ᆞEᆞᆞmᆞᆞmᆞᆞyᆞ

A sigh fell from his lips at the sight of his mom and sister waiting in the living room doorway with excited smiles and hooded eyes. They behaved more like sisters than mother and daughter. It was sweet.

A dim lamp on the entrance table and the bright colours of the TV cast shadows across the room.

“Hi, I’m Y/N,” You smiled politely despite two pairs of unfamiliar eyes trained on you.

God they must think you’re here to sleep with him or something.

“Hi, sweetheart. I’m Jessica. You want something to drink?” Dodge’s mom raised her glass of red wine, “We’re watching Jeopardy.“

She was a very beautiful woman, cherub cheeks and bright green eyes. Dodge was all hard angles, he must take after his dad.

Dodge ducked into the sea-foam coloured kitchen to grab two waters from the refrigerator.

“I’m Dana!” His sister beamed. She shared an unspoken look with Dodge, who rolled his eyes. Before you could thank her, Dodge rejoined your side.

“She’s locked out and just wants somewhere to sleep,” He quelled their unspoken barrage of questions.

His mom nodded along, as if he was lying, “Okay well there’s spare blankets in the laundry room, condoms in the bathroom...”

“Oh my god,” Dodge cursed under his breath, “We’re going now.”

Jessica and Dana giggled behind their glasses of wine, the right side of drunk, “The book, Dodge.”

She winked with exaggeration, her filter totally gone with the amount she’d drank but she was clearly having a fun night in.

Dodge shook his head with a flustered laugh.

With a hand on your back, Dodge guided you to his bedroom. Your face flushed at the unexpected attention and the suggestive situation.

The two laughed rather loudly, saying how pretty you are and how Dodge will fair with a girl spending the night, for the first time you assumed.

The sound of the women stifling laughter echoed around the house. Dodge closed his bedroom door with a sheepish and apologetic smile.

His room was pretty plain; grey bedsheets, grey walls, rodeo trophies and medals, a bookshelf with framed photos on. It smelt like laundry soap and his cologne.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” He offered, tossing his backpack onto the carpet.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t bite,” You teased, as you looked at his collection of trophies and books, “Plus they already think we’re fucking.”

Dodge gave a quick laugh, watching you read the spines on the shelf.

“What book was your mom talking about?” You turned to him and his face flushed.

“You heard that, huh?” He mumbled, “It was a joke really. She thinks she’s funny.”

Even more intrigued by his avoidance, you sized him up with squinted eyes.

Dodge cleared his throat, tidying away a pile of laundry sitting on his bed, “They uh… god this is… They used to worry about me with- with girls. They thought I was a virgin because I never brought girls home to meet them or anything… and so for Secret Santa one year I got a book about… women… My mom insists it wasn’t her and that whoever it was was trying to be funny…”

There was a long pause. Dodge shied away from your eyes, his body turned away from you, despite the little air of embarrassed laughter.

Dodge cleared his throat again, “Super weird, I know. She had kids super young and didn’t want us to make the same mistake. Not that me and Dana are mistakes but it was hard for her. She’s cool about that sorta thing though. Dana’s ex-boyfriend used to stay over all the time and she didn’t care. So if you’re worried, she won’t say anything about you being here or anything.”

Another bout of silence fell between you as Dodge assessed your features, his lips pursed and shoulders tight.

“I think that’s the most you’ve ever said to me,” You laughed and Dodge visibly relaxed.

“No, it’s cool. Not cool but, you know, I wish my family were cooler about sex. My dad saw your name in my phone and reached for his shotgun,” You laughed, “Anyway, a book is probably better than drunk hook ups at the lake.”

“Yeah probably,” Dodge nodded, leaning against the bookshelf, and there was a lull in the conversation.

“Oh… did you read it?” You giggled, a flush of red creeping up his neck and ears, “You did!”

“You can’t prove anything,” Dodge shook his head with a half-cocked smile.

“But you could,” You raised your eyebrows and he furrowed his. It was a joke, he knew that, but Dodge steeled his expression and licked his lips.

“Yeah?”

You kept your eyes on his for a long moment before smiling, “Yeah. Prove it.”

You reached out and rested a hand on his stomach. His abs were tight and lean under his button-up shirt.

One by one, you unbuttoned his shirt and pushed it off his shoulders, running your hands along the sturdy plane of his stomach and chest.

Conflicting thoughts ran through your head. Heather was like your sister and Natalie had been planning to win Panic for years.

Would fucking Dodge Mason, their competition, be a good idea?

Your judgement was clouded by the heat radiating from his skin and the smattering of hair on his chest. His dual coloured eyes watched your face as you stood before him, admiring him.

“I saw you like this at the jump but not up close,” You rested your hands on his shoulders, biting your lip, “Thank you, saddle bronc.”

Dodge couldn’t fight the smile that spread across his cheeks, as a sputtered laugh escaped his lips.

In one movement, Dodge threw you over his shoulder and deposited you on his bed, kneeling over you.

A soft line of kisses traced along your arm to your shoulder. With every press of his lips, you itched to feel them against yours, whining at the wait.

Pink and plump, his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth before he pulled back to look down at you, stilling hovering over you.

Taking his head in your hands, you craned your neck to kiss him. Each press of his lips had you sighing contently and the swipe of his tongue had you moaning.

Dodge licked into your mouth with fervour, tongue and lips colliding with no precision, only desire.

You hooked your leg over his hips and rolled him onto his back beneath you, straddling his hips.

Dodge instinctively gripped your hips and watched with kiss-bitten lips and doe eyes as you discarded your dress onto his bedroom floor.

“You gonna give me some tips, cowboy?”

Dodge groaned, your hands pressing against his chest, as he slowly guided the rocking of your hips against his.

With every roll of your hips, your tits bounced in the lacy cups of your bra. His eyes flickered between your chest and your pink panties, rubbing against his bulge.

Dodge groaned, tightening his grip on your hips, “Lean forward.”

Following his instructions, a loud moan escaped you at the change in pressure against your clit.

“Good girl, you’re doing so good,” He rumbled, rutting his hips against yours in a perfect rhythm. Warmth bloomed in your chest at his praise.

Thank you, saddle bronc.

His muscles rippled and bulged underneath your hands as the slick between your legs dampened the skin of your inner thighs.

Cupping a hand at the nape of your neck, Dodge guided your mouth to his, kissing you with pinched brows and deep groans. Pulling away from the heated make out and pressing a deep kiss to his lips, you sat up and unbuttoned his jeans.

Dodge lay back, stroking your thighs and watching you with bated breath. Pulling him from his trance, you hooked a finger into the elastic waistband of his boxers, twanging the material against his alabaster skin.

A smile twitched at his lips as he slowly sat up and kissed you softly, rolling you onto your back. Dodge pushed his jeans off and lay between your legs, the hard length of his cock pressing into your inner thigh.

Settling your hands on each other's heated skin, Dodge kissed you deeply and nipped at your bottom lip playfully. His strong arms wrapped around you, his hand palming at the globe of your ass.

Warm and plump lips mouthed at your neck, teeth tugging the strap of your bra from your shoulder and kissing at the newly bare skin. He unhooked your bra, tossing it onto the floor and laving his tongue at your pebbled nipples.

"Please, need you," You whined, clawing at his shoulders. Dodge pressed a final kiss to your chest before sitting on his haunches and pulling your panties down your legs.

With firm hands on your inner thighs, Dodge parted your legs and bit his lip, staring at your dripping sex. You squirmed under his undivided attention, hooking your calf around his waist and pulling him on top of you.

Kissing him deeply, you pushed his boxer briefs down his hips, dragging your nails across his back once his erection sprung free. The wet tip smacked against your heated skin.

Dodge kicked his boxers off and reached into his nightstand, tearing the foil of a condom wrapper with his teeth and rolling the rubber onto his cock.

Caressing his biceps, you watched as he hovered over you and lined himself against your entrance. You hooked a leg around his hip, gasping into his open mouth as he slowly thrust into you.

Dodge's eyes fluttered shut as his hips pressed flush against yours. A ragged breath escaped his lips, tickling the skin of your neck. Dropping his head to your shoulder, Dodge sighed shakily.

"C'mon cowboy," You rolled your hips, "Buck."

Dodge let out a mix of a soft groan and a laugh into your neck, "You feel really good."

A small giggle fell from you, scratching your fingers through his hair. You bucked your hips again and Dodge clamped a hand on your hip, pulling back and rolling his hips against you.

Picking up the pace, Dodge fucked his thick cock against the sensitive spot deep within your cunt. Sloppy wet sounds echoed around the room with each buck of his hips.

Sweat beaded on your skin as the coil within the pit of your stomach tightened. Your nails clawed at the rippling muscles of Dodge's back, his skin slapping against yours.

Groans tumbled from his lips, pressing heated kisses to your skin, silencing your loud moans with his tongue in your mouth.

Digging your heels into his ass, you tightened your legs around his hips, letting him push one against your chest and his cock sinked deeper into you.

A broken gasp escaped you before his hand clamped over your mouth and his hips stopped, pressing his weight onto you.

The sound of footsteps outside his door and the subsequent flicking of light switches and closing doors alerted Dodge to the presence of his mom going to bed.

Dodge met your eyes, willing you to be quiet, as he continued to fuck you. Your brows pinched together as your interrupted pleasure began to build again, noises muffled by his strong hand.

Pressing his forehead to yours, Dodge slowed his pace and you took the opportunity to turn him onto his back, keeping his cock nestled in your cunt.

A surprised grunt tumbled from his chest and his hands groped at your body, holding you against him. You wasted no time before raising your hips and bouncing on his cock.

Dodge moaned and his eyes rolled back, covering his own mouth. A sheen of sweat on his skin glistened in the limited light. Leaning forward, your clit caught against his pubes, igniting a hotter flame within you.

"Good," Dodge praised, brushing your hair out of your face and watching your tits bounce in his face, "Such a good cowgirl."

He tipped his head back further into his plush pillow and his knees bent off the bed, fucking into you, his body pulling taut at the impending release.

"Gonna cum," Dodge rasped, panting and licking his dry lips.

You couldn't form words, only nodding, meeting his eyes and rocking your hips with the uncoordinated buck of his. The band within you was one thread away from snapping before Dodge gripped your jaw and pulled you into a heated kiss.

White hot bliss coursed through your body as you moaned into his mouth. Dodge mouthed at your unresponsive mouth, too preoccupied with moans of pleasure to reciprocate his kisses.

Dodge pulled back to watch your orgasm wash over you before he hit his peak, white ropes of cum filling the condom as he groaned deeply.

Sinking into the mattress, you lay on his sweaty chest, both trying to catch your breath. Dodge discarded the condom in the trash by his bed and pulled you into his side.

His cheeks and neck were rosy with exertion and he ran a hand up and down your back, "You should try saddle bronc."

Fucked out, you laughed into his sweaty chest, "You should keep that book."

Pete trails behind his squadron as they trickle in, taking their usual spots around the pool table. He diverts, heading over to the bar for a drinks, or to catch a glimpse of Penny.

"She's not here tonight." You tell him gently, replacing glasses back onto shelves as you speak. "She's left me in charge for the night."

He took a moment to steady himself, glancing around and shrugging his worn leather jacket closer to his frame. "Just a beer then please."

"Coming right up." You hesitate slightly, milling over your next words as you hide a smile. "You ever thought about a signature cocktail?"

He frowns, head tilting as you tilt your own head towards your blackboard with his name emblazed.

"An old fashioned? You calling me old?"

"Let's say experienced." You tease, "Can I tempt you?"

"Fuck it, yeah."

You pull all the bottles you need, letting the rhythm dictate your movements. Bartending and especially cocktail making is incredibly therapeutic for you, an occupation where you want for nothing else. As you carefully peel an orange for the garnish, Mav perks up.

"What'd you change about it?"

"Not a cocktail connoisseur?"

"Exactly the opposite."

It takes a moment to compose yourself as you place the glass on the bar top. "Soaked bourbon has a deeper flavour, a bit more gritty. The demerara syrup kinda feels more mature than simple syrup. And, uh- This?" You hold up the orange peel and a lighter as you quickly light the oils and drop the peel into the drink, pushing it the final inches towards him. "I thought it was appropriate."

It doesn't take long for your fire show to attract attention and the the conversation to die down and the aviators to filter towards you for their usual's with some extra questions. You take the opportunity to show off something more than popping caps off bottles of beer as you turn to the final pilot in line.

"What's this about Mav getting his own cocktail? What about the Rooster?" He reached for his beer but had to tear his eyes away from the blackboard.

You laugh as you wipe the condensation from your hands. "Wait your turn Bradley. Good things come for those who wait."

week two: phoenix rising based on a french 75; gin, lemon juice, hibiscus syrup, topped up with champagne. served in a champagne flute with a lemon twirl and hibiscus flower.

The next week you wait until the whole group is there before revealing your board, edges drawn with curling flames and soaring birds.

"Any thought on the special, Nat?"

She took a moment to study the board before breaking out into a grin, "Sounds right up my alley."

It's a composed a focused drink, with the champagne toasting her every and many achievements. The syrup gives hint of her femininity and as you top it with the flower, it sinks to the bottom before rising once more, a true phoenix.

You didn't see Natasha as a hardened aviator, but a woman who had clawed her way to a space she deserved and earned. There was so much strength behind the gentle smile and the flowing hair.

Bradley takes one look at the board and shakes his head, reaching over the bar to grab his own beer with a amused smile. "Next week?"

"We'll see!"

week three: breeze over bay AKA the bob based on a white cosmo with a peach twist; vodka, cranberry juice, peach liquer, lime juice, cointreau. served in a chilled martini glass with thinly sliced peach to garnish.

Bob blushes as you present his drink on the bar for him. It's sweet and sharp, a comfortable drink made to be enjoyed. It doesn't have to be flashy and put on a show, it can speak for itself through taste, and it's honest about what it is.

"Thank you." His voice is quiet as he lifts his drink to take a sip, savouring the subtle flavourings. "It's really good."

"Glad you'll enjoy."

week four: hang in there based on a tommy's margarita; choice tequila, lime juice, agave syrup, jalepeno slices (muddled). served in a margarita glass with a tajin rim and lime wheel.

It's a drink with a temper, a flare for the dramatics just like Jake. He drinks it with a grin the size of Texas, even coming up to the bar for another soon after finishing his first. When Bradley saunters up the bar, you meet his gaze, pointing up to the name of Hangman's drink. Hang in there. It's just one more week.

week five: dry roost based on a negroni; dry gin, contratto bitter, amaro nonino, maple syrup. served in an old fashioned glass with a dehydrated orange wheel and maple soaked cherry on a brass pin.

"Bradley Bradshaw!" You call his name the moment that hawaiian shirt drifts into the hard deck. "Your time has come!"

There's a shout from his direction as he weaves past his friends to beat them to the bar. You're already mixing his drink, a mix of old fashioned classics with a modern twist that still give homage and respect to the past.

As he takes his first sip, he leans over the bar to plant a kiss to your cheek, almost laughing with glee. "It's perfect!"

"I should hope so, I made it." You joke but secretly watch his continued reaction. "Worth the wait?"

"Definitely worth the wait. Can you make this a regular item for me?"

You grin, shoving him away from your bar. "Whatever, maybe just for you. I'll charge you double for the inconvenience."

"You created the drink!"

"I can crack you a beer in a second."

week five: bar beachy keen a non-alcoholic house specialty lemonade, perfect for drinking on shift; fresh lemon juice, honey simple syrup, club soda. served in a mason jar with a twisting straw, a mint sprig and a lemon wedge.

You watch the dagger squad chat as Bradley finally sips his own cocktail, satisfied at last. And you finally take a seat at you calm bar, mason jar of your homemade lemonade in hand, curly straw tucked between your lips and an mini umbrella threatening to fly out of your glass.

But as you watch the waves lick the sand and the sun slowly dip below the horizon, there's no better place you can think of.

⮞ Pete Mitchell has zero chill when it comes to you. None.

⮞ If you think he’d ever forget to mention you to someone, you’re wrong. His entire personality is “my wife this, my wife that.”

⮞ The entire base knows you exist. The entire base wishes they didn’t. Because he never shuts up about you.

⮞ His radio call sign might as well be “Whipped” at this point instead of Maverick lol

⮞ He’s the kind of husband who acts like he’s dating you for the first time every single day. Constant butterflies, constant need to touch you, constant bragging.

⮞ He’s the type to keep your wedding ring on a chain under his flight suit when he can’t wear it, because “I fly better when I’ve got you close.”

⮞ His locker? There’s a photo of you taped inside (several, actually) plus one of your wedding pictures tucked in the top corner, that he gives a kiss to for good luck before every flight.

⮞ Everyone teases him for it. He doesn’t gaf.

⮞ When the guys start talking about girls, Maverick just leans back with that smirk and goes, “Yeah, well… my wife’s got every single one of ‘em beat. You should see her when she laughs.”

⮞ Goose groans, “Here we go again,” because Maverick can and will derail every locker room conversation into a ten-minute tangent about how soft your hair is or how good you smell.

⮞ When Goose tries to point out a cute girl, Mav will just shrug. “She’s not my wife.”

⮞ The other pilots joke that they could wake him from a coma just by saying your name.

⮞ He’s the first to volunteer for extra flights because he wants to be the best, but also the first to speed home after because he hates being away from you longer than necessary.

⮞ When he’s flying, he says he flies better just thinking about you watching him: “Gotta impress my wife, fellas.”

⮞ Has absolutely written your name or initials somewhere on his helmet.

⮞ He’s the guy who’ll flash his wedding ring at any woman who even tries to flirt with him when he goes out with the boys. Not rudely, just casually, but pointedly.

⮞ Whenever he wins a training match, he’ll dedicate it to you. “For my girl,” he says, like you’re his good luck charm.

⮞ When he loses, he gets all broody and mutters, “She wouldn’t like that,” and then flies like a demon the next round.

⮞ He quotes you constantly with the guys. “You know what my wife always says…” (you don’t even remember saying half those things).

⮞ He adores when you touch his flight gear. Helmet, jacket, dog tags—it’s intimate to him.

⮞ Secretly wants to hear you say you worry about him when he’s flying. It makes him feel needed.

⮞ At home, He’s like a barnacle. You cannot walk from one room to another without him finding a reason to touch you —hand on your waist, chin on your shoulder, arm draped across you on the couch.

⮞ The man is so physical. He cannot not touch you.

⮞ He needs to be touching you at all times. If you’re cooking, he’s hugging you from behind. If you’re folding laundry, he’s pressing kisses down your neck.

⮞ He likes to sneak up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, bury his face in your hair, and mumble against your skin.

⮞ He’s obsessed with your scent. He says it’s better than jet fuel —and coming from him, that’s saying something.

⮞ It's even worse when he's drunk..

⮞ He loooooooveees to bite. Your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, just quick little affectionate bites.

⮞ His kisses are always a little reckless. Like he’s just come back from the edge of death every single time.

⮞ You can’t pass each other in the kitchen without him pinning you against the counter for “just one more.”

⮞ He gets this boyish grin every time you wear his flight jacket around the house. “That’s mine, baby,” he’ll murmur, and you can feel the pride in his voice.

⮞ He’s the king of “Mine.” Not in a creepy way, but in that desperate, “I can’t believe I get to have this” way.

⮞ He keeps his dog tags hanging over your bedside lamp because he likes seeing them near your side of the bed.

⮞ Can’t fall asleep unless he’s got an arm or a leg over you. Sometimes both.

⮞ The kind of guy who will drag you back into bed in the morning just because “five more minutes, sweetheart, please.”

⮞ Mav is always shirtless at home. He likes feeling you against his bare skin.

⮞ He hates when you’re upset with him. Like actual panic mode. He’ll follow you from room to room trying to fix it, voice soft, eyes wide.

⮞ When you fight, he can’t stand to leave it unresolved. He’ll follow you, try to talk, try to touch. “Baby, please, talk to me.”

⮞ He also can’t stand sleeping apart. He’ll show up at your side of the bed, half-asleep, muttering, “Can’t sleep without you, honey.”

⮞ If you leave him a note, he keeps it. Forever.

⮞ If he hears your laugh across a room, his head whips around. Every time.

⮞ He gets a little jealous —okay, a lot jealous— when another guy even smiles at you. But it’s not anger, it’s this low-level panic. He’s terrified of losing you.

⮞ Speaking of jealousy, he gets real quiet when he’s jealous. Not angry, just brooding.

⮞ Needs reassurance constantly. It’s subtle, but it’s there: a look, a question, a soft, “Still love me, don’t ya?”

⮞ Doesn’t mean to be controlling, but he worries constantly. Always wants to know where you are, if you’re safe, who you’re with.

⮞ He leaves little love notes tucked into your jacket, your purse, your car. Dumb things like, “Your husband’s thinking about you again.”

⮞ He's constantly buying you flowers even when there's absolutely nor eason or occasion for it. (you love it).

⮞ Every song on the radio reminds him of you one way or another, and he’ll sing along badly just to make you laugh.

⮞ He writes your name in the condensation on his cockpit window.

⮞ Pete is always talking about “our future house”, usually on the beach, small, quiet, filled with sunlight and laughter and kids.

⮞ He wants twin girls and a boy<33

⮞ Keeps your photograph by his bed when he’s deployed or away.

⮞ The type to kiss you goodbye like it’s the last time, every time.

⮞ He actually loves being babied in private. He melts when you run your fingers through his hair or trace circles on his chest.

⮞ Gets this sleepy, almost boyish smile when you tell him you love him.

⮞ Loves when you sit on his lap, and he’ll hum happily while resting his chin on your shoulder.

⮞ If you fall asleep on him, he won’t move for hours. He’d rather lose feeling in his arm than wake you.

⮞ Sighs “my wife” under his breath, completely smitten, whenever you pass him in the house.

⮞ Pete loves showing you off. Introduces you like you’re the most important person alive —because you are, to him.

⮞ The kind of man who’ll slow dance with you to no music just because he can.

⮞ He writes you letters constantly when he's away. Long, rambling ones about flying, about missing you, about counting the days until he can come home.

⮞ Says your name under his breath before takeoff, like a prayer.

⮞ He constantly dreams about you and wakes up frustrated, missing your warmth, your scent, your laugh.

⮞ In summary: Pete Maverick Mitchell, your dear husband, loves like he flies —dangerously close to the sun, heart first, no brakes.