take care of him."

"He's never told me that."

He didn't. Not even a word. He knew Mav had a will, they all did. But he never thought enough to make sense of the details.

It couldn't be Ice. He couldn't exist on paper in Mav's life or in Bradley's life.

"You can refuse—"

Ice phases out the words that come after — Mav can't be gone, Mav couldn't have left Bradley to him, Mav couldn't have thought he would be able to care for Bradley alone, without Mav's help and guidance. He couldn't have left them both there with broken hearts.

Ice doesn't believe this. It can't be true. If he stares long enough, the two officers in front of him are going to disappear and he will get a late night call from Mav from the ship and will wake up Baby Goose so they could chat and—

"Ice, I know I should be asleep but can we check if we got enough jars for bugs? I really want to—"

Ice finally comes back to the surroundings.

Bradley stands in the kitchen door, noticing the two people in there, in uniforms. "I'm sorry, sirs, I didn't know—"

At that exact moment, Bradley notices the flag and the unopen letter. He can see it nice and clear — his face falls and he doesn't look at anything but the goddamn flag and the stupid letter made on behalf of the President.

Ice stops breathing. "Bradley—"

"No," he says, shaking his head, so quiet. "Not again, no—"

Before Ice can say anything, Bradley is running back up the stairs.

#mav is fine btw #he's in siberia trying to get back to the usa without getting found out #it'll take him two years to go to the usa via alaska but he'll come back #ice just won't be able to not be a dad by the time he comes back #yes this is kinda a buddie au because both eddie and mav are idiots with kids #icemav #tom iceman kazansky #bradley rooster bradshaw #tg86 #fic ideas #written in a bus trying not to fall asleep #shoulf be a tag it happens so often #q #op #charlie writes

755 notes · View notes

violentdelightsandviolentends · 1 year

Text

Welcome to my Masterlist 💌

hi, i'm murphy. my requests are always open - feel free to send any ideas or thoughts you have - i'll always read them all.

note - all of my fics are reader insert. no use of y/n. i don't write for real people, only characters <3

Last Updated - April 19th

❁ - over 1k notes

✯ - a series

Characters I Write For.

500 Follower Celebration Masterlist. 3k Celebration Masterlist. Valentines Masterlist. 5k Celebration Masterlist.

Moodboard Masterlist. My Ao3.

⊹ 　 ✫ 　　 · 　　 ✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵ 　.　 ✦ * 　 ⋆ 　　 . ✵ 　　　

Top Gun: Maverick

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin

The Orange. ❁

You and Jake share an orange. He's in love with you.

For Eternity. (Part 2 of The Orange.)

You and Jake share an orange. He's never loved you more.

North Star. ❁

It's New Year's Eve. Jake is tired of waiting.

I Know Places.

Jake always joked that he'd kill for you. One fateful day, he does just that.

Jake 'Hangman' Seresin & Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw

Why Choose?

A drunken game of spin the bottle gets a little heated. Why choose, when you can have both?

Mickey 'Fanboy' Garcia

Dr Cupid.

Mickey Garcia passes out in hospitals. Luckily, this time there's a pretty nurse there to catch him.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Marvel

Bucky Barnes

Lessons in Love. ❁

Bucky didn't believe in love at first sight. Then he met you.

Honey Girl. ✯❁

The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

Trick or Treat.

You love Halloween. Bucky loves you.

Rest Had Seemed The Sweetest Thing.

Bucky's slowly learning that love isn't a finite resource. aka, Bucky's first Christmas.

Stucky

Letters to the Moon.

Steve is gone. The love you and Bucky have for him isn't.

Wishbone.

You meet Bucky and Steve while on the run. The three of you quickly learn that nothing is more violent than love.

Frank Castle

There's Always Tomorrow.

Frank knows you better than you know yourself. It's a blessing and a curse.

Multi Talented. ❁

Frank shows you exactly what you deserve.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Criminal Minds

Luke Alvez

Wherever You Are. That's Where Home Is.

Luke might be a mind reader. Only with you, though.

Vice. ❁

Everyone on the team has their vices. It just so happens that yours is sat across the table looking at you.

Spencer Reid

Web of Lies. ✯

Spencer Reid has always been good at keeping secrets. You just never thought he'd keep one from you.

Cowboy!Spencer ✯

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Narcos

Javier Peña

Self Control. ❁

Javi keeps refusing himself what he wants. One night puts everything into perspective.

Yes, Mr President.

There's an endless amount of things you shouldn't do as the President of the United States. Defiling the Oval Office is definitely one of them.

Western Nights. ✯

You don't expect to bump into your dad's best friend Javier in a church basement on the outskirts of town. You also didn't expect to fall in love with him. Life seems to be full of surprises - and Javier was the biggest surprise of all.

Jealousy, Jealousy. ❁

Javier Peña doesn't share.

Two Murphy's and a Peña.

Javier knows Steve's sister is off limits. He's never been one to follow the rules.

After Hours.

You and Javier are stuck in the office in the middle of a heatwave. You're hot in more ways than one.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Triple Frontier

Time. ❁

You get shot in Colombia. Frankie, Benny, Santiago and Will each have their own ways of helping you heal.

Tethered. ❁

The lines of friendship blur when you’re this close. Also known as - each of the times you’ve kissed Benny, Frankie, Santiago and Will.

Tranquility.

You're not good at keeping secrets from the boys. Turns out, Will isn't either.

Home Is Where The Heart Is.

They say home is where the heart is. Your heart belongs to the four boys you call your best friends. Also known as - four important times the guys told you they loved you.

Will Miller

Champagne Fuelled Confessions.

You come home drunk, and have something burning you need to tell Will.

Best Friend's Brother.

You've known Benny for years. You've had a crush on his brother Will for years, too.

Frankie Morales

Find You.

A bad date brings Frankie Morales to your door at the perfect time.

Rain Soaked Romantic.

Frankie will run across town in the rain if it means finally telling you how he feels.

Santiago Garcia

This Is The Way It Always Goes.

Santiago always comes crawling back. You convince yourself this is the last time - but you both know that's not true.

Precious Girl.

A chance meeting with your Dad's best friend at 2am.

Benny Miller

Adrenaline.

Ben needs a way to work off his post match energy. You.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The Last of Us

Joel Miller

Pretty When You Cry. ❁

Joel realises his morals are fucked. You realise you like it.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Succession

Stewy Hosseini

Clandestine. ✯

You and Stewy know it's wrong. So why, pray tell, does it feel so right?

Fully Clothed.

Being Stewy's assistant has its perks.

Consequence.

Stewy's actions have unexpected consequences.

Needy.

You've been waiting all day for Stewy to get home. He loves it.

Play Pretend.

The classic fake dating trope, with a twist.

The Place Where It All Began.

You reunite with Stewy at your high school reunion. Turns out, he's been waiting for you, all this time.

Risky.

The thrill of being caught makes it all the more exciting.

Kendall Roy

Me and You.

You quit as Kendall's assistant. He's been waiting for this day.

Illicit Affair.

You're Matssons wife. You're also in love with Kendall Roy.

Forced Proximity.

The classic only one bed trope, this time with your emotionally unavailable boss.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

The Bear

Carmen Berzatto

The Roommate Collection. ✯❁

A collection of fics based on being roommates with Carmen.

Vienna.✯

Everything is the same. Nothing has changed. Everything has changed. Nothing is the same.

Carmen. ❁

Carmen. Your Carmen.

Denial. ❁

Carmy can’t keep pretending.

Mechanic!Carmen.

Inspired by that picture of JAW in a crop top.

Perfectionist. ❁

Your boyfriend being a professional chef has its perks. Especially when it comes to gingerbread houses.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

9-1-1

Evan Buckley

Lightning Strike. ❁

The two of you deal with the aftermath of Bucks trauma.

Fire Hazard. ❁

The story of your firehouse nickname - and Buck unable to handle you in a sundress.

Evan Buckley & Eddie Diaz

The Look of Love. ❁

You, Buck and Eddie are absolutely, undeniably, head over heels in love with each other. It seems like everyone can see it except for the three of you.

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Sons of Anarchy

Jax Teller

Heatwave. ❁

You cut Jax's hair. He can't keep his hands to himself.

Sundress Season.

It’s sundress season. Jax can’t keep his hands to himself.

Filip 'Chibs' Telford

Teach Me How to Ride.

Chibs is teaching you how to ride (in more ways than one).

✵ ✵ ·　 ✵ 　　 * · ✵

Miscellaneous

Steve Harrington

Cherry. ✯❁

The lines of friendship get a little blurry, one unassuming Friday night in December.

Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue.

An engagement party, your childhood best friend, one too many glasses of champagne. What could go wrong?

2K notes · View notes

cherrycola27 · 1 year

Text

Red, White, and Rooster

Series Warnings: Language, alcohol consumption. Enemies to lovers, relationship of convenience. Political situations. Allegations of affairs, military and political inaccuracies. Eventual smut. 18+ Minors DNI. Banner Credit: @thedroneranger

Series Master List Previous Part Next Part

...........................................

Chapter 1: The Election

The news of Bradley's heroism spread like wildfire across the media outlets, causing him and Jake to sky rocket in the polls.

Two weeks later, it was Election Day. You were up bright and early, putting the finishing touches on his victory speech. You didn't prepare one if he lost, that wasn't going to happen.

You'd been keeping track, and with all the early votes counted, Bradley had a slight lead. You watched results come in all morning.

At 9:30, you, Bradley, Jake, and the rest of the campaign staff went to the polls to vote. You were buzzing as you clicked the box next to his name.

You'd been busy all morning fielding phone calls, sending emails, and answering questions. The only thing keeping you going was iced coffee and sheer adrenaline.

It was approaching 1pm, and Bradley noticed he hadn't seen you eat anything all day. He came over to your desk with a sandwich and a bottle of water.

"Can't have my main girl passing out on me." He said as he placed them on your desk.

You rolled your eyes but thanked him before shoveling down your food.

When the polls closed at six on the East Coast, Bradley and Jake's lead had increased. The three of you sat with baited breath as one by one, the news outlets from across the nation announce the official closing of the polls. Once the West Coast polls had closed, you still had another three hours to wait until Hawaii and Alaska closed, but you knew the six total electoral votes they held wouldn't matter. Especially when California declared their winner.

Bradley and Jake were sitting comfortably at 238, either projected or confirmed electoral votes. Even if, by some chance, they didn't win California, their opponents wouldn't have enough to overtake them to win.

It's exactly 2:13 in the morning D.C. time when the official announcement is made.

The office was quiet. You'd sent everyone home for the night. You, Bradley, and Jake had stayed huddled in your office. Jake had just stepped to the bathroom when the news came through.

Bradley Nicholas Bradshaw was the president-elect and will be the 47th president of the United States. He had done it. You had done it.

You and Bradley jumped up and down, screaming your heads off like a bunch of kids. You went to hug him, but in a moment, that caught you off guard. He grabbed your face and kissed you.

You both froze as he pulled away. "I—uh— sorry—" He stuttered.

"It's fine. We just got caught up in the excitement. No harm, no foul." You brushed it off. "We can pretend it didn't happen. No worries." You smiled at him.

You turned away to watch the announcement again and to answer your phone. Your mom was calling you to congratulate you. You missed the flash of hurt that crossed his face.

"I heard the yelling from down the hall! Did we do it? Did we win?" Jake bursts into the room out of breath from running.

"Yeah, man, we did." Bradley tells him in a sullen voice.

"Did something happen while I was gone?" Jake asks, looking between you on your phone and Bradley.

"No, I'm just—" Bradley shakes his head. He doesn't know what to say.

"Rooster, you're going to be the fucking president! Smile! Scream! Cheer! Call Maverick and the gang while I get the bubbly!" Jake shakes him before heading to the kitchen. "We won the fucking White House!" Jake cheers as he heads down the hall.

.......................

After the election, you stepped into your roll of Cheif of Staff seamlessly. You made sure everything was ready for inauguration day, which was finally here.

An unexpected perk of your new position was the clothes that came with it. With you being in the public eye, fashion brands were reaching out to send you clothes all the time. It came in handy for days like today.

For Bradley's inauguration, you were wearing an Alexander McQueen coat dress in a lavender shade. It had an asymmetrical skirt and pearl button details. You'd paired it with a nude pair of Jimmy Choo pumps, pearl earrings, and a set of simple layered silver necklaces. You'd taken care to make sure Jake and Bradley coordinated with you. Purple had been a theme during their campaign, and you planned to continue that during their term.

You were waiting with Bradley, Jake, and a few other officials when a member of the inaugural planning team came up to the three of you.

"Excuse me, Ms. Wiseman, Mr. Bradshaw, Mr. Seresin. We seem to have a problem." He spoke.

"What? Is there a security threat?" You asked, ready to take action if needed.

"No, ma'am, a logistical issue. We have no one to hold the Bible." He clarified.

"What?" Bradley furrowed his brows. You sighed. How could you have forgotten that.

He looks at you for clarification as you explain, "Traditionally, the First Lady holds the Bible or sacred text that the new president gets sworn in upon. But you don't have a First Lady. So I guess we could get—"

"You're going to hold it for me." Bradley states, cutting you off before you can say anything else.

"Excuse me?" You look at him baffled.

"I said you're going to hold it for me." He crosses his arms over his chest in a matter of fact way.

"Why? Because I'm the highest ranking member of your team or because I'm a woman who needs to fill a specific gender role?" You shoot back at him.

"Because I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. You made this possible." He tells you. Your gaze softens, and you relax your shoulders.

"Fine." You sigh. You don't have the time to argue with him.

..............

You can't hear the crowd over the rush of blood in your ears. You're standing on the steps of the Capital Building, Bible in hand, just as Bradley is about to be sworn in. He places his hand on the cover, and you give him a smile as he repeats the oath of office.

Cameras click and flash, and it takes everything in your power not to jump up and down as soon as the Cheif Justice shakes his hand and says "Congratulations Mr. President."

It was real. It had happened. You had done it. You let out a sigh that you had been holding in for over a year as you put on a picture-perfect smile for the camera before getting ready for the inaugural parade.

..................

After the parade, your things have been moved into your room in the White House. You'd been given the Queen's Room. You rolled your eyes when you heard that was where you would be living, but you were thankful to have your own tucked away area to yourself.

You were finishing getting ready for the inaugural ball. You'd traded out your lavender suit for a deep burgundy, off the shoulder ballgown. It had a tasteful slit, and most importantly, pockets for you to keep your phone and other necessities in with out having to worry about a purse.

Your hair was swept up in a low bun. You'd paired the outfit with delicate diamond earrings and a diamond tennis bracelet. You worn classy makeup, but a red lip, the same shade of your dress, adorned your face.

You had just fixed your earpiece to make sure it was out of sight when you heard a knock on your door.

"Come in!" You called out as you fiddled with an earring in the mirror.

"Hey, I—wow." Bradley stepped in. He paused to take in your appearance. Sure he'd seen you dressed up before, but nothing like this.

"You look beautiful." He told you with a twinkle in his eye.

"Thank you." You smiled at him. He had come in here for a reason, but now he couldn't remember what it was. Every thought in his brain went away the the moment your red lips quirked up into a smile.

"Is there something I can help you with, Mr. President?" You goaded him.

"Oh—urm—my tie." He gestured to it. "You always tie my tie." He looked at you sheepishly.

You let out a breathy laugh before striding across the room to help him.

Your perfectly manicured fingernails made quick work of his tie. "It's black this time." He remarked.

"Thought a black bow tie would go nicely with your tuxedo." You tell him. "And you're wearing red. What happened to the purple?" He joked with you.

"I'm wearing burgundy, which is a purple based red." You shoot back, cutting your eyes to look up at him. "Plus, you're official now. We can change it up some. Alright, all done. You look good, Mr. President." You pat his chest and step back.

He catches your wrist before you can walk away. "Wait! I have something for you. A thank you gift." He says.

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a long velvet box. He opens in. Inside is a beautiful, oval diamond pendant on a thin silver chain.

"Bradley!" You breathe out. "It's beautiful, but it's too much. I can't accept it." You tell him.

"You can, and you will." He says sternly. "You got me the Oval Office. Thought I'd get you something oval, too." He grins.

"Help me put it on?" You ask him. He nods his head as you move to stand in front of the mirror.

He carefully takes it out of the box and comes to stand behind you. He pauses for a moment and swallows thickly before brushing a few stray hairs from your neck. He doesn't miss the small hitch in your breath.

He brings the chain around you. You hold it in place as he hooks the clasp. His fingers linger for just a moment. You smile at him in the mirror. Your perfume fills his noses. His senses are overwhelmed. He thinks about how easy it would be right now to lean down and place a kiss to the spot where your neck meets your shoulders.

Another knock at the door and a voice in your earpiece causes both of you to jump.

You clear your throat as both of you move to exit.

The party is in full swing when you step onto the stage. The room gues quiet as you walk up to the podium.

"Ladies and gentlemen," you being. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you, President Bradley Bradshaw and Vice President Jacob Seresin!" The crowd applaudes as then men stride out.

They both give speeches and mingle for a bit.

You're happily sipping on champagne when the coordinator for the evening comes up to you. "Ms. Wiseman, it's time for the president's first dance." She informs you.

"No, you must be mistaken. We decided not to do a first dance, seeing as there is no First Lady." You tell her.

"Ma'am, the president himself specifically requested this at the beginning of the evening." She insists.

You groan and set your champagne down. "Where is he?" You ask her. She quickly tells you his location, and you brush past her to find him.

"Y/N! There you are!" Bradley smiles at you. "When were you planning on telling me you changed the schedule? Who are you even going to dance with?" You scold him.

"You." He says. "What? No! I already held the Bible for you. I have filled my stereotypical gender role for the day! I have emails to send and calls to return!" You yell at him.

Before you can do anything else, he snatches your phone out of your hand and tucks it into his suit pocket.

A low warning sound, similar to a growl, leaves your throat as you stare daggers at him.

"Relax. One dance and you can have it back." He tells you. You flare your nostrils and take a deep breath.

"Fine." You grumble out. He takes your arm and loops it around his as he escorts you out to the crowd.

He sweeps you around the room as "I've Had the Time of My Life" is played by the string quartet.

As soon as the music is over, something more lively is played, and everyone joins you on the dance floor. True to his word, he gives you back your phone. As the night winds down, the secret service assures you that they have everything under control and they will come find you if something happens.

You thank them and sneak off from the party. Once you're back in the safety of your room, you press your back against the door and sigh.

One day down, one thousand four-hundred sixty to go.

So I just wanted to say thank you for the love the prologue got! I hope yall enjoyed chapter 1!

Taglist: @daggerspare-standingby @thedroneranger @shanimallina87 @teacupsandtopgun @hecate-steps-on-me @roosterscock @roosterbruiser @roosterforme @seresinsbabe @startrekfangirl2233 @soulmates8 @xoxabs88xox @avengersfan25 @blackwidownat2814 @loveforaugust @mak-32 @cottagecori @amysteryspot @heyimmadisonn @princess76179 @bradshawseresinbabe @sunlightmurdock @lt-bradshaw @cassiemitchell @die-cunt @mj-l4 @shipinabluebottle @malindacath @violyn20 @imawkwardlysoc @books-for-summer @blackroseboulevard @recordblues @desert-fern @luckyladycreator2 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @sebsxphia @roosters-girl @diorrfairy @je-suis-prest-rachel @chicomonks @mizzzpink @a-linabean @amklibrary @gretagerwigsmuse @jstarr86 @actuallyazriel @krismdavis

As always, likes are great, but comments and reblogs are golden!

#cherrycola27 #top gun maverick #top gun #rooster bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster top gun #bradley bradshaw #rooster smut #bradley bradshaw smut #lt. bradley bradshaw #top gun rooster #top gun smut #tgm fanfiction #tgm smut #tgm fic #tgm #top gun 2 #red white and rooster

664 notes · View notes

roosterforme · 1 year

Text

Old Habits Die Hard Part 15 | Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Summary: Bradley gets drunk at Tyson's birthday party, but once again, your heart is the one feeling the pleasure and the pain that comes with being around your boyfriend.

Warnings: Angst, swears, smut, fluff and non-consensual touching/groping

Length: 3500 words

Pairing: Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw x Female Reader (fuckboy college student Bradley)

Check out my masterlist

Tyson's birthday party was the loudest thing you had ever heard. The music and conversations seemed to be competing with each other, so you stuck close to Bradley. Wordlessly, he pulled you into the kitchen where it was a tiny bit quieter.

"Grab us some good beers, Sugar," he told you as he reached for the bottle opener. "It's gonna be a long night."

"Why are there so many people here?" you asked, holding out both beers for him to pop the tops off.

"Tyson is our chapter president. The head honcho always gets a rager," he said, taking one beer from you and kissing your cheek.

"That makes sense."

"Stick with me, Sugar," he said, running his fingers along the knot you had tied in his tee shirt before stroking your bare skin. "We'll have fun."

That's all it took. Both bottles ended up getting set down on the counter as you wrapped your arms around his neck. "I always have fun with you," you told him between kisses. And just as you felt Bradley's hands run down your back and over your butt, the kitchen door opened to reveal Tyson.

"Hey! It's time for shots! Let's go, you two!"

He already looked drunk for how early it was, and you didn't know how many shots he would be able to handle.

"Twenty two shots?" Bradley asked, grabbing a bottle of vodka from a cabinet along with a shot glass.

"Is that a good idea?" you asked, looking between your boyfriend and Tyson.

Bradley just chuckled. "He's allowed to ask other fraternity brothers to help him out at any time."

"I hope you're thirsty," Tyson said, pointing to Bradley. "And I hope you're ready to make sure he vomits in a toilet and stays out of trouble," he said, pointing to you.

You just shook your head and followed them back into the noisy front room. Dev was standing on a table yelling that it was time for Tyson's birthday shots, and Bradley was wrapping his arm around your waist.

"I'm really sorry about this," he told you, shaking his head and grinning. "If I end up throwing up all night, I'll make it up to you later, okay Sugar?"

You kissed his lips and laced your fingers through his. "I'll take care of you, Beer Boy." You thought it was kind of nice that his fraternity brothers wanted him involved.

Tyson deferred to Bradley and Dev after five shots, so you watched Bradley climb onto the coffee table and down six of the shots on Tyson's behalf. You sipped your beer and tried not to laugh as Dev only made it through three.

Bradley smiled and winked at you as he handed his shot glass back to Tyson and jumped back down. You watched a bunch of girls grabbing at him as he made his way back to you, never stopping until he was at your side.

He kissed you, and the taste of vodka permeated your mouth. "Beer pong?" he asked, and you led him toward the table.

When Bradley started to spend more time with his hands on your hips than off them, insisting he was helping you get squared up to the table, you knew he was pretty drunk.

After he drank a few beers, somehow he got even better at beer pong, so you kept on playing with him. He was standing behind you with his arms wrapped around you, chin on your shoulder as he said, "I'm glad you're not dating Jeff."

You turned your head and kissed him as the other team threw their balls. "How could I have been interested in Jeff for one more minute after I met you?"

He smiled and spoke right next to your ear. "You liked me right away?"

You pressed your lips together and let him kiss your neck. "Of course I did."

"I liked you right away, too. Wanted you to stay in my room, Sugar."

"That's not a hard sell now," you told him shrugging out of his grasp with a grin when it was your turn.

After you lost that round, Bradley was all over you in a very sweet way for someone who was drunk. "You let me know when you want to go upstairs and we can cuddle," he said, running his fingers along your cheek. "And I can sing the Grateful Dead to you until you fall asleep."

You laughed as he hiccuped, but you let him pull you against him as the party raged around you. It was getting so hot in the house, and you wanted another beer, but you thought you'd better stop now. Somebody was definitely going to need some sort of assistance tonight. And you were afraid it was going to be one of the Beta boys.

Now you saw Jeff up on the coffee table, chugging what was left of the bottle of vodka. Eventually a bottle of tequila got passed from Tyson to Bradley, and you watched him drink some before he tried to pass it to you.

"No thanks!" you shouted over the music, passing the bottle right along to Dev. You danced with Bradley for a while, bumping into seemingly everyone else in the room in the process. You watched him fade out more and more, and at one point, you took a beer out of his hand and stashed it behind the couch; you'd come back for it tomorrow when you helped him clean up.

"Bradley! Let's go to the kitchen!"

He followed you there like a puppy on a leash, scooping you up and setting you on the counter.

"Beer Boy," you whispered as he kissed your neck, and then he was pushing you back, guiding you down along the counter and jumping up to join you.

He was untying the knot in the Grateful Dead tee and pushing his hands up to your bare breasts. "I knew there was nothing under here," he said against your lips before dipping his tongue into your mouth to taste you. His fingers stroked your tattoo softly and you moaned for him; he always seemed to be able to find that spot without looking.

He slid the shirt up to your neck and lowered his mouth to your right breast.

"Bradley," you whined, turning toward the door. Someone could walk in here at any time, but the last thing you wanted him to do was stop.

He was sloppy drunk, his lips and tongue a little rough as he licked and sucked, but you liked it. He was palming you through your shorts, encouraging you to rub yourself against his hand. "Sugar," he whispered against your tattoo. His voice was deep and raspy.

You let your fingers lace through his hair as he teased your left nipple into an almost painful peak. You felt desperate, the pressure building each time you hit the heel of his hand through your shorts.

"You gonna get off like this?" Bradley asked you as you turned toward the kitchen door again. It was dark in here, and you wanted to.

"Bradley."

"Just like the library, Sugar. I'll rub you until you cum for me."

"Bradley!"

Your hips were moving faster as he kissed your chest, and the kitchen door slammed open. Janessa stumbled in giggling and heading for the refrigerator.

You sat up, quickly trying to cover your breasts, bumping Bradley's face in the process. "It's okay, let's keep going," he told you, pushing your thighs further apart as Janessa turned toward you.

"Damn, you're a lucky bitch!" she whined. "Tyson is so drunk, there's no way he'll be able to get a boner!"

"Bradley, stop," you said, trying to get his hands out from under your shirt. But he was trying to get his mouth on you again, and Janessa was just staring.

"Feel like sharing?" she asked, erupting into giggles. Bradley had his lips around your nipple again, but he popped you out of his mouth when you finally managed to push him off.

"Come on, Sugar," he said with a crooked grin, reaching for the zipper of your shorts. "I'll make you feel good." He didn't seem to notice that you had company.

Janessa squeaked. "Bradley, what do you think?" she asked, and he finally turned toward her.

"Janessa. What's up?" he asked, still trying to unzip your shorts like it was no big deal.

"You two are so bad!" Janessa said, erupting into more giggles. "I wish Tyson would do me in the kitchen." Now she was pouting and swaying on her feet a little bit.

"You want me to do you in the kitchen again?" Bradley asked you, reaching up your shirt and teasing you some more.

The need you felt for him was ridiculous, but Janessa was still looking at him like he was a four course meal.

"Upstairs, Beer Boy." You wiggled your way out of his grasp and jumped down from the counter, and he followed you, unsteady on his feet. "I'll tell Tyson when he's sober to do you in the kitchen," you told your roommate when you led Bradley past her.

"Where are we going?" he asked, reaching for your waist. "Getting more to drink?"

"You do not need another drink! And it's late! Let's go upstairs," you said, walking backwards to the stairs so he would follow you.

"Are we cuddling or fucking?" he asked, and you started laughing.

"You have no filter right now, and it's kind of funny." You walked slowly up the steps, practically pulling him with you.

"Listen, I'm drunk, but I could fuck you if you want, Sugar. And I can't guarantee I won't have a hangover tomorrow morning."

You managed to prop him up next to his bedroom door and kissed him once. "I'm going to run back down and get you some water and something for the headache that will definitely be starting up soon. Go wait for me."

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

Bradley was wasted. He was seeing two of you now, but both of you were telling him to go into his room.

"Wait, wait, wait," he said, reaching for you as you started to head back to the steps. "I want Sugar."

You had that cute, reluctant smile on your face. Well, whenever your face was in focus you did. "And I want Beer Boy," you told him, kissing him hard again. You pushed him up against the wall, and Bradley swore nothing had ever felt as good as your hands on him. "I'm just going to run back to the kitchen. I'll be right back."

Then you were gone, and he was turning toward his door. He pulled the key down from the top of the door frame and tried to work it into the keyhole.

"Shit," he murmured, because the door was already unlocked. He fumbled for a second, finally getting the key back up where he kept it. His room was cool and quiet, and he tore off his sweaty shirt and started working on his shoes. He clicked on his desk lamp and braced a hand against his desk so the room would stop spinning.

He was hammered, and he knew it. But his dick was still half hard from the kitchen. If you wanted him, he was going to suggest you decide now. Otherwise he was going to pass out with his arms wrapped around you for at least eight hours.

A muffled, "Bradley," came from the bed as he unzipped his jeans and took them off.

"That was quick," he said with a laugh, walking toward his bed. Before he even touched you where you were all bundled up in his comforter, hands reached out to the front of his underwear.

But your strokes felt unfamiliar once you had pulled his dick from his boxers. Your hands didn't feel right as he eyes closed. He couldn't open them to try to figure out what was wrong. He supposed it still felt good though.

"I knew you missed me." That wasn't even your voice. "I knew you'd come back like you always do. I'll bet that little bitch sent me the photo, not you."

"What the fuck?" Bradley asked, cracking his eyes open. Phoebe was hanging off the side of his bed. She was in her underwear with his cock in her hands.

"Come on. I'll suck you off."

"No," Bradley said, trying to get her hands off him. "I don't want you. I want Sugar."

He felt like he was going to throw up or pass out. Phoebe was licking her lips and smiling at him. "No, you don't, Bradley."

"I want my girlfriend."

Phoebe was clicking her tongue now. "Ugh, you're getting soft. How much did you drink?" she asked, but Bradley was peeling her fingers off him the best he could.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!" That was your voice. Coming from his doorway. Coming from his door. The door he had painted. He painted it because he needed you.

"Sugar."

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

Was he so drunk that he was actually talking to himself? The idea of it made you laugh as you carried some Advil and water bottles toward his room.

"I don't want you. I want Sugar. I want my girlfriend."

Was he talking to someone? It sounded like another muffled voice was mixing with his. You tossed his door open wider and found Phoebe in his bed. She was grabbing his dick and trying to lick him. You could see the precum on his tip, and Bradley was scrambling to get himself free of her hands.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you asked, and Phoebe met your gaze with her malicious eyes.

"Please, Phoebe. Please! You're gonna ruin it." Bradley was panicking now, you could tell.

You closed the distance to them and grabbed Phoebe by her wrists and yanked her body away from him.

"You need to leave!" you told her flinging her hands away from you so hard, that she almost fell off of the bed. "Get out of his bed and go!"

Phoebe stood up and started to reach for her bra clasp. "Why should I? He invited me here."

"Didn't," Bradley mumbled, pulling his underwear back up. "Wouldn't do that. I want Sugar." He tripped back into his desk chair.

"Get out." Your voice sounded crazed to your own ears. "He doesn't want you."

Phoebe was laughing now. "Why are you so desperate for him? He's not going to change."

"I'm desperate? Did you or did you not break into his bedroom?"

She just rolled her eyes and leaned down toward Bradley. "Do you want me to leave Bradley?" she asked in the most saccharine sweet voice that made you sick.

"I want Sugar." It seemed to be the only thing he could say at this point, and he was starting to look a little clammy.

You'd had enough for one night. For one lifetime. "Just get out," you shouted, wrapping your hand up in Phoebe's hair and pulling hard. "Leave him alone!"

You pulled her, kicking and screaming toward his bedroom door and launched her into the hallway. Then you went back for her dress and shoes where they were strewn on the floor, and threw them at her face before slamming and locking the door.

"Are you okay?" you asked Bradley, pushing your fingers through his hair until his head was tipped back and he was looking up at you.

He just nodded and reached for you. "Don't get mad at me."

You eased yourself onto his lap and let him wrap his arms around you. "I'm not mad at you. I'm just upset in general. And I'm pissed at Phoebe." You felt hot tears leaking from the corners of your eyes, and you buried your face in his hair before he could notice. He probably wouldn't anyway, but you just wanted to cry in private.

After a few minutes, he started shaking his head. He launched out of his seat, nearly knocking you to the floor, and raced across the room and out into the hallway. You were momentarily terrified that he was going after Phoebe, but he lunged into the bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before he started throwing up.

You looked up and down the hallway, but Phoebe was thankfully gone. So you closed his bedroom door and went into the bathroom to make sure he was okay. He looked up at you with pitiful, watery eyes once he had flushed the toilet. "I'm sorry. I wish I was a better boyfriend."

You sighed deeply and really looked at him. His hair was a wavy, brown mess. He had the beginnings of some stubble on his chin and above his lips. His eyes were red and glassy, and he was in just his underwear. But he was good. Really good.

"Do you want me to help you take a shower and brush your teeth?" you asked softly, and when he nodded, you locked the door and got undressed.

You washed his hair and body for him, running your hands softly over his skin as he melted into you. You got his toothbrush ready and then used his spare one that had become yours. After he took his Advil and drank some water, he climbed into his bed and pulled you in with him. When you clicked off his desk lamp and snuggled up against him, he said, "I don't deserve someone as sweet as you."

"Beer Boy...you deserve the whole world and the sky and everything you want."

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

Bradley woke up to the sounds of pouring rain. His head hurt so badly he could barely open his eyes. He was reaching for you in the bed, wondering if you had a hangover too, but then he started to remember the previous night. He'd had a ton to drink. He drank liquor, because he was with you, and he felt safe when you were around him. But he had definitely overdone it.

"Phoebe," he gasped, forcing his eyes open. Phoebe had been in his room, and then you had been here too. You had helped him get a shower, and he was pretty sure you went to sleep in bed with him. But you were gone now.

He fought back the urge to throw up again as he climbed out of bed and pulled on some underwear. He needed to find you.

The bathroom was empty, and the house was pretty quiet. He had no idea what time it was. Then he heard your soft laughter downstairs. He nearly tripped in his haste to get to you.

"I can't believe what a mess this room is!" you said, your back to him. Bradley smiled at you in his shirt and gym shorts. "I hope Tyson is okay." You were helping Dev pick up the front room.

"Sugar," he rasped, and you spun to face him.

"Beer Boy," you said with a smile before you wrapped your arms around him. "How are you feeling?"

"Shitty."

You and Dev both laughed.

"You don't need to clean up," Bradley told you. "I'll do it."

You just shook your head. "I don't mind. Plus I wanted to get the bottle I hid behind the couch before it got broken. Are you hungry?" You were gently rubbing your hand against Bradley's midsection and smiling up at him. He felt like crying, he was so relieved.

"You're not mad at me?" he asked so softly.

When you shook your head and smiled sadly at him, he squeezed you tight. "I thought we could watch some of that concert DVD and hang out," you whispered.

Bradley scooped you up into his arms and carried you to the kitchen. He held you while you grabbed a box of cereal and a carton of orange juice. Then he carted you back upstairs while you protested that he should put you down because you were too heavy. You weren't too heavy, and he wasn't going to put you down.

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

You sat side by side in bed with Bradley, eating Lucky Charms and drinking orange juice. He looked pale, and he hadn't said much, but every time you moved, he reached for you. "Just turning the volume up," you informed him. "I actually like this," you said with a laugh as you raised the volume on the Grateful Dead concert.

"I knew you would, Sugar."

Eventually you settled in with his arms wrapped around you, and he sang along.

"You don't know how easy it is. You don't know how easy it is to love you."

His voice was beautiful, and you let it wash over you.

But you knew that no matter how hard he tried and how much both of you wanted it, you wouldn't be able to have this feeling with him forever. Last night proved that, and graduation was right around the corner.

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

Woooooow, that was a lot. Good thing Sugar wasn't too far away. Thanks to @mak-32 as always for helping so much for this fic.

PART 16

@hotch-meeeeeuppppp

@swthxrry

@chassy21

@yaboid19

@solacestyles

@avoirlecoupdefoudre

@daisyhollyxox

@callsigndiamond

@harper1666

@throwinsauce

@beebslebobs

@awesomebooklover17

@wintercap89

@whosyourgnomie4

@rosesinmars

@blog-name6996

@bcon24

@wishfulwithwine

@backinwonderl4nd

@monte-carlando

@tetragonia

@gingerbreadandpaper

@emptyloverofmine

@apparently-sunshine

@chaoticassidy

@missmirandafe

@topgunbb

@changlingkhat

@sugarcoated-lame

@callsign-jupiter

@avada-kedavra-bitch-187

@katiebby04

@marantha

@averyhotchner

@abaker74

@andycanbeemotional

@heli991113

@k-k0129

@noz4a2

@tallyovie

@shanimallina87

@starlightstories

@teddyluvs2sing

@little-wiseone

@ccbb2222

@lilyevanswhore

@o-the-o-grim-o-reaper-o

@hecate-steps-on-me

@xoxabs88xox

#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader #rooster x you #rooster fanfic #rooster x female reader #rooster x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw fic #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley rooster x reader #top gun fanfiction #top gun maverick fanfiction #rooster bradshaw x female reader

644 notes · View notes

thedroneranger · 11 months

Note

Babe, first off, so proud of you

Second off, I need a moodboard (or two) of Bradley and Wise-woman on their Rhode Island baby-moon and them with the first babies!

Third off, ILY😘❤️🍒🖤

My Little Miss Onion 🧅, tumblr bestie, Nik! For you, of course, I made two boards. I must thank you for your patience. Because...I was dragging me feet. I didn't want the President Bradshaw universe to end! So I'm glad I got to take a little bit and relive it while I made these boards. Up first: the Rhode Island babymoon!

I will say, the creative juices really got flowing when my work session was soundtracked by Ms. Elizabeth Gerardi ;)

Here with Me | Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw | requested by @cherrycola27 | Red, White, and Rooster universe

The Drone Ranger’s Moodboard Mania

Taglist: @cherrycola27 @roosterforme @galaxy-of-stories @taytaylala12 @malindacath @violyn20 @awildewit @potato-girl99981 @shanimallina87 @blue-aconite @djs8891 @linkpk88 @furiousladyking @daggerspare-standingby @princess76179 @jstarr86 @hecate-steps-on-me @darkheartcherry @soulmates8 @roosters-girl @dempy @mayhemmanaged @blueoorchid @desert-fern @roosterisdaddy36 @hangmanscoming @s-u-t @mavrellover91 @chicomonks @averyhotchner @penguin876 @kmc1989 @xoxabs88xox @mak-32 @dakotakazansky @startrekfangirl2233 @cassiemitchell @seitmai

#top gun maverick #top gun #bradley rooster bradshaw #ranger moodboard #ranger moodboard mania #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #top gun rooster #rooster top gun #red white and rooster #cherrycola27 #president bradshaw #bradshaw baddie™#bradshaw baddie #bradshaw baddies

17 notes · View notes

rhettabbotts · 1 year

Text

happy birthday, mr. president - bob floyd

pairing: president!bob floyd x wife!reader

summary: after a hard week, the last thing bob wanted to do was attend his birthday party. so instead, he plays out one of his biggest fantasies with you.

w/c: 2.4k

warnings: 18+ only. SMUT. bob eating you out in the oval office. slight bondage. slight degradation. dirty talk. mention of cameras. edging. p in v. unprotected sex. breeding kink. riding. title kink? (calling bob mr. president). drinking.

a/n: brought to you by me rewatching scandal and losing my mind. also haven’t stopped thinking about @therebeccaw’s beautiful president bob moodboard <3 also for @lt-bradshaw! thanks for bringing up president bob on the dash last night.

Bob hated parties. No matter how many balls and galas he attended, it never got any easier. He fussed with his bow tie for the umpteenth time before finally giving up, letting out a huff of frustration as he buttoned his cufflinks.

His head snapped up at the sound of the bathroom door opening and the sight before him made him weak in the knees. You floated into the room with such grace, completely ignoring the gobsmacked look on his face. You fiddled with the back of your diamond earring, struggling to fasten it in place.

“Baby, can you zip me up the rest of the way?” You asked nonchalantly. You moved to stand in front of him, finally catching his cobalt eyes in the cheval mirror.

“You look beautiful,” Bob professed. His hands curved around your front to rest on your stomach, pulling you tight against him. His eyes darkened as they traveled over your body, lingering on the way the bodice hugged your breasts, pushing them up enticingly. “How am I supposed to make it through the night with you looking like this?”

“You’ll live. Now, zip me up so I can fix your tie.”

His bottom lip jutted out slightly in a pout, causing you to playfully roll your eyes. As he moved the zipper up the last couple of inches you couldn’t reach, he pressed a kiss to the top of your spine.

“Do we really have to go?” Bob questioned as he rested his chin on your shoulder. One hand moved back around to your front, sliding up your chest and groping you through your dress.

“It’s your birthday. You can’t miss it. Behave, Bobby. You’ll have me all to yourself this weekend when we go to Camp David,” you asserted. “It’s just for a couple of hours. You’ll survive.”

“Highly unlikely,” he muttered as you busied yourself with his tie. You had it knotted in no time, looking pleased with your work.

“There. All done,” you said, patting his chest before turning away. He caught your wrist, tugging you back to him swiftly. He looked down the bridge of his nose at you, eyes squinting in the way they did when you defied him. A challenging look that made you burn with desire.

“Can we do that thing we talked about a few weeks ago?” He spoke quietly. Between the grip he had on your arm and the way he was looking at you, you were ready to say screw the party and tear his shirt buttons off with your teeth. But you knew you couldn’t do that. You didn’t get the luxury of skipping out on these things anymore.

“The thing…”

“It is my birthday, you know,” he quipped, the corner of his thin lips twitching up into a devilish smirk. You were about to respond when Charlie knocked on the door, letting you know guests had begun to arrive.

“Mr. President. Ma’am. We’re ready whenever you are.”

Bob dropped your wrist, linking your fingers together and squeezing your hand once. He let go to slide on his suit jacket and you brushed out any wrinkles that appeared, straightening the pin he wore on his lapel. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, craning his neck from side to side.

“C’mon, darling. Let’s get this over with.”

You slid your arm through Bob’s, holding on tightly as you walked through the corridors of the White House. You knew he still got nervous being around so many people. But he never let it show. He was poised, a true leader. The road to the White House was not easy but you believed he was doing what he was always meant to do. Be who he was always meant to be. It made your heart swell with pride to see your husband succeed.

“Quit starin’,” Bob muttered, sneaking a glance at you. You pinched his arm in response.

As the doors opened to the East Room, applause erupted and you felt Bob tense ever so slightly. He was whisked away by a few senators, a champagne flute placed in his hand as they tried to schmooze him into passing their bill. He looked over his shoulder apologetically and you waved him off. You knew how these things went. You’d find your way back to him eventually.

It took exactly forty-five minutes before Josh, Bob’s chief of staff, came up to you. He pulled you aside and leaned in to whisper in your ear.

“We’ve lost him.”

You tried to bite back a smile, surprised he lasted as long as he did.

“I know where he is. Thank you, Josh. Do me a favor… keep the West Wing off limits.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

You wandered through the long hallways, taking your heels off halfway to the Oval Office. For the duration of the walk, you considered what Bob had asked for earlier in the night. He had mentioned that he wanted to try something different. You had discussed everything beforehand so you knew exactly what would play out.

You would stumble into his office, he would take you over the desk. He’d be trying his best to avoid the cameras, but if you didn’t… The thought of sneaking around, the thrill of potentially being caught, it turned you on tremendously - and Bob knew that.

There was a soft glow coming from the large room as you entered through the side door. Bob was sitting in his leather chair, feet propped up on the cherry wood desk. He was nursing a glass of scotch, the amber liquid swirling around in the crystal as he finished his sip. His tongue darted out to catch a rogue droplet from the corner of his mouth. He looked so powerful sitting behind that desk. He could bring the whole world to their knees if he just asked.

“Good evening, sir,” you said meekly. Even after a year in the White House, it still made you nervous coming into the Oval Office. Bob’s neck craned towards you and there was a lazy smile on his face. The lamp cast shadows over his face. From where you stood, you could see the sliver of grays at his temple. They started appearing more and more as the days went on, much to Bob’s dismay. Stress, you would inform him at the end of a long day.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he slurred. He straightened himself in the chair, setting his feet on the floor before standing. Your heart pounded against your ribcage as his dark eyes devoured you without saying a word.

“I’ve been looking for you. You promised me a dance.” Your husband hummed, taking one last swig of his liquor before rounding the desk. His tie was hanging loose around his neck, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone.

Your mind ran wild with salacious thoughts as he unbuttoned the cufflinks. The slight clatter of them being haphazardly set aside was the only noise that filled the room. He rolled up his sleeves messily, veiny forearms being put on display. Your mouth dried up looking at his hands, wishing they would reach out and touch you already.

Bob walked slowly towards you, pinning you in place with his gaze.

“Mr. President,” you breathed.

“I like it when you call me that,” he indicated. “Say it again.”

“Mr. President,” you purred this time. He circled you, stopping behind you like he had earlier in your room. “We shouldn’t-“

“I think we should. I think it’d be a wonderful idea.”

“But the cameras…”

“Let them watch,” he muttered in your ear. “Let them see you beg your president to let you cum.”

You whimpered at his words, pressing back into his warm body. You were already begging, a silent plea for him to take you. He wasn’t going to give in to you that easily.

Bob started shuffling the both of you towards the desk, pressing you forward until the edge dug into the tops of your thighs. You could feel how hard he was in his slacks. You knew he needed this. It had been a hellish week and he spent his birthday in meeting after meeting, leaving no time to see each other until you were crawling into bed.

His strong hands gripped your hips and spun you around to face him. His expression was devious, you knew what his plan was. He whipped the tie from his collar and you obediently held your wrists out.

“Good girl,” he said, pressing a searing kiss to your lips. As he pulled away, you chuckled softly. A smudge of red lipstick adorned his mouth.

“I think you just like me tying your ties, mister,” you said. Bob had expertly knotted your wrists together with the black satin material. His response was a cheeky grin and a shrug of his shoulders.

Maneuvering you onto the wooden surface was a small feat, he manhandled you with such ease it made your head spin. Papers scattered everywhere as he shoved them aside. He pressed against your sternum until you were flat on your back, bound wrists dangling above your head.

He made slow work of kissing down your body, mouthing at your cleavage. Sucking small love bites into the tops of your breasts. He dropped to his knees with no preamble, diving under your dress and moving up until he landed between your thighs. He pulled your lace panties to the side and buried his face into your soaked cunt.

The first flick of his tongue against your clit caused your hips to buck and your mouth to fall open. Bob knew how to eat you out like no other. He sucked and licked and nipped against your most sensitive parts until you were a quivering mess.

Your mind wandered back to your previous thought about how he could bring the world to its knees. And yet here he was, the most powerful man, on his knees for you. It made your breath hitch and your thighs shake. His wanton moans vibrated through your entire body. You couldn’t see him, not with the way he had his head shoved under the skirt of your dress, but you felt every move he made. Every shake of his head, every indention his fingertips were leaving.

You were babbling nonsense. You weren’t even sure if it was words. Variations of ‘Bob’ and ‘Sir’ and ‘Mr. President’ spilled from your lips and it seemed to make Bob that much hungrier.

“Bobby, please. Please, I’m so close. I’m so-“

And then he stopped.

He pulled away so quickly your hips chased his mouth and you whined desperately. His hair was a mess, loose curls that were once slicked back flopped onto his forehead. His cheeks were flushed, his lips wet with your desire.

“You bastard,” you mumbled, trying to steady your breathing. You had been right on the edge. But you knew that’s what he wanted. You knew what he had in store.

He said nothing as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He said nothing as he moved you off the desk and around the back of it. He said nothing as he nearly broke the zipper on your gown, practically tearing it off of you. A small pleased noise escaped him as you stood before him in your underwear, wrists tied and breasts on full display.

“Such a dirty slut, aren’t you? Letting me take you in here where anyone could walk in. You like that though, don’t you? Yeah, I know you do.”

He moved to sit once more in his chair, thighs spreading wide as he palmed over his cock. A whimper caught in your throat when he pulled himself out. You’ve said it a million times before but Bob Floyd had a pretty dick. And you would never tire of the sight.

“Want you to ride my cock, pretty girl.”

Bob pulled you into his lap and onto his cock without much warning. The stretch never failed to make you gasp, no matter how many times it had been. He settled you until he was to the hilt, full of him. He reached down to untie your wrists and you tangled your fingers through his hair instantly.

You couldn’t move much on your own so Bob took matters into his own hands and bounced you. Hands holding your hips tight enough you were sure there would be bruises by tomorrow. It was quick and messy, your thighs were burning and you couldn’t hold back your moans.

“Gonna fill you up. Gonna finally make you a momma. We'll have little babies running around this place before you know it. Fuck, sweetheart. I’m the luckiest man alive,” Bob rambled. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed throughout the room and you silently prayed Josh listened to you before.

Your nails clawed at the part of Bob’s chest that was exposed, slipping your hand inside the half buttoned shirt to scrape against his nipple. It caused his eyes to roll back and his hips to stutter.

“Moan for me, Bobby.” He did. Loud and unabashedly.

The fast rhythm had both of you close in no time. His mouth attached to your breasts once more and that was it for you. You clenched around him tightly, throwing your head back and nearly screaming as he continued the brutal pace into you. It took him a few more thrusts before he was releasing inside of you, filling you full of him.

You slumped against his chest, hot breath washing over his damp skin as he rubbed up and down your spine.

“I can’t believe we just defiled the Oval Office. We could be arrested,” you joked.

“Not the first time,” Bob said. “Thank you for indulging me, honey. I love you to the moon and stars.”

“Happy birthday, Mr. President,” you giggled. A weak groan tumbled from his lips as his dick twitched inside of you.

“Don’t do that to me right now.”

“Is that an order?” You challenged, rolling your hips teasingly.

“You little brat,” he muttered against your lips, picking you up and walking you over to one of the couches. It was a long and glorious night.

Several weeks later you stood in the en suite bathroom, with four positive pregnancy tests sitting on the counter. You couldn’t stop yourself from getting tickled.

#bob floyd #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #robert bob floyd #bob floyd smut #robert bob floyd smut #president bob floyd

776 notes · View notes

scottishaccentsareawesome · 1 year

Conversation

Cyclone: I called you in today to ask your opinion about Lieutenants Bradshaw and Seresin -

Maverick: - Oh, I totally ship them, sir.

Cyclone:...........Not what I meant.

Maverick: Oh....wait, you seriously don't ship Hangman and Rooster, sir?

Cyclone: *stares at him*

Warlock(raises his hand):...I do.

Maverick(grins and points at Warlock): Yeah, you do!

#inccorrect quotes #Maverick is Hangster-Hangaroo Fanclub President #hangster #hangaroo #hangman x rooster #pete mitchell #beau simpson #solomon bates #bradley bradshaw #jake seresin #maverick mitchell #cyclone simpson #warlock bates #rooster bradshaw #hangman seresin #top gun maverick

329 notes · View notes

sarahsmi13s · 1 year

Text

‘Bring Her Home, Bradshaw’ Universe

I DO NOT CONSENT TO ANY OF MY WORK BEING COPIED OR TRANSLATED

this is where you can find everything related the the ‘Bring Her Home, Bradshaw’ universe!

pairing: bradley bradshaw x mitchell!reader

series warnings: 18+ MDNI, language, cannon gore and violence, descriptions of being eaten, descriptions of the undead, being taken by the military, guns, injuries, infecting, death, blood, kidnapping, religious themes (cult), more details will be in the chapters

a/n: this is going to be a SLOW ASS BURN, this story is based off the games with bradley as leon kennedy, so the dialogue and scenes are inspired by the game play. bradley’s inner monologue however is from my brain

Intro/Series Summary:

Officer Bradley Bradshaw.

A rookie cop that just wanted to be like his father.

A rookie cop who, during his first shift at his new station in Raccoon City, was traumatized by the sight of a burning city as the population turned into hideous biological weaponry.

He wasn’t alone in Raccoon City, some guy was there looking for his brother and there was a little girl whose father was to blame for the destruction of the small town.

He was lucky to make it out alive. He smelled like sewer; he was bruised, bloodied, and covered in something’s guts.

But he was alive.

And all Bradley wanted was to fall asleep for 6 months.

Except he didn’t get that.

Instead he was interrogated for hours.

All because he witnessed an outbreak caused by the world's biggest pharmaceutical company that was actually creating biological weapons and selling them to God knows who.

The government wanted to recruit him because he now had that experience.

So, he accepted, but only to ensure the little girl would remain in good hands and not be experimented on for the antibodies she possessed.

That’s how he became Agent Bradley Bradshaw. Who now works for the president as part of the Division of Security Operations. or D.S.O for short.

And now President Mitchell’s oldest daughter has gone missing, presumably kidnapped and taken to Spain.

Can Bradley get her home safe?

**************************

Story:

Prologue: Welcome to Raccoon City, Rookie

rookie cop bradley bradshaw is late, and hungover, for his first day at his new post in Raccoon City. but maybe that’s what saves his life.

Chapter 1:

Moodboards:

Bradley N. Bradshaw

Y/N Mitchell

**************************

if you would liked to be tagged in this series, please comment or reblog here!! it’ll just help me to keep up with everyone to have a central hub for tags

i will tag my most recent top gun taglist, but if you don’t want to be tagged just send me a private message and i can take you off!

top gun tags <333: @milesdickpic @roosterscockpit @luckyladycreator2 @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @sebsxphia @nobody7102 @djs8891 @mayhemmanaged @desert-fern @startrekfangirl2233 @horseshoegirl @bobby-r2d2-floyd @roosters-girl @cassiemitchell @lovinglyeternal @lovingbradshawafterdark

love you babes <33

#bring her home bradshaw universe #bring her home bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley n. bradshaw #bradley bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x reader #president mitchell #mitchell!reader #moodboards #welcome to raccoon city rookie #resident evil au #resident evil 4 remake #controlled chaos squad #callsign vintage #sarahsmi13s #sarahsmi13s masterlist

52 notes · View notes

seresinhangmanjake · 4 months

Text

The Dagger Games (tgm/the hunger games)

The Mockingjay - Natasha Trace

The Baker - Robert Floyd

The Soldier - Bradley Bradshaw

The Capitol Darling - Jake Seresin

(More below the cut)

The Designer - Javy Machado

The President - Reuben Fitch

The Mentor - Mickey Garcia

100 notes · View notes

aworldinsideaperson · 4 months

Text

The West Wing

A Top Gun Maverick AU Series

Double Life

Bob Floyd x Reader

Congresswoman

Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

Deputy to the Deputy

Jake Seresin x Reader

The Press

Natasha Trace x Javy Machado

The President’s Daughter

Mickey Garcia x Reader

The President, First Lady, and Chief of Staff

#tgm fic #tgm fanfiction #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd series #bob floyd x reader #jake seresin imagine #jake seresin series #jake seresin x reader #bradley bradshaw imagine #bradley bradshaw series #bradley bradshaw x reader #natasha trace x javy machado #west wing au

75 notes · View notes

compacflt · 1 year

Note

if you're open to angsty prompts - tgm mission goes bad and Ice gets to accept Bradley and Mav's flags at their funerals? (but only if you're feeling angsty. if not, feel free to ignore!)

San Diego, California. November 2016.

It should not be surprising that the complicated politics of a funeral like Mitchell’s supersede even the national grief of losing him, but of course it is. The Defense Department and the new administration (loudly Tweeting out of their asses because the President-Elect hasn’t yet been sworn in) want to hold it in Arlington. Do it in D.C., show American unity, show how proud we are of our fallen aviator, who sacrificed himself for America’s national interests, bury him in Virginian soil next to Kennedy’s eternal flame… It’s not a terrible idea, geopolitically speaking. But the Republican leadership of the state of Texas wants a piece of him, too. Why not bury him in the National Cemetery in Dallas? That’s where he’s from. Lay him to rest in the soil of his forefathers, as all good men should be. But the entire Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy, it is argued by people who aren’t Kazansky, also has a stake in this. Bury him at sea. He gave his life for the Navy. This is how it ought to be. Bury both Mitchell and Bradshaw at sea the way we buried other American Navy heroes like John Paul Jones. (When he hears this argument, Kazansky also remembers that we buried Osama bin Laden at sea, too.)

The whole political clusterfuck is put to rest at last in mid-November, when someone bothers to ask Kazansky what he thinks, and Kazansky says, “I’ll remind you that there’s absolutely nothing left of him to bury. But Mitchell lived in California for the last thirty years of his life. He told me he’d want to be buried in San Diego. I don’t really care where you put him. But that’s what he said he wanted.” And after Pacific Command leadership hears this and communicates it to the White House, everyone all of a sudden bends over backwards to organize a joint funeral in San Diego, where Bradshaw’s parents are buried, anyway. Maybe it really is fitting. Okay.

It’s a funny thing, ritual. The military’s full of it. A funeral: that’s a ritual. So, too, is promotion, retirement, commissioning in the first place. So, too, is the everyday ritual of getting dressed, donning battle gear, which today is dress blues, the way it was the day Mitchell died. Medals instead of ribbons. The President posthumously gave Bradshaw and Mitchell Medals of Honor. Their bodies would be wearing them, if there were bodies to bury. The President prehumously gave Kazansky and Seresin Medals of Honor as well. Kazansky’s is sitting around his throat like a noose. He feels like nothing but a body himself, no soul, already passed-on. They’ll lower Mitchell’s empty casket into the ground this afternoon and Kazansky’s already thinking about climbing inside it before they do. He’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t see the absurdity in that thought. But he’s also not so self-aware that he isn’t having that thought.

It’s the highest-profile funeral Kazansky’s attended in a few years. The Secretary of State is here. The Secretary of Defense is here. The Secretary of the Navy is here. The Vice President is here. He, too, has only recently lost a son; he, too, has already lost someone he thought he’d spend the rest of his life with. They don’t talk, but when they shake hands, it feels like stronger solidarity than all the Sorry for your losses Kazansky’s received over the past couple weeks. Everyone here knows about him and Mitchell, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare; now, his actual worst nightmare having been realized, he can’t bring himself to care, and no one’s making a big deal out of it. When they say, Sorry for your loss, they don’t mean in the “loss of two highly strategic assets for the U.S. Pacific Fleet” sense, they mean in the “loss of the only two people you cared about more than your career” sense. Sorry for your loss. It’s not so bad. And because everyone knows, in a way that had once been Kazansky’s worst nightmare, no one bats an eye when Kazansky realizes his actual worst nightmare and accepts Mitchell’s folded flag. No, they weren’t legal family. But everyone knows they were close enough.

He tacks his own Naval aviator wings onto Mitchell’s empty casket. Twenty-one guns fire. He salutes. They lower two empty caskets into the ground and he’s still standing. It doesn’t really mean anything. It’s not really a goodbye, because neither Mitchell nor Bradshaw are actually inside. He watches Seresin struggle not to cry. He stands before a few hundred people and makes a short boring speech about service and sacrifice that he did not write. This is all political. This is all just for show. Most ritual usually is. So who gives a fuck.

He disappears before anyone can pin him down to apologize again and again, but finds that his intended hideout location has already been claimed: by the time he makes it to Goose’s grave, Seresin’s already standing there alone, his hands in his blues pockets, his cap tucked under his arm.

“I just,” says Seresin stupidly. His eyes are red-rimmed and his face is sallow. They’ve never really spoken, the two of them, but Kazansky’s heard the rumors about him and Bradshaw. And he’s sure Seresin’s heard the rumors about him and Mitchell. They’re in the same leaking boat, here. “Bradley talked about him all the time.” Gestures down to the grave. “And about you. And about Maverick.”

Kazansky says, “Would you want to have lunch with me? I’m not very hungry. But maybe we can talk.” He’s trying. Too little too late, but he’s trying.

He exchanges his jingling blues coat for a regular suit jacket in the armored Suburban. Takes the Medal of Honor off as he does. Seresin, still only a lieutenant, doesn’t have the luxury of a general staff who will carry around a wardrobe change on his behalf. He’s gonna have to make do with his dress blues. He’s nervously fingering the Medal of Honor around his neck, and will continue to do so long after they’ve taken their seats in a restaurant downtown where Kazansky used to take Mitchell out for dinner, not so long ago. He can hear his chief flag aide kindly whispering to their waiter: Somewhere in the back. Where they won’t be bothered. Everyone’s being so kind.

“I could kill him,” Seresin says after a few minutes.

“Who?” says Kazansky incuriously. He’s been running his fingers over the condensation on his water glass. Now his fingertips are wet. Actions and consequences.

“Cyclone. He’s the one who refused to send me. And he didn’t launch search-and-rescue, either.”

Kazansky blinks, then looks down at his menu. “No, son, that was me.”

Seresin’s Then I could kill you goes unsaid. It’s quiet for a long time, long enough that Kazansky’s read through the menu—every word—twice. Then Seresin says, “Why?”

“You would’ve searched for the rest of your life and rescued nothing, and blamed yourself.”

“I blame myself for not going anyway. For not disobeying orders. —Maverick would’ve gone.”

Yeah, he probably would have. Kazansky remembers, in a split second, a story Mitchell had only told him a few years ago, lying next to him in the dark, a little tipsy after dinner and touchy-feely as he always was lying next to Kazansky in the dark: I don’t think I ever told you the story of how I saved Cougar’s life. His warm hands, gentle and unhurried, sliding up and down Kazansky’s abdomen: it’s so funny the details you choose to overlook at the time, and only remember when you lose them. / Well, I never wanted to ask. You hate telling those stories, I thought, Kazansky had said. Because it was true. At any party, Mitchell could tell the stories of how he saved Cougar’s life and how he ejected out of a flat spin at TOPGUN and how he shot down three MiGs not two weeks later—but he’d always have nightmares about all of it the night after. He hated telling those stories. He’d only do it if people asked, so Kazansky never asked. / You’re here in bed next to me, Mitchell said, so I’ll sleep just fine. Let me be a hero for you for once. —It was the day I saw that first Soviet MiG up close. Remember that? Negative four-G inverted dive? That was real, baby. Scared the shit outta Cougar. Messed him up bad. I mean, he thought we were all cooked. He wasn’t gonna land, I mean. Or if he tried, he was gonna plow right into the side of the boat. Couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? He was dipping his wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving his Tomcat, I mean, it was freaky. So I touch-and-goed my F-14. / Against orders, surely, Kazansky’d said. / Oh, of course. You’ve met me, haven’t you? Of course, against orders. We were both outta gas. But I took off again and circled around to find him, and guided him in, you know, level off, call the ball, there you go, Coug, you got it, you got it. Don’t know if he ever told you this—he probably did ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up the landing gear and snapped off his tailhook and ground up into the fuselage. / But he lived. / But he lived, Mitchell said, and that’s how I got sent to TOPGUN. And that’s—with a soft sweet kiss—how I met you. / My hero, Kazansky’d said.

“Yeah,” he says noncommittally. “Maverick would’ve gone. —But he’d have searched for the rest of his life and rescued nothing, and blamed himself.”

Seresin says, “Is that what happened with him and Bradley’s dad? Is that what happened with Goose?”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence for another while. The waiter comes by to take their orders. Kazansky’s not hungry and orders a beer. Seresin’s starving and orders a burger and a side of onion rings and a glass of wine.

“Can I ask you a question?” Seresin says after another few minutes. “Are you, like, a coward, or something? —That speech you gave was pretty neutered, sir. You loved him and you can’t even say it at his funeral?”

It’s a stupid, immature question. The Navy doesn’t deserve to hear that out loud. Nor does Mitchell’s empty casket. Only Mitchell did, and too late now. Kazansky shrugs. “If I were a brave man,” he says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

“I’d like to think I’m a brave man,” says Seresin. “I let Bradley go because I trusted him to come back. —Honestly, I’m kind of fucking pissed about it, to be honest. Sorry for the language. But it’s the truth. The night after he died, I mean, I went apeshit. Tore up our photos, punched the wall, cried myself fucking dry, that kind of stupid shit. I was so mad. I trusted him to come back, and he didn’t. Thought he was a good pilot. —Sorry. Is that sacrilegious to say? We aren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead, are we? I don’t care. I’m still mad about it. I know I shouldn’t be. But it’s the only thing I know how to be, is angry. Does that make sense?”

“It makes sense.”

“Are you angry?”

“Yes, but not at Mitchell. You know that saying, we have old pilots and bold pilots, but never old, bold pilots? Maverick was an old, bold pilot. We both knew he was living on borrowed time. That’s how he lived.”

“Pretty fucking defeatist.”

Kazansky shrugs again. He is a man defeated.

Seresin says, “Are you gonna be okay?” Then, in the resulting silence, he says, “Sorry, stupid question. Sorry. It’s just—“ He hesitates. It’s only now that Kazansky sees the dark circles under his eyes, the tremor in his hands, the desperation in the stiffness of his shoulders. “Look, it’s just that I don’t think I’m going to be okay, and you’re a lot older than me, and I keep thinking you have, like, the answer. Some wisdom, you know what I mean? How am I gonna be okay? You’re the Commander of the Pacific Fleet of the United States Navy. Aren’t you supposed to know what to do? Aren’t you supposed to give me orders? What do I do?”

“If I were a wise man,” Kazansky says, “do you think I would have let him go?”

Seresin is quiet. His food comes. He immediately launches into it, eats ravenously and silently for a few minutes.

Then he says, around a bite of his burger, “You know, I was gonna ask him to marry me.”

“Bradshaw?”

“Who else?”

Kazansky blinks. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Yeah,” says Seresin. “You know, fucking everyone is.”

“Lunch is on me,” Kazansky says.

Home, afterwards, is silent and lonely. Of course it is: Mitchell’s not here. Of course. Kazansky’s settling into it. Life so rarely gives you a choice, when assigning you ritual, routine. There’s still legal paperwork to fill out. That he can do. And there are still letters of condolences to respond to: Thank you for your kind words. Maverick was… figuring out how to end that sentence will give Kazansky a way to occupy his time for a while. And there are flowers to throw out—no one wants flowers after someone they care about has died. They stink up the house and permeate everything with their reminder of grief and mourning, and you’ll find the dried petals even months later and grieve and mourn all over again. Kazansky throws them all out before they can start shedding. There are friends to call and thank for coming. “I don’t know what to say,” Slider says over the phone. / “Yeah, neither do I,” says Kazansky, so they sit in silence on the line together for a while, and that’s pretty nice. / “He was the best of us,” says Sundown, and Kazansky thinks about what Seresin had said a few hours ago: Thought he was a good pilot. It’s a cruel thought, but sometimes the only thing you can be is angry: if Maverick really was the best of us, he should’ve come home. / “You know, I’m still in his debt,” says Cougar. “He saved my life thirty years ago. It’s so fucking stupid, you know what I mean, this idea that I should’ve saved his in return? Feels like it’s my fault that he died. Maybe I’m too superstitious. I’m indebted to a fucking dead man. I’ll never be able to pay him back. —Sorry, Ice. Sorry. I don’t mean to make it all about me. I can’t even imagine what you’re going through right now. I’m so sorry.”

“That’s okay,” says Kazansky. “Don’t, um—look, I’m just curious. How did he save your life? Would you mind telling me?”

“I don’t remember too much of it, to be honest,” says Cougar. “That’s why I quit, isn’t it? Something wrong with me. I was so scared I couldn’t see straight. You ever been so scared you couldn’t see straight? I wouldn’t have landed if it weren’t for Maverick. Or, if I had tried, I think I would’ve plowed into the side of the boat. Dipping my wings, power too low, basically drunk-driving my Tomcat. There was something wrong with me. You know, they could’ve kicked him out for that stunt, touch-and-going his F-14 like that. We were both outta gas. It could’ve killed him, too. But he guided me in. Saved my life. —I don’t think I ever told you this. I probably did about ten million dollars of damage to that plane. Fucked up my landing gear, snapped off my tailhook, ground up into the fuselage.”

“But you lived.”

“But I lived,” says Cougar. “And I came home to my family. Only ‘cause of him.”

“He was a hero.”

“He was a fucking hero,” says Cougar. “To the very fucking last. Sorry you had to go and fall in love with him. They advise against that, don’t they?”

“What, falling in love with heroes?”

“Yeah. —Sorry. Not funny.”

“A little funny. In a cosmic sense. Means it’s my own fault.”

Cougar pauses. “It wasn’t your fault, Ice.”

There’s still a Fleet to be run. Still work to be done. Kazansky can do that. People will laud him for the rest of his life for his professionalism under duress. He works when he should be grieving. Work is a ritual, too. Take some time off, sir, one of the Chief of Naval Operations’ aides had begged him. You need time. But he can’t. Only thing to do is keep working until all the work is done. The geopolitical situation after the mission, which was still classified as a success, is quite bad. They knew it would be. A bombing mission on Russian territory right near the American general election? Yeah, that’s bad. Russia’s Foreign Ministry has openly stated that if they find any remains of Mitchell and Bradshaw’s bodies, they will not extradite them home to the United States. I’m sorry you had to hear that, the President e-mailed him personally. But it’s fine. Kazansky likes the chaos. Means there’s work to do. He works.

When he can’t work anymore, because he’s done all the work that needs to be done, he takes care of another ritual. Life assigned him this one without giving him a choice, too. It’s past 2200. He turns no light on. He’s not sleeping in their bed, which is pretty cliché, and maybe he should be stronger than that, but you do have to make some concessions to your own grief when something like this happens. But he’s strong enough to sit on the side of it that had been his and open his phone and dial the number of his only favorited contact and hold the phone to his ear. It gives the dial tone five times, as is routine, and then Mitchell picks up the phone, as is routine. Hi! Captain Pete Mitchell here! Unfortunately I’m not able to come to the phone right now. Leave a message, or if it’s Navy business, you can shoot me an e-mail at C. A. P. T. dot P. dot Mitchell at navy dot mil. Thanks! Bye. Maybe Mitchell’s just busy. Maybe Mitchell’s somewhere without cell service. Maybe Mitchell’s just out flying.

Kazansky considers leaving a message, as is routine; realizes he doesn’t know what to say, as is routine; and hangs up, as is routine.

He takes all his medals off the rack of his double-breasted blues coat, packs them back into their clear-plastic-velvet boxes. He considers, momentarily, throwing out the Medal of Honor with the flowers. But he’s too self-aware to do that. He hangs up his coat on its felt-lined hanger, steams it straight, does the same to his slacks, slips the ensemble back into its garment bag, hangs it up next to Mitchell’s in their closet. This is a ritual, too. He takes a shower. He eats something. He answers a couple e-mails. He climbs into a bed that is not his own. He holds one of Mitchell’s college sweatshirts over his face and breathes in. He takes stock. His fuel gauge is reading pretty low. He knows his wings are dipping. If he really thought about it, he’d say he’s so scared he can’t see straight. And the truth is—he’s not so un-self-aware that he can’t recognize this, however numbly—Maverick’s not coming home to guide him in to land. Maverick’s never coming home again. Thought you were a good pilot. He closes his eyes. He tries to sleep.

#major character death #death #pete maverick mitchell #tom iceman kazansky #top gun maverick #top gun #icemav #top gun fanfiction #asks #sorry to start out my prompt fills with maybe the most soulcrushing thing ive ever written #ngl writing this yesterday fucked me up hard #sorry to sneak more pro-brandon propaganda in here but the parallel was too good to pass up #rip beau biden i guess #forgot to tag:#bradley rooster bradshaw #jake hangman seresin #hangster #soundtrack for this one is Judy collins’ send in the clowns

229 notes · View notes