Cascading Ruins

by Fopperies

Summary:

A young Bradley presents as an alpha on an isolated camping trip with Maverick. It changes their entire trajectory.

Notes:

Look, I am no writer. I am a horny grown woman who is OBSESSED with this ship. I am desperate for fic, perhaps others are too. I want to be the good I see in the world so I am writing one. I haven't tried writing fanfiction in over a decade but these two HAVE ME and this is a scenario that I keep thinking over.

Also per warning, Bradley is sixteen in this. I haven't decided how far the sexual content between them will go with him at this age. It is wrong and I know it, but I'd like to plead the fifth and say that these are fictional characters. There will be sexual content between them in the next chapter, in some form.

Also I am exceptionally bad at grammar in general and especially dialog grammar. Please forgive me for my sins, for this has has no beta except my tipsy eye.

Be kind

Chapter 1

It happened on a camping trip.

It was the summer after he turned sixteen, and all signs pointed to him being solidly neutral. His mother was a beta with a heavy heart and easy smile, and according to all reports and distant memories his dad had been a true blue alpha. The combination of these classes almost never failed to produce offspring with a designation, but here he stood; post-pubescent, lingering baby fat sliding off of underlying sharp angles and still stubbornly neutral. If he hadn't inherited his father's dominant alpha gene, he at least showed signs of reaching Nick Bradshaw's lanky height. Another growth spurt seemed inevitable as he lurked around adolescence with hands and feet too big for his still awkward body.

Bradley had been waging a war at his grandparent's house all summer. It was the first year in his memory where he hadn't passed the vacation away eating popsicles and playing in a familiar yard; exploring the neighborhood he'd grown up in and being a kid on his own turf. His mom had told him at the end of the school year that it was destination old folk's home for him. When handing him his prison sentence, she cited the need to pick up extra shifts to make ends meet and a desire to not have her teenage son's summer stretch out in a total absence of supervision. 

He'd never been shipped out for the long break like this before. In summers past when there was no babysitter and no Maverick, he instead spent weeks sitting with a book at the bar counter of the restaurant where she worked. Somehow during a childhood of raising him mostly alone, they had always found a way. Something was new this year.

Puberty had brought with it the paranoia of teenagerhood and part of him wondered if she had finally had someone courting her. His neutral nose couldn't detect any clues, but the possibility of a new (and probably designated) person in their lives contributed to the rising undercurrent of anxiety that had been building within him for weeks now.

The result was the same either way; Carole Bradshaw was unavailable and he was staying with his grandparents somewhere in one of the Dakotas. It didn't much matter which. 

They weren't even the good grandparents, his mom's family. His favorite grandmama and granddaddy were also mysteriously unavailable this year, despite being a couple of retirees. No, his caretakers were the late Nick Bradshaw's parents and they hadn't been involved in a minor's life since their own son was a child some odd decades ago. Their clumsy exchanges were limited to asking him for the thousandth time what his plans were after high school (his answer never changed), and the ever-grating comment that he looked 'just like his father'. Gene and Anne Bradshaw went to bed at seven o'clock every night while he was left alone without a friend or even cable television, and so far it had been the driest summer of his life.

Well.

It would have been dry, if not for the dick that he couldn't keep out of his hands any moment that a geriatric gaze wasn't weighing on him. 

For weeks this tension behind his navel had been building, cramping, and amping up every minute that he spent in this backcountry wasteland; nothing but masturbation and house chores to fill his time. There had been a steady buzzing in his head that censored the world, and the only time it turned off was during a good and hard pumping. The idle days were bleeding into each other, and the only difference from one to the next was how many times he had come that day. Eight was the record, but the summer was young yet.

Life was a hot blur of monotonous daily activities, bridged by one unfulfilling jerk off to the next. 

He was lonely too, and it was also a lust for companionship that drove him from one masturbatory session and into the next.

Being neutral meant that he had no ever-present link to his three person pack. Being neutral, a pack was only a concept to him, and not tangible bond like to those with real designations. He had no warmth in the back of his mind, no weight of their presence.

But it didn't mean that one member wasn't always on his mind and in his fantasies.

Maverick.

Pete Mitchell hadn't been present in months, deployed somewhere dry and punishing and as far away from an offended Admiral as the Navy could manage. But it didn't mean that Maverick hadn't been the first thing he thought about every morning and the sweaty fantasy that bid him goodnight. Every day, every morning. And every shower. Every trip behind the shed, walk into the field, every too-long gopher mission into the cellar.

He was sixteen and horny and fucking his hand all day every day and thinking about his Maverick.

There wasn't an event to blame, or change in their relationship. Maverick had always been the person that he was hungriest for. He remembers being eight years old and trying to pick up Mav's signature scent on every envelope with 'Bradley Bradshaw' emblazoned on the front in neat military handwriting. He slept every night curled around a gifted baseball glove, wearing an inherited and well-worn Navy t-shirt, and not an ounce of his life went by that he didn't have a calendar countdown to the next day of Maverick's leave. Memories of his dad had faded, and it wasn't Nick Bradshaw who felt like the missing figure in his home. It was Maverick's absence that ached like a missing limb, taking with him Bradley's heart right along with his toothy smile and easy confidence. 

It was as natural as breathing for his childhood heartache to churn right into a persistent lust. Maverick hadn't been home with his pack in months, but he was in Bradley's fantasies always. 

It was a Tuesday in June and Bradley had come two times already before the clock struck noon.

He was wedged against a bag of soil in the gardening shed with his hips pumping his swollen cock into the tight tunnel of his left fist, and Maverick's name hissing between his teeth. It wasn't enough just to jerk off with his hands anymore; the jittery feeling inside of him only quieted when it felt like he was really fucking into something. A movie reel played behind his shut eyes. 

Maverick was home in the Bradshaw pack house for a spare couple of days, and he was flitting from one broken appliance to the next. Leave didn't mean rest for Maverick; every break home was a duty mission to make up for the the conspicuous Goose-shaped hole in Carole and Bradley's lives. Home repairs stacked up in his absence, but his mom always managed to hold off on pouring precious dollars into a repair bill until Maverick's return. This time it was a leaky sink in the bathroom, and they had been brushing their teeth in the kitchen for weeks.

Maverick had been flat on his back, crooning an oldie under his breath, both feet planted on the ground and knees bent with his legs in a relaxed spread while he tinkered with a stubborn pipe. He had taken his shirt off at some point, already five chores deep into a long day of overdue housework. Bradley had walked in on him and found himself caught in the doorway, eyes going straight down the runway of legs to the inviting open welcome of Maverick's groin. The real Maverick had sensed his proximity and beckoned him into the room with a pleased omegan rumble and a happy greeting of, "Hey kid, come hold this flashlight."

But. But, the Maverick of his fantasies had a different invitation for him. The Bradley of his jerk fantasy had stepped into the bathroom and between muscular legs. Legs that spread wide open in welcome, and weren't covered in anything at all but a dark misting of a mature man's body hair. 

Under the cloak of privacy in the dusty shed he drove his sore dick deeper into his sweaty hand, twisted it, and pulled dry at the sensitive skin of his head with frantic energy. 

Dream Bradley fell to his hands and knees too, and pulled those thick thighs apart to cradle him on either side of his hips. He spread a naked Mav wide until all Bradley could see was a thick and rose pretty penis and underneath it a heat-swollen hole; Maverick's stupid handsome face slack and flushed with returned fervor. Maverick would be lost in lust too and wet with slick, ready for his dick, his omega biology a gift only for Bradley to sample. Neutral Bradley had never been able to smell all that Maverick's omegan nature promised to put out, but in his fantasies he could sense every molecule of it.

It was green eyes, dark hair, grinning full mouth, and a plush pussy that he fucked behind his closed eyes countless times, and today was no different.

He rutted into dream Maverick and his real flesh hand with linked synchronicity. The tightness built behind his balls until he came onto the dirty floor, with cooling jizz drying into the wooden boards beside an old shovel. He panted after, unseeing eyes locked onto his splatter. The cramping behind his navel wasn't gone, and even in the afterglow it felt like he had another gut full of come wanting to get out.

He shivered, glance dancing between his dick and the hazy sunlight peaking between old boards into the shed. Hand flexing, he bit his lip and thought about another round until a distant shout rang through from the house. 

"Bradley!"

He gave his head a heavy shake like a dog clearing water, and tucked himself back into jeans that were just this side of too short after his recent few inches. 

"I'm coming!", he hollered back, leaving the shed at a jog and closing his eyes in a smile at the private joke.

His granddaddy had a clenched jaw and a look that gave nothing away when he burst through the back door, and he seemed to be swallowing a sentiment when he handed Bradley the phone. Bradley shot the old man a quick look before turning his back on him to take the phone call, gripping a hand on the receiver and clearing his dry throat before he could coax any words into coming out. 

"Hello?" he managed, shifting his thighs apart in a minor adjustment for his still-sensitive dick.

"Hey kid," was all it took, and his gut was molten hot again.

Five years old or sixteen-- there was no difference between then and now when it came to the look of pure pleasure that flashed across his face at the familiar greeting.

"Mav!" he burst out, closing his eyes as he felt Maverick's presence over the phone fall over him like a cloak of familiarity. He didn't realize how lonely he had been on the farm until he felt Maverick almost, but not really, connected to him through the phone. If he had a designation like he was supposed to, he might even have been able to feel a wave of contact just from Maverick's voice.

But he was neutral.

Maverick chuckled through the phone and started, "I missed you, kiddo. I heard from your mom that you were spending some time with the grandparents this summer, but I have a week to myself so I just thought," and he cleared his throat here, a little awkward for Maverick. 

Bradley thought that he could sense a little rehearsal in this speech from Maverick, the man known and named for his spontaneity. For whom rehearsal was never one of his gifts. Bradley thought maybe there was something a little suspect going on, a feeling he'd been having all summer, but this was Maverick. Fishy or not, he didn't care. He was living on crumbs and he'd take whatever questionable dish Maverick was serving.

"I thought that we could do a camping trip, just you and me. Guys trip. Maybe make the summer go by a little faster?", he said, his tone sounding less carefully crafted now and decorated with his signature kind teasing and audible smile. Bradley smiled back at him through the phone, and it felt like they were sharing a secret. 

It was a forgone conclusion that Bradley would say yes. The phone call was a formality, and Maverick was already on the way to come get him in the late Nick Bradshaw's Ford Bronco. Already packed up, from what Maverick was saying over the phone. A nice camping spot a half day's hike into the Badlands not too far from his grandparent's home. Bradley felt a full body pleased flush, medicine for the ache in his gut, at the thought that Maverick had already planned all of this out just for him. Fighter pilot, Naval Aviator Maverick, with the world at his wingtips-- coming to get him. 

Bradley kept smiling lovesick into the phone as Maverick continued talking, back turned to a still-frowning grandfather. He was going on a trip with Maverick, just him, just the guys. No Carole in sight, or any of Maverick's sporadic and lingering romantic prospects.

He was going. No matter what. The anxious feeling had eased off of him for the first time in weeks. He could even fool himself into ignoring the remaining churning in his gut, and the persistent ache at the bottom of his dick.

A trip just for them.

Chapter 2

Bradley was one shower and one last furtive orgasm away from getting to go on their trip.

He knew that he was cutting it close, as Maverick had called from a diner payphone not far down the road. A final call for him to be ready for pickup.

It was wordlessly understood between them why Mav wouldn’t want to spend excessive time making small talk and waiting for Bradley under the heavy stares of the now childless Bradshaws.

So, he knew that he needed to have his ass ready and waiting by the door for takeoff. But the fact of the matter was that Bradley was almost one thousand percent sure that he wasn’t making it out the house if he didn’t do something about his dick.

If the fantasies and the ever-present arousal had been bad before, it was nothing compared to how scorching it was now. His penis was like a divining rod trying to find the nearest hole to fuck into, and his already wary grandparents were on high alert looking for any excuse to keep him from this trip. A persistent erection and what felt like a mounting fever would be the last straw for the conservative old betas.

He drove his hips forward into his hand, dick aching as his body shivered under the cold stream. His orgasms were stretching out further away, and harder to reach—each one less satisfying. But the urge wasn’t going away. Wrist sore and sensitive skin chafing, he finally managed to squeeze his eyes closed tight and come, his dick spitting a wrung-out dribble onto the tile floor.

Finally.

His grandparents were nothing if not exceedingly private in their old age, and every hygiene product in the house was laden with scent neutralizers. It just wouldn’t do to be a couple of prudish betas in their seventies and still subject to something as base as their own natural scents. For a neutral like him it didn’t much matter; he didn’t have the right glands turned on and pumping out those pheromones anyway, but at least the chemicals would help rid him of the noxious scent of his own spend. Maverick had an omega-sensitive nose, and he didn’t want the first exchange between them to be accompanied by a knowing smirk.

He lathered off thoroughly, military neatness having been absorbed into him as if through osmosis during childhood. The cool shower had his body temperature near normal, fever successfully held at bay.

He didn’t care if his was coming down with the black plague; at sixteen years old and sixteen years gone for Pete Mitchell, Bradley Bradshaw would rather die at a campsite with Maverick than spend another second in this farmhouse alone.

There was the rumbling of a motor just outside of the bathroom window, and it was with teenage speed and enthusiasm that he dried off, threw his clothes on, and sped through the house to see Maverick.

And there he was. Laser attention focusing on Bradley as soon as he appeared; locking him in his sights with the million dollar smile of a man who knew the value of those pearly teeth.

He had just beat it not five minutes ago, but there was already a renewed throb between his thighs and hanging thick between his legs just at the sight of the aviator. Waiting just for him, not even his mom this time; just Bradley.

Maverick was looking like his own personal pin up model come to life; he’d stepped off the pages of a smut rag just to stand in front of him with an easy energy that radiated a pilot’s confidence and raw sex. Maverick was probably doused in military grade blockers, and someone without a designation like Bradley wouldn’t have been able to scent him anyway, but it still felt like the man was pumping out some kind of magic just for him. Mav’s arms were crossed defensively across his chest in a soft white tee, legs spread and planted in a wide stance that Bradley knew meant that Maverick was feeling a little less than easy.

Both of his grandparents were up on the porch, looking down at Maverick where he waited by the Bronco. Only a lifetime of Carole Bradshaw’s careful southern manners had him remembering to give the stiff couple a quick hug, a forced “See you guys”, and a polite wave as he left them behind. And then he was racing down to Maverick, taking the steps in a single bound with his backpack slung on one arm.

“Hey, kid,” Maverick beamed, the smile of a dentist’s white dream.

Mav’s crossed arms opened up just for Bradley, and he sunk into them. He melted into the hug like molasses, closing his eyes tight to bury his face into Maverick’s neck and feeling Maverick repeat the pack greeting in return. He ground his cheek into where he knew scientifically that the man’s scent glands would be, and it felt like a star was going supernova behind his closed eyes. From their quick press he guessed that he had maybe lapped Maverick by a couple of inches in height since they were last together, but inside of Maverick’s embrace he could tell that the pilot still had muscle on him for days.

Both keenly aware of the Bradshaws and their judgment looming from the porch, the two uncoupled with matching grins and happy claps on each other’s backs. Bradley lost his mind a little bit, just for a second, and couldn’t stop himself from tugging ever so slightly at Maverick’s collar before he pulled away; the motion subtle and forgivable in his retreat.

He had exposed Maverick’s soft inner neck, right where a mating bite would be. Still bare. A knot in his stomach relaxed that he hadn’t known was clenched up tight until it wasn’t.

“You brought that old bucket of rust up here just for the trip?” Bradley grinned, “Sheesh, Mav.”

“Any excuse to see your pretty mom, kid. Then this girl was crying out for me when I got there. It’s been too long since she got to stretch her legs on the highway,” he said, lowering his gaze with a fast as lightning wince and a clench to his strong jaw. Then Maverick was back to beaming at him and reaching a hand back out to shake Bradley by the shoulder again.

“Look at you, they must be feeding you right out here. Think you might even be taller than me now,” he observed with an easy self-deprecating smile, those keen green eyes scanning Bradley from toe to tip.

“That’s not saying much, Mav,” he joked back warmly, but still Bradley couldn’t help but preen.

The praise washed over him with the intoxication of a strong drink, and like a magic spell he straightened his shoulders and puffed his chest out before he realized what he was doing. It was embarrassing as a neutral kid’s play at alpha posturing, but even if Maverick recognized the body language for what it was, he only smiled harder and gave Bradley another friendly push against his arm.

Something inside of Bradley was rumbling and content like it hadn't been in weeks, maybe ever, and he had a flash of wanting to tackle Maverick to the floor and wrestle like two reunited puppies. He was fire hot all over and pleased. It never felt like Maverick came to see him to pay homage to his long-dead dad and Mav’s old best friend. It felt like it always had. Like Maverick was here to see him, wanted to be with him; Bradley. It was a warm thought in his already overheated body.

They finally got ahold of themselves and bid quick waves to the Bradshaws before piling into the familiar family car. There was an antiseptic smell in the upholstery that that reminded Bradley for a second of a hospital, of having his tonsils taken out a few years ago, but he brushed it off. He’d only ever had a neutral’s sense of smell anyway, and it was too good to be just inches away from Mav to focus on that passing observation. His dick was controlling too many of his thoughts now to be very inquisitive about anything.

There was a fire growing inside of him, and he felt better and much worse already just in the presence of Maverick—the focus of his heart and dark fantasies. They smiled at each other again across the console, unable to help themselves, and then they were off.

If Bradley was going to flame out, there was no stopping it now. It was always going to be Maverick who made him burn.

Notes:

I couldn't figure out how to get them from A to B without being too handwavey, so this is a transitional chapter. Next up has to be them in the thick of it. Alone. In a tent.

I'm still not sure how far I want to take it. In my mind there are a lot of future implications/the events of Top Gun: Maverick that ripple out and I kind of want to write that too. So I'm still not sure yet what will happen between them.... also I don't write, ever, so I'm doing my best here.

Chapter 3

The first honest thing that Maverick did, when it was miles too late and they were deep into the isolated hike, was to confess that he’d never been camping.

“Not outside of training, anyway,” he huffed, glancing at Bradley who was breathing through gritted teeth and covered in a sheen of sweat beside him. “But I always wanted someone to go on a camping trip with me when I was your age, so,” and he trailed off self-consciously before rallying with a smile to continue, “between the two of us men, I think we can figure it out. Anyway, alone out here, it would be a good place to talk about some things.”

Bradley nodded but didn't really hear, and he pulled all of his focus together to throw Maverick a smile back before letting his fraying attention haze back out again.

He was on the trip of his wildest, greediest dreams. Alone with Maverick— the sole recipient of all of the attention that he'd always coveted from the man, and he could barely string a fucking sentence together.

Bradley was fit for his age, to his mom’s consternation he had joined the Navy Junior ROTC, and sixteen had started looking pretty good on him as muscles were just starting to define and peek out. But this hike was hitting him like a tidal wave, and it was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He knew his body had been brewing up some kind of something back at the house; the fevered flush that he thought was under control had returned and brought with it with a raging headache.

They continued on in what Bradley hoped Maverick was interpreting as companionable silence, every thought in Bradley’s head narrowing to the fattened dick chafing between his legs and the vulnerable omega walking next to him.

’Keep it together’, he kept thinking. Keep it together. Pleaded with himself not to lay down right where he was standing and start screwing into his own hand. Or worse yet, he thought, don’t tackle Maverick, the omega who was just steps ahead of him and striding along easily. Don’t grab Maverick's virgin neck between his teeth and bite. Don’t fuck into that tight ass that he could see flexing with every step, don’t—

“—alright there, kid? Sunset is in thirty, and I think this is about as much tree cover as we’re going to get, if you want to help me get the tent up,” Maverick said, a look on his face that told Bradley that he had been talking a lot longer than Bradley had been listening. Mav was pulling his pack and the tent off of his back, not waiting to see if Bradley was going to start helping. Trusting that Bradley, his pack mate, was following the program and not standing there with his brain about to melt out of his ears.

But Bradley was just frozen, standing there stuck. Maverick was bent over in front of him, muscles flexing as he dug through his pack to pull out the brand new tent he’d purchased just for their adventure. His pert ass in the air, dark head and unmarked neck bowed down as if in supplication; the position whispered filthy commandments to something ancient inside of Bradley. Like a puppet string was controlling him, he reached down and ground the heel of his palm right into his dick.

Wrong move.

His groin seized and burst in fresh agony, and it was all that he could do to twist around before Maverick’s head could jerk up in response to the whine that was choking out of his throat.

“Mav, I—I’m going to go take a leak,” he said, and darted. He ran deeper down the trail they were camping by, towards a darker gathering of trees. Shelter. ‘Safe?’ some distant part of his cracking mind wondered. His hand was on his fly and digging out his cock before he even made it, and he fell to his knees.

It was unbearable. He was on the ground and kneeling like a beast, going out of his mind in a way that was like nothing he’d felt in his life. His groin was a pool of pain, and his head was throbbing, distorted sounds of nature and a distant Maverick blasting his ears at overwhelming volume. He could smell the earth beneath him and his own rank sweat; he was pouring now, a rich musk oozing from every inch of his body.

He bit into the bicep of his right arm, miserably squeezing his purpled dick with his left. Nothing had ever felt like this before, and his own hand was like razors on tortured flesh. But removing the hand was worse, and he swallowed a cry deep before it could make its way out. He didn’t know when the tears had sprung up, but he was crying, hard. Fat teardrops fell hotly down his face, scorching him.

He moved his hips in a few aborted thrusts, but there was nothing, no relief, but to take his hand away from himself now was a task that felt herculean.

Bradley groped ineffectively at himself, and his hand slid down desperately to the base of his dick. It was bulging and there was a blind thought of eureka; he had found the source of the inferno that was raging inside of him. He squeezed hard, choking off his penis from the base and pain still sliced hot inside of him with fresh agony, but also the smallest quake of relief. He tried fucking down into his hand, but his sensations were distorted in a maelstrom of pleasure and pain—but no satisfaction.

“Bradley! Are you alright over there?”

He whined and rolled his head against the earth, shaking and unable to answer. This felt like a nightmare and most sinful fantasy, to be caught by Maverick doing whatever the fuck this was, shorts rucked down around his thighs, something wrong with him, something wrong with his dick. Fuck. He needed to—

“Talk to me, kid,” Maverick called, distant. The omega hadn’t walked over to see yet. Certainly wouldn’t sound so calm if he had, if he could see this crazy shit for himself. Bradley felt an incredible pressure rising right behind his balls, and a whine rose up inside of him until there was no holding it back. He was on fire; he was drowning. A million senses were raging inside of him, but suddenly his warring mind latched onto something that felt like a cure.

He heard footsteps approaching, bringing with them a scent that heaven itself couldn’t have duplicated.

His sanity was leaving him and dispersing across the forest floor like smoke from the bonfire in his body. It felt like God or something better was really approaching him now. That scent was his personal rapture. Nirvana sent.

He breathed in great breaths through his nose, frozen now and paralyzed by instinct. Fertile. Home. Maverick. Bradley gave himself another unforgiving squeeze, whined again. He felt drugged and all shame and reason were slipping away from him like sand through his fingers.

He felt, somehow sensed behind closed eyes, that Maverick was beside him now and kneeling down next to him in the dirt.

“Bradley, what the fu—”

Bradley tackled.

Notes:

Damn, I can't get them in this tent! It's all coming (hah) to a head next chapter. Somehow have just written three chapters of Bradley masturbating.

Not sure this will end in sex but gosh the poor kid needs help.

Chapter 4

Notes:

They don't make it to the tent.

He tackled Maverick hard into the ground, but Maverick hadn’t spent his adult life in the Navy for nothing. The strength of rut madness was on Bradley, but Maverick had compact honed muscle and training.

It wasn’t the first time that Maverick had been attacked by an alpha with a hard dick.

They grappled for a confused minute, Bradley not sure if they were fighting or fucking but just knowing in his blown out mind that he wanted. He didn't know how but somehow he let go of his dick to grab onto Maverick, who was tense and resistant underneath him. Maverick’s body was deceptively still and coiled, and Bradley knew to his bones that it was when, not if, Maverick would spring out from under him.

It wasn't strength that finally took Maverick down, it was a plea.

“Mav, please, I can’t, I’ve gotta,” Bradley finally panted out, his last two braincells connecting to form a fractured sentence. He felt Maverick relax like someone drained all of the fight out of him, like a balloon that lost its air.

There was a ringing in Bradley’s ears and he took stock of what the fuck was happening. He’d gotten Maverick on his back underneath him, straight as a rod, thighs tight together in defense. The older man had an arm leveraged up against his chest, the strength of Maverick’s body keeping Bradley from laying on him flat as a blanket. That same arm had Bradley far enough away to keep his exposed dick off Mav’s belly, his shirt pulled up in the tussle to expose smooth skin and a tight tummy.

Maverick. The most treasured person in his life, and Bradley was panting with his cock dripping down onto him. Blowing up his own world.

“Brad—Bradley,” Maverick croaked, holding himself still like he was trying not to startle him. “You’re—you’re an,” and he cut himself off, tensing up again like his own thoughts were coming back online. He didn’t finish the sentence, but as soon as it was halfway out Bradley knew the answer anyway.

Alpha.

He’d spent his life mooning after Maverick and wishing that he had a designation too, like his mom, like his dad before him. His das was Maverick’s late alpha, although it had only ever been a family bond and not sexual, not a mating. Bradley knew this as an immutable fact, one that was staring him in the face because at some point during the fight he’d gotten Mav’s collar down and his sweet neck was out. No claim, not ever.

He was sixteen years old and he should have presented by now or else it meant he was never going to, but. But.

Here they were in the wilderness with Bradley and the half-popped knot on his dick and the insatiable urge to put it in Maverick.

Maverick must have seen his blown out eyes locked onto his neck because he tensed all the way back up again, and Bradley knew that he was seconds away from losing him. He couldn’t stop the long whine, the fresh set of tears that squeezed out. He needed, and Maverick had.

The arm locked firm against his chest got firmer, like Maverick was about to make his move and get out. When Bradley's primal whine settled between them, it somehow changed things. It was the sound of a presenting alpha in rut, and it penetrated Maverick's defenses even with years of life experience and resistance.

Bradley scented something new in the air, and closed his eyes and let out a new sound; rumble blossoming low in his throat. It was Maverick, his omega scent ripening. The smell was trailing up from between where their bodies met, and Bradley saw red as he registered his first encounter with an omega’s slick. His omega's slick.

They were both frozen and breathing shallowly, Maverick fully clothed, and Bradley’s agonized fat dick hanging heavy between them.

Maverick seemed to shudder and gather himself. Bradley was still beyond intelligible words.

“L—look, you’re… you’re presenting, kid. And I know it’s confusing—“ Maverick started, words disjointed and distant. Maverick’s green gaze was fixed in a thousand-yard stare somewhere beyond Bradley’s shoulder. “You’ve got to get up, Bradley. Get off of me,” and he sounded firm here, Maverick, the rule breaker. The rogue pilot sounded stiff as if he was summoning every ounce of lawfulness into his tone.

And part of Bradley wanted to listen. His dick was feeling a little better in such close proximity to Maverick, but still impossibly growing as he took in the omega’s smell. He was breathing through his mouth but it was no less intoxicating. He could taste Maverick in the air. And as the smell helped soothe him, the parts of his brain that knew what an insane fucking thing was happening were also starting to reboot.

Bradley was laying over Maverick. With his god damn dick hanging out thick between them, and as he looked down he saw a heavy dribble of precum stretch down to Maverick’s abdomen—still connected to where it was coming out of the slit in his dick. He shuddered.

What would his mom say? Because Mav was going to have to tell her, no matter how this played out, and then what? He felt like crying again, and already was.

Maverick came back into himself a little more at this, and kept blinking his eyes like they’d both wake up from this dream. “Look Bradley, kid, you just need to…need to go jerk off somewhere. And maybe in the morning we can,” he started, but he was interrupted by a devastated whine and the hot face of Bradley tucking in deep on his neck.

“I can’t, I can’t even touch it,” Bradley croaked, and he was filled with shame through the fog in his head. He looked down, and there was his cock between them. A part of his body that up until yesterday had been private and his alone, not even subject to high school fumbling. Now it was so hard that it was dark and full to bursting, tip touching Maverick’s exposed stomach in a kiss when he let down his hips ever-so minutely.

Bradley could feel in his bones, with this new instinct gaining power inside of him, that as long as he didn't make any drastic moves he would not be turned away. And he lowered himself, into the arm resisting him, into the body digging down into the dirt behind them. He settled with his weight on Maverick, and the full length of his dick pressed firm into the omega’s belly.

Maverick shuddered with his entire body and went glass still.

Unrecognizable to Bradley, it was already too far gone. To Maverick, the signs were clear.

There was a painful but possible road to masturbating your way out of a rut, but not if a compatible omega was near.

“It’s…not an easy change, Bradley,” and he was trying for aloof, for fatherly and mature and unaffected, but Bradley’s father was long dead and he was past the point of reason. Maverick had never been that, never been an asexual part of his family. He had always been the treasure instead, something elusive and wanted.

“Come on,” Maverick tried again, and the omega was coming back to himself from the haze, sweet scent souring as he pushed again with that firm arm. He started to slide away with his hips and break the point of contact between himself and Bradley’s manhood.

“How would you know, omega?” ripped itself out of his freshly torn cords, and Bradley’s world was bleeding back to red.

Instinct and the use of an alpha command floored Maverick underneath him and he went lax; a kitten with a hand on the scruff of his neck.

Bradley dropped back down and started grinding, rutting his dick into that tight belly. Picturing it swollen up, full with a litter. Hot shot Maverick, walking around the Naval yard while everyone could see tangible evidence that he was his, Bradley’s. Not Nick Bradshaw’s, or anyone else's, not ever.

He was sixteen and had never fucked before, but he knew this instinct. He groped blindly with one free hand, trying to act quickly before Maverick snapped back to himself, lost to his own desires.

Maverick roused from the spell underneath him and pushed away in earnest, but he’d lost too much ground to hesitancy. Bradley was plastered to him now, and without exerting serious intent to hurt him, there was no way for Maverick to elbow his way out.

He stopped trying when Bradley moaned, mouth dripping saliva unbidden, and grunted out, “You owe me,” the words grinding out in an alpha tone that didn’t exist yesterday. Bradley didn’t know what dark heart that came from, never felt such a sentiment before, arousal burning through whatever ideas he could come up with to get Maverick pinned and spread beneath him.

That did it. Maverick fell still and frozen, panting in his ear. No resistance.

Bradley dipped his lips into the man’s neck and sucked, opened up his mouth wide to get his first taste of Maverick’s skin. It was ecstasy, and the pain was going away from his dick as it burned and rubbed against Maverick. He needed more skin.

He lifted his head and Maverick was looking back at him with a dark gaze, pupils eclipsing green in his shocked stare, and a red flush chasing its way down his chest. Maverick tried to salvage this again, and offered “Let me try, let me…” and, eyes shut tight, he reached between them, and took Bradley’s dick in his hand.

It was the first time that anyone had ever touched him, and he had a thought that in the before, before this moment, he would have come right into Mav’s hand the second that he touched him. Maverick held him like it wasn't his first dick (and it couldn't be, and he already wanted to growl at that fleeting thought) and tried a firm stroke that twisted around his screaming dickhead.

But the madness was deep set now, had him by the balls, and he could only keen and jerk himself back from Maverick. Away from the hand that he would have given his left nut to have touch him any other day of the week.

His earlier bravado was gone now and the pain was only ramping back up, because if Maverick’s touch couldn’t help him then what the fuck was left, and Bradley rode a wave of pain with his eyes closed. The raging aggression was ebbing now, and he tucked his face back into Maverick’s neck as a whine clawed its way back up.

“Bradley,” Maverick tried, and his own voice sounded thick now. “It’s okay, it’s okay kid…” and he sounded lost too, but they were both pumping out hormones now; some biological cascade starting that Bradley never knew about as a neutral, but was quickly becoming acquainted with now. The smell and proximity of Maverick had the grip of rut madness loosening on him, and it left him anxious, unsure of what to do to achieve dual goals of getting his dick wet and also not losing the man who was most important to him.

Maverick had never been someone who wouldn’t lay his life down for his pack—he far and away preferred to be the sacrifice now, after everything that had happened in their broken world.

The hard body underneath Bradley tensed itself and relaxed, and then arched up into him. Bradley mindlessly flattened himself down to Maverick when he started shifting beneath him, but eased off in slack-jawed ecstasy when he felt Maverick maneuvering to remove his own pants. The hypnotic urge to blanket the omega receded enough for him to lean back, and then stare in wonder at the feast spread out before him.

Maverick lay against the earth, beautifully naked and exposed for Bradley to marvel at. His dick was pink and semi-erect, slapping tight up against his belly as Maverick settled back down. He had fine black hair everywhere, disappearing into the dark crevice between his legs and behind his soft balls.

Bradley couldn’t hesitate, didn’t have it in his body to hold back even a second. He heard Maverick’s throat clicking, like words were choking him and wanting to come out, but it was a day too late for Bradley to stop now. He swooped down and back, and parted Maverick’s legs like it was nothing. They tensed and then spread, accommodating Bradley’s head as he dove down to lap at that secret spot that he still couldn’t see.

That he had never seen, or touched, on anyone. For it to be Maverick who flew fucking fighter jets better than anyone, who flew with his dad, who taught him how to ride a god damn bike, and could have had anyone that so much as looked his way… Bradley couldn’t get the sweet offering in his mouth fast enough.

He was clueless. His aching dick was forgotten about as he wedged himself hard into the gap between Maverick’s legs, headfirst, and got his first lick into heaven.

It was like nothing he’d ever had before, the feeling like home, the feeling he had every time the phone rang and it was Maverick calling for him condensed into one unforgettable taste. He groaned and licked without finesse, up into the tight hole between those strong legs. His dick twitched where it lay and trickled hot precum onto the ground. Bradley reached his hands up and pulled Maverick’s hips down, pushing him further into his mouth, unskilled tongue burrowing and worshipping at his gift. His chin worked against the soft cheeks of Maverick’s ass as he tried to fuck his tongue deeper, fall into everything that Maverick had; moaning with his lips sucking at the rim of his hole. Slick flowed across his tongue and coated the bottom of his face as he devoured Maverick.

If Bradley had the vocabulary for this experience, he would know that the scent curling in the air was preheat, as Maverick sunk into madness with him. The best Navy issued scent blockers and suppressants couldn’t withstand half a day’s hike and the ambush of a fresh alpha's presentation.

He thought that he felt Maverick starting to fuck down on him, grinding down on his face, when suddenly there were strong calloused hands tugging against his shoulders.

“Come on kid, nothing else—nothing else is going to make it go away now, come on,” Maverick’s voice wasn’t one that Bradley has ever heard, desperate and anxious with his own growing heat now. There was a low undercurrent of whine in Maverick’s own voice that called out to match the one that had been caught in Bradley’s own throat all evening. They were both lost to hormones, but. But.

Bradley’s head was a little clearer after lapping at Maverick straight from the source, and he pulled away from Mav’s plush pussy, away from that hole that felt crafted just for him—even though he had been born some years too late.

He held firm over Maverick, who was breathing heavy and ragged with heat. Bradley held his gaze until Maverick shuddered and raised his flushed face towards him, eyes blown with a look that Bradley had never seen before. Was never meant to see, really. “Mav, is this, can I—,” he started, voice cracking.

His dick ached between his legs as he watched Maverick shift on his back and pull those powerful thighs up and around his hips. Maverick was fully hard now, his own penis leaking against his belly. He shifted Bradley with his legs, the experienced movement of an omega almost two decades his senior.

The very thought made Bradley growl low and rumbling again, but he stayed still. Unable to pull the trigger on what they were about to do. He was frozen in fear, staring into Maverick’s eyes.

“You, you need this. Nothing else is going to make it feel better now. Come on kid, don’t think, just—“ Maverick was babbling, repeating himself, but he was cut off as Bradley gathered his legs high up on his hips and thrust his tortured cock home.

It was ecstasy, total relief, and he knew that he was going to chase this feeling for the rest of his life. Bradley dropped down to his elbows as he kept fucking in until his hips were flush with Mav’s ass, feeling the tight entrance rhythmically clenching and unclenching around his invasion.

Maverick never met a beta woman he didn’t want to fuck, but Bradley never truly thought how that extended to men, and now Mav’s hole felt painfully tight around his cock like it was the first one he ever took. Bradley was drunk on sensation, dipping his head back down to Maverick’s neck to listen to him panting in his ear, and thought about how probably he should have worked him open on something other than his tongue—but then he was lost again, back underwater in the haze of sensation, and he had to keep thrusting.

There was a high whining coming out of Maverick right up against his ear, and he could feel the power in those thighs when they clenched around him, drawing him in harder, deeper. He had never fucked anyone before and felt awash in sensation, coordination gone out the window, and only a distant awareness that maybe he should be touching Maverick more. Maybe he shouldn’t be fucking his omega into the god damn dirt, unprotected out in the open in the middle of who the fuck knows where—exposed to the elements. They were meant to be in a home, in a den, and certainly not mating at their most vulnerable under a pitiful tree with a marginally better campsite just nearby. His hips stuttered as he followed these thoughts down the rabbit hole, but he couldn’t stop his motion completely.

His thoughts were slippery, and contemplation of getting the fuck back to camp disappeared no sooner than it occurred to him. He dropped down lower still to Maverick anyway, a flimsy substitution for real protection. Keeping his vulnerable omega safe was supposed to be his job, but mostly it was a joke when he was screwing into a highly decorated Naval Aviator and Bradley himself couldn't even grow his own mustache yet.

Lower down, he felt Maverick’s perfect hard dick rubbing into his abdomen, and all he wanted was to reach out and stroke it. But. He was losing himself to his own cock again.

Maverick was all around him. Strong arms came up to embrace him and pull him down closer, and there was a steady whine in his ear that until today he couldn’t conceive of ever getting to hear. He drove his hips forward, Maverick’s body snug around him at his most sensitive. He couldn’t get deep enough, and then suddenly, like a hammer had dropped, he couldn’t even coax his hips into pulling back out. He was just pushing in in in, grinding there with his pelvis smashed into Maverick as far as their bodies allowed.

His dick hurt again, burning where it was stuffed inside of Maverick. He didn’t know what was happening, and he took Maverick’s sweet neck into his mouth again in comfort. Suckled it like instinct told him to while he kept grinding forward like he expected relief to be waiting for him at the end of Mav’s body. There was hard clenching around him, and a pulsing somewhere deep inside of himself. Maverick’s voice was strained as he groaned, “It’s okay, come on, come on Bradley.”

He was lost, on fire and grinding and chasing release, when Maverick clenched down on him in his own orgasm and then it happened. Bradley’s agony and ecstasy reached twin peaks as the pain at the base of his dick receded and he felt something give, and he then he came and popped his very first knot right into Maverick.

Maverick yelled out into the darkening sky as the dick inside him swelled and bulged, but it was lost on Bradley as he was washed out to sea on a wave of pulsating pleasure. He was coming, and coming, and coming. He could only grind his hips even deeper, and he cried wetly into Maverick’s neck again. Unprecedented heights of pleasure broke over his body as he helplessly pumped wave after wave of ejaculate into Maverick, and it was at some point in the pleasured madness that his mouth was closing down on Maverick’s neck in a bite.

Maybe. He wouldn't remember that part later. But in the now, his teeth were sunk deep into Maverick’s neck, his claiming bite taking root where no one ever had before. Where no one else ever could.

Maverick was his his his, and Bradley kept coming. Knot locked deep inside of his mate.

Maverick lay panting and shocked, bracketed in by a lanky teenager’s limbs, with his frozen stare locked on the night stars above.

Notes:

This chapter may get a brief followup, but ultimately the story doesn't move until it catches up with the film.

What do you think???????? I agonized over this and it was the longest chapter. I wasn't sure ultimately how this would play out but I did add a dubcon tag for both of them, really...

Chapter 5

Notes:

I got them in the tent!

When Bradley first scratched the surface of consciousness, he was flat on his back and sticky.

He blinked sleep out of his eyes, and the overwhelming world started crashing into him like waves on the shore. He was hot, and everything flared loud around him until his ears were filled with a concussive pound. His limbs were heavy and aching. It felt like gravity had a grudge, reaching down to crush him right into the ground. There was a weight on his chest and deep in his gut, and he reached out a trembling hand to touch himself and see if he was still real.

A shirt. He was wearing a shirt. He tilted his head up and watched his own body shift against the tent floor, distant, like looking through a movie reel. He had a white tee on, and familiar pants that stretched imperfectly across his groin, like they hadn’t been adjusted once they'd been pulled up.

Bradley closed his eyes again and relaxed back against the ground, breathing heavy and trying to take stock. He felt both newborn and achingly old, weak.

He didn't know where it was coming from when he heard the beginnings of a high whine, but then he knew that it was him, and he couldn't stop this unhappy sound from coming. He was whining and his eyes started burning, fucking confused and unsettled and alone and where was Maverick—

Maverick.

He reared up into a crouch and grabbed onto that singular thought like a man possessed. Where the fuck was Maverick? His eyes squeezed shut as his synapses started firing again, and he tried to shake out of his own muddled thoughts. Had any of that been real? He was inundated by a thousand memories, and a primordial instinct took over as he scented his surroundings.

He couldn't see Maverick, but he was everywhere. Bradley pulled his own hand to his face like he’d never seen it before and stared at his fingers. Long and slender, neatly trimmed nails; they didn't look any different than before, but they smelled like come and slick and somewhere distant, down to the smallest trace, like blood, too. His fingers were at his lips before he thought about it, he'd been reshaped into an alpha, a creature of untamed urges.

He was down the rabbit hole again, because now that he’d detected it on his own fingers, he could smell it everywhere. All over himself and the tent it was him, it was Maverick, the scent of their fucking.

Bradley’s eyes closed tight as he was swallowed by disjointed memories from the deep. He was all over Maverick, had him pinned. He was pushing inside of him, into tight heat, Maverick’s heat. Maverick was in his mouth and he was licking his own spend out of a hole that he remembered being sore and puffy. He remembered thinking that and then sticking selfish fingers in anyway. Knotting, locking deep inside of somewhere that never and always was supposed to belong to him. Being led into the tent, led right by a hand on his dick, and he would have followed Maverick anywhere. He was holding Maverick down and growling, he was being held by Maverick and given permission. Maverick’s neck, open for him, licking and, and—he was under Maverick and on top of him, wound tight into each other, his rut and Maverick’s heat at the center of a Category 5 storm in his head.

He didn’t know how badly he was shaking until there was a hand on his shoulder, strong and steady.

“Bradley, come on kid, come back to me,” Maverick said, and Bradley opened his eyes but he was scared to look.

He took stock of Maverick kneeling down in front of him. He looked wrecked and composed all at once, like Maverick’s shields were up a mile high, but there was still no hiding what they had been doing for the past day. Days? He didn't know. He saw redness and early bruising littered across Maverick’s skin. Maverick must have brought a first aid kit with them because he had a couple of dressings that Bradley could see; on his arms and one on the soft curve of his neck. He wondered about other secret injuries, remembered the sore hole that he’d kept abusing with his dick. Bradley’s gut clenched in guilt and arousal, his mind matching injury to memory as he took in the visual proof of their sex.

Maverick was still and holding himself carefully, wearing clothes from Bradley’s own pack. He could remember tearing Maverick’s own off of him now, and he felt some private pleasure to see him in his own clothes that didn't quite fit. Up close and personal, Maverick smelled so much like him that his sore and sticky dick started to rouse in his pants. He felt fucked out but they were both still in the den where they had coupled, him and Mav, and it was heady.

Maverick must have been able to hear his thoughts, or maybe just smell a tendril of his fresh arousal, because he cleared his throat and backed up an inch. The expression on his face was closed and Bradley felt suddenly like he was sharing space with Commander Pete Mitchell, not the omega that he had just had under him.

Come back to me, Maverick said, and Bradley wanted to. Wanted what he’d always wanted, and now he had tasted it, too. But as soon as he looked into Maverick’s eyes, he knew that it wasn't his to keep.

Bradley moved forward into Maverick anyway, ignoring the resolute look in his eyes. Maverick had never refused him anything, and his rutting was just the latest in a long list. Bradley couldn't help asking for more; alpha now, but still sixteen and needing comfort and reassurance from the man who had given it to him his whole life. He pressed his face into the crook of Maverick’s neck on the uninjured side, and to his shame he felt hot tears start to leak out. Maverick felt it, probably smelled it too, and he sat back on the ground and let Bradley come with him. Let Bradley crawl into his lap; their first contact after a frenzied mating. He was inches and pounds and years too big to be doing this, but he needed to be close, needed holding. Bradley felt young now and scared, knew this was the fuck up of a lifetime.

He choked, and his voice was wet as he spoke, “Mav, I’m sorry.”

Bradley’s heart was pounding and even through the guilt he still wanted, still loved. Knew already that he couldn't have, and it made his tears fall faster. Maverick still smelled like his, and he was breathing in huge mouthfuls straight from Maverick’s neck, gulping. He was still inside of Maverick, he could scent it, his come, but just himself too—essence of Bradley. They smelled intertwined still, at the heart of Maverick. He breathed in and it was pure BradleyMav, and he wanted, he wished. Wished that he was older, a pilot like Mav, someone Maverick would be proud of, proud to carry his pups, someone he could be bonded to—

Maverick cupped a strong hand at the back of Bradley’s neck and pulled him up from his neck and out of those dangerous thoughts. Pulled him so they were face to face, eye to eye.

“You don’t have to say sorry to me, kid, not ever,” Maverick said, and his jaw clenched, hard. Bradley felt a stone in his belly at being called kid when his knot had been inside of Maverick just hours ago.

“But,” and he paused, pulling away from Bradley with a firm hand on his shoulder, “we can’t do that again. That was—you needed that, there was no helping it. You’re an alpha now, we should have known you would be,” Maverick halted again, his face tightening up, but he tried on a smile anyway. “Always were just like your dad.”

Bradley felt cold trickle down his spine. He didn't want to be compared to his dad here, in their nest that still hadn’t cooled from their fucking. He knew that Maverick was trying to put them back together, bring them back to a time from before he knew what it was like to come and writhe on Bradley’s tie. Maybe Maverick was even trying to pay him a compliment.

But his words hit Bradley low, right where he was sensitive and weak. He shuddered and felt that new alpha aggression rising behind his teeth, and he tried to look Maverick firm in the eye. He wasn't ready for Maverick to tuck them back into their neat boxes. Not when the omega still smelled like his, smelled like he belonged to Bradley.

“I’m not my dad, Mav. He never wanted you like this, like I do. I want you, and you—you’re mine now,” he gritted out, trying confidence, trying to keep. Tried placing a hand on Maverick’s waist.

Tried, but Maverick was already pulling away from him. He was the Commander again, he was Top Gun—the best pilot out there and completely untouchable.

“It’s the hormones. This will go away, we’ll get out of this, everything will get back to normal. Like this never happened,” Maverick said, quiet but firm, giving the smallest shrug on the side of his injured neck, like it was bothering him.

Bradley swallowed hard and tried again, “I know that I’m young, and you’re you, but Mav—”

“You’re not ready,” Maverick said, and his words pierced Bradley’s heart. His mouth fell open in devastation, and Maverick looked down and away from him. Rubbed at his neck like it was aching.

He had dealt the killing blow and Bradley had nothing else, no way to argue away his breaking heart. He was just a kid, he wasn't ready, and Maverick was the fastest man alive.

Bradley had no hope of catching him.

Notes:

So I was pretty sure that I was just going to time jump right from the last chapter, but I couldn't brush past all of this. I tried to think about where I wanted it to go all day at work yesterday and I think I'm on the right track. I want to jump to the future but I keep getting sucked into writing the past!!!!

Hope you like it, I have a limited capacity for editing so it is what it is!

Chapter 6

They somehow made it back to the Bronco under the weight of loud silence.

Maverick didn’t take him back to the Bradshaw’s immediately, instead he pulled into a motel just outside of town.

Bradley jerked his head around to stare at Maverick, eyes wide and incredulous, and suddenly it was like the ice was broken. They both broke down laughing, and the laughter faded into a quiet that was degrees warmer than before.

Maverick snorted and shook his head at the unasked question, “No, not that, Bradley. Jesus. We reek.”

That stung, but he was right, and Bradley felt less hurt when Maverick flashed him a soft smile.

“Be right back, stay put,” he said, and got out of the Bronco with a wince.

Bradley watched from his seat while Maverick went inside. They didn't have any scent blockers on them and he knew what Mav smelled like. What he looked like, an unaccompanied omega who clearly just got fucked within an inch of his life. Wearing clothes that didn’t fit, looking like a wet dream. Maverick got a lot of stares even on his most conservative day, with his classic movie star good looks and tight body. His hackles rose at the face he could see the clerk making at Maverick as they talked, and he wanted to get out of the car and stand by him to let everyone know that Maverick wasn't alone, he was with him, with Bradley.

But Maverick told him not to, and Bradley knew exactly what kind of trouble it could cause if a sixteen year old alpha came stomping in after an omega who looked like that. He stayed where he was, but it hurt him to see the tinge of embarrassment on Maverick’s face as he walked out a little more humble than he went in.

Maverick was practiced in projecting self confidence and accomplishment, and it was painful to see that this dalliance with Bradley had brought him down a little, been something to be ashamed of—even though he knew that it truthfully was. Bradley wasn't ashamed at all, and when he took an honest look inward, he burned with guilt but knew simultaneously that it was the proudest of himself that he’d ever been.

It was understood when they got into the room that they were going to take turns showering separately. They wouldn't have any choice but to put their soiled clothes back on, but it would be better than the overpowering scents that were caked on them now.

Maverick took the first shower, and when he came out of the bathroom he was already dressed again, fresh bandage on his neck. Bradley swallowed dry at the proof that he really was off limits now. Mav’s body was wrapped up, hidden from him like a secret, but he still remembered what it was like to be buried in him to the root.

There was no steam in the small bathroom when Bradley walked in, and the tile walls of the shower were icy wet. Bradley stripped methodically, thought about how Maverick must have put this set of clothes on him while he was out. He followed Maverick’s lead and turned the shower on to the blasting cold; stole a moment to himself as he stood there, taking the stinging of the spray. It wasn't a fraction of the punishment that he deserved, but he couldn't help but to want his reward back too.

Bradley tried to shake out of his funk, pity party of one, and he got the soap and started scrubbing. It was the first time that he’d gotten a good look at himself, and he carefully catalogued the damage. He wasn't covered in bites and scratches like Maverick, but he saw bruises on his hips and shoulders when he craned his head to look. He let himself think dangerous thoughts about how they got there, but then had to stop. He couldn't go there. Maverick expected them, somehow, to go back to how it had been before.

His dick was a raw red and bigger than he remembered it being before, even under the cold spray. He was only able to touch it with a wince, feeling with hesitant fingers at the base where the skin felt looser now. It was thicker there, even without a knot popped, and didn't look like a true neutral's penis anymore. He was sixteen and had seen enough porn to know what alpha dick looked like, and here was his. It was a teenage instinct to play with it, try it out now that he was lucid, but he had to be better than that. Had to be mature, show Maverick that he could be a man too, now. A real alpha. No jerking off when Maverick was waiting to take him home in the next room.

Bradley wasn't a saint though, and when he came out of the bathroom he was just in his towel. He couldn't resist the urge to see what Maverick would do if he bared a little skin.

But Maverick wasn't in the room, and his omega scent was already fading from the musty motel air.

They had the room booked for a day, but Maverick was in a hurry to get back now. Bradley jogged out to the parking lot and felt an instant relief when he saw Maverick waiting for him in the car. For a panicked second in the room, he had felt abandoned, and it made something in his mind start to scream.

He climbed in and looked at Maverick, who gave him a close-lipped smile and started the engine.

They rode back in silence again, but it was more companionable than it was on the way to the motel. He guessed that they weren’t going to talk about it because if they were, Maverick was running out of time. They were almost back at the Bradshaw farmhouse, and Bradley started to ache at the thought that he was going to be left there. Without Maverick.

Like a mind reader, Maverick cleared his throat and addressed his fears, “When we get there, go inside and get your gear. I’m going to take you home to your mom. There’s—there are still some things we need to talk about, but it’s different now. You’re—“ he paused and didn't finish the thought, rubbing a hand on his neck and running it over his mouth, “You need to be home now. Need your mom.”

Maverick smiled ruefully at him, his eyes honest but still tight, “I think we both do.”

Warmth and relief cracked open inside of Bradley’s steeled heart, and he grinned at Maverick. He could forget everything for a second, maybe, and just revel in the happy thought of going home. Of getting the fuck out of that house, getting the hell away from his frigid grandparents, seeing his mom, and having Maverick come back to their pack house with him too.

They rode together down the long driveway, and it took Bradley a minute to figure out how to phrase what he knew he had to say without bringing up anything that would disturb the easy peace that they were getting back to.

“What do I say to them, they’re probably going to be able to tell…”

Maverick didn’t respond until he was pulling to a stop, and he didn’t turn the key. Left the Bronco idling for a quick escape. “I’ll talk to them,” he said, tucking his chin to his chest with his eyes focused on something farther away than the dirty floorboards. “Don’t worry about it,” he said, moving his lips silently for a second like words weren’t wanting to come out.

“They raised an alpha once. Things just…happen sometimes. Your parents were pretty damn young when they had you,” Maverick said, trying for casual, but his smile was brittle and his gaze looked heavy. “Let’s do this.”

Bradley had a vague idea of how dangerously things were about to unfold, and he didn't waste time. Bounded into the house, trusting that Maverick was coming in too and taking care of things behind him. Taking care of things for Bradley like he always had.

He hadn’t brought much for the summer, nothing that he was too worried about leaving if it meant having to stay here longer to look. He shoved everything into a duffel, only taking care to tuck a picture of Mav and his parents with him as a baby into his physics book before throwing it in the bag over his back.

He thought about maybe changing into something fresh, but he couldn’t; foolish urge to keep enjoying their sex scent overcoming his good sense.

Bradley started back down the stairs but his knees locked up like a scared kid when he heard the venomous voice of Gene Bradshaw

“—knew it, knew it, when Carole called us to say that the piece of shit omega who got our son killed was coming to get Bradley, our last living kin, I knew better. I knew better, knew not to let him step a foot out of this god damn house with you.”

Bradley’s foot slipped on the next step in his anger as he rushed to stand between that fury and Maverick, his rage at those words making his body feel out of control and stony.

He didn’t need to follow the screaming; something deep inside was drawing him to where Maverick stood on the front lawn. Maverick was rooted still and looking lost and cowed; the Bradshaws standing on the steps of the porch above him to spit their fury. They towered over him from their position while he took Gene’s vitriol, head hanging, still looking freshly debauched. Their showering hadn’t mattered. His grandparents were two betas well past their prime, but they could still see and smell the truth.

“You were supposed to tell him about his mother, but you just took him out there and spread your—” and Gene’s angry words cut off abruptly; all the air taken out of him as Bradley socked him with a fist hard into his gut, sending him back hard onto the steps.

Bradley was raged out and seeing red, hearing red, and it took Maverick jerking up in terror and dragging him towards the car by his neck to keep him from going feral. He’d just knocked the old man right onto his ass, what the fuck was happening to him? He felt like he was losing his mind, but even knowing how insane it was, all he wanted was to go over to his grandfather and rip his throat out with his teeth.

“Enough, enough! Bradley, Bradley,” Maverick tried to soothe, holding him tight around his shoulders, and they panted into each other while his grandparents stared at them in pure shock.

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Bradley rasped out between clenched teeth, shutting his eyes tight and trying to reconcile within himself the fact that he had just punched his seventy something year old grandfather. Fuck. Trying to care that he did it, feel bad, and not righteous satisfaction at putting down a person who was hurting what was his.

His grandfather didn’t know when to give up, and kept spitting, “It’s not enough for him to cling on to Nick, who had a wife and a life, he has to get his whore claws in you too.”

Maverick’s steady chanting in his ear of “It’s fine, it’s fine kid, let’s go,” was all that kept him under wraps. Bradley was so furious, so full of venom, feeling like he could split out of his skin and go berserk. He grabbed Maverick’s waist where he he was soft beneath his ribs. Panted into his neck, smelling Maverick, his grounding scent.

“He just presented, he needs time to get control, you can’t—” he heard Maverick explaining distantly, like he could reason with someone who just called him a murdering whore. Anne Bradshaw stayed silent and watchful on the porch, her mouth sealed tight in a thin line. Bradley rolled his head up from Maverick’s neck to look at her, and his higher functions started to come back. He started to feel some remorse, but not all the way.

“My mom,” he said, finally. His tongue was tingling. “What about my mom?”

The adults froze as his words forced some sense to come back to them all.

“You said he had something to tell me about my mom,” Bradley repeated, pulling back all the way and looking back and forth between Gene and Maverick. The animosity was on hold in the air as he saw them all scramble for an answer. Furious and still reeling from the punch, Gene looked away and gestured at Maverick wordlessly. Well, he seemed to say.

“Let’s get in the car and talk about it, Bradley,” Maverick tried.

“Bullshit. Tell me now,” Bradley said, anxiety starting to claw up his throat. It was true insanity, couldn't be real; one minute ago he was defending Maverick’s honor and now here they were, all having a family meeting.

Maverick straightened up and turned fully towards Bradley, away from the silent adults on the porch who were both looking away now, full of cowardice and starting to look like something that might have been embarrassment.

“Your mom is sick, Bradley,” he breathed out, like it was costing him a lot, big eyes sad and apologetic. “I wanted to take you on a trip and tell you when it was just us. It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” Maverick’s throat caught, and he glanced quickly at the Bradshaws and then back before continuing.

“She was in the hospital for surgery while you were out here, didn’t want you to know. Wanted you to come back when she was home and recovered, and she could tell you when it was all behind her, but,” Maverick cut himself off there. Bradley watched him from somewhere far away. He saw fat tears well up in Maverick’s eyes, and it was the first time that he seen Maverick cry through all of this. Through all of this descent into madness that Bradley had taken him on.

“But now it’s time to go home. Time to go be with her.”

Everything that had happened out in the wilderness between him and Maverick felt like it was a million miles away. He didn't feel like an alpha anymore, rage all bled out. He felt lost.

He had questions, a million of them. But his voice was frozen, dead in the water, and he left them all unasked.

It was all that he could do to follow Maverick into the Bronco and go home, to what was left of it.

Notes:

These guys really killed the porn vibe. I hope this isn't too all over the place. What a way to find out about your mom! I think that this is also the longest chapter despite there being NO masturbation or sex. How bizarre.

I have a heavy work schedule this week so this might be it for me for a few days, hopefully these boys are still talking to me when I get time again

Hope you like it!

Chapter 7

Everything had happened fast. Surgery that was supposed to offer his mom cure had hastened the end, and there wasn’t a lot of lucid time left by the time that they had arrived back into town.

It was painful, in all ways.

Bradley had spent the car ride thinking that he didn’t know what to say to his mom, hurt feelings and fear ballooning up in his chest. He hadn’t been able to talk much to Maverick either the entire drive. Everything felt too big and scary between them and like they were one wrong word from imploding. Both of their scents were raw and thick in the car, and it was a quiet comfort scent from Mav that kept Bradley breathing. They weren’t saying much but their bodies were saying everything, no chemicals to shield either of their truths.

So, Bradley didn’t know what he would say to her, to his mom. About her and her cancer, or about how he’d gone into rut over Maverick; their packmate, her and his dad’s oldest friend.

Before he got out the Bronco and stepped into the unknown, Maverick had stopped him. Grabbed him by the collar and pulled him in until they were forehead to forehead, man to man; alpha to omega. They didn’t speak, both could only muster enough strength to wordlessly breathe in each other’s hot air. Pretend that they were the old Bradley and Maverick, and not two people whose bodies had been shared. Maverick had kissed him on the temple and let Bradley soak in for another moment his raw omeganess; his Maverick smell, that somehow still was filled with Bradley.

It was the last time Bradley would be allowed to scent him for years; Maverick never let his guard down around him after that, had already become ensconced in even harsher military grade everything by the next time they met. Maverick was daring by trade, but never took that risk with Bradley again.

When Bradley had walked inside and into what was now his mom’s sick room, he still hadn’t known what he was going to say. His mind was a storm. His grandparents (the good ones), his mom’s parents, had been seated in the room and they wordlessly filed out.

There she was. Carole, the beauty. She looked pale white and like everything was hurt all over, oxygen tube in her nose. Covers tucked in smoothly over her and uniformly neat, like she wasn’t moving around very much to disturb them from where they lay. She had been fine when he left. He thought.

Bradley hadn’t known what he was going to say as he walked forward. He kept walking until his still teenage-knobbly knees hit the bed, and then he collapsed and just said everything. Confessed like he was bargaining for entrance to heaven; put his heavy head down against her small body and cried.

Cried for his mom, the end everything as he knew it, for Maverick, and a burning unrequited love.

It was too late in life for judgment, and she told him that they needed to take care of each other. Not to let each other go. Gave him sweet reassurances while he cried and couldn’t stop.

---------

Bradley lived with Maverick after the funeral.

Notes:

I don't like this but here we go! Very much a transitional chapter. I can't stop writing today, I guess.

This is a short chapter because I wanted to get it behind me. Not much else that I want to say about a boy losing his mom. Back to Bradley and Maverick next chapter.

Chapter 8

Notes:

Warning: Bradley has sex with someone else. Tag added

Bradley threw himself into school and Junior Naval ROTC.

There was a familiar inferno growing inside of him, but it wasn’t rut. He was taking enough suppressants and topical blockers to make living platonically with Maverick a feasible thing, and he had hoped that it would help with the rage filling him up too. The rage that had started out in South Dakota and followed him home; growing grotesque inside of him as he watched Maverick shut him out, as he buried his mother.

The medications weren’t helping with the anger, and he simmered inside.

There was no perpetrator to blame, but the fucking universe who kept taking things from him. His body had stretched and grown, shooting up to over six feet in the months following his presentation. Exercise was his only physical outlet for everything that felt wound up tight inside of him, and pounds of muscle just slid onto his frame.

Maverick wasn’t home very much. His Naval assignments kept him away, but it was Bradley and their home that he returned to after every one. As an alpha nearing adulthood, Bradley was independent and by law didn’t require closer supervision.

Bradley kept himself busy with school, with exercise, with a part-time job, with anything and everything.

Anything to keep him out of Mav’s room, keep his face out of his pillow. Keep his hand off his dick, keep his come from splattering the omega’s things.

The want had taken root inside of him; he didn’t remember what life was like before it was there.

Didn't know if it started when he was little and Maverick would take him to the park, when it had felt like everyone was watching them play, envious, jealous that they didn’t have such a cool friend, not dad. Just a grownup who could have done anything but chose to be with Bradley. Or if it had been when Maverick brought home his first bike and taught Bradley how to ride it, taught Bradley what it felt like to fly. When Maverick would take his shirt off at the local pool, and Bradley had known better than to stare but did anyway, had gone home and thought about Mav’s tits as he lay in bed at night for the next week, month, year. When he’d been visiting Maverick out in California and caught him out on the balcony kissing a beta girl, and had run out between them and said he had a bad dream (Maverick had sent her home immediately). Bradley didn't know when he had tipped, just knew that it had been a long time before he’d fucked Maverick into the ground on that camping trip, before he'd popped his first knot right into Mav’s tight cunt.

A thousand memories, a million wants.

Bradley didn’t know when it started, but it didn't show any signs of letting up, and living together without Carole around was torture of the highest degree. But as much as it hurt, it was just as good in warring, equal measure. It was everything and nothing like what he wanted, the monkey paw's wish fulfillment of his prayer to be around Maverick all the time.

But he didn’t just want to be around Maverick, he wanted him. Persistently, despite Maverick’s complete retreat from anything resembling physical intimacy.

He kept his scent locked up so tight that Bradley could grind his face deep into Mav’s pillow before he could find even a morsel of that nectar.

It had driven Bradley to the brink, and then he cracked.

Maverick hadn’t been home in a couple of weeks, and Bradley was missing him. Even without the sex, without wanting his body, he was missing his easy camaraderie and presence nearby. Maverick wouldn’t let him physically get close anymore, but he was Bradley’s best friend and comfort in every other way.

He just wanted to sit in the recliner and see Maverick on the couch with his socked feet up, smiling at him over a book. Wanted to tinker in the garage or share a beer that Maverick would teasingly only let him have half of. Go for a drive, sit at the bar of a restaurant—anything.

But Maverick wasn’t home, wasn’t Bradley’s, and the tension was getting to be too much. Even on enough suppressants to chemically castrate a horse, that burn was creeping up deep in his belly.

So he brought home an omega. A girl, light hair and dark eyes. Cloyingly sweet and shy. Jenny. The antithesis of Maverick; intentional.

Her older brother had just been accepted to the Naval Academy and discussing that was overtly the reason that he brought her home. But she had been wet with slick since he got into her car, and pretenses were gone once they were in his house.

They entered through the front door that fed into the living room, and Jenny made a move like she expected to keep going to a bedroom, but Bradley stopped her at the door. The impulse was childish, he knew better. What was he doing? But when Jenny looked up at him under thick mascara lashes and smiled at him like it didn’t break her heart to do so, Bradley threw better judgment out the window.

He got her naked right there, standing on the carpet that he and Maverick had both spilled beer and popcorn on during those nights where the stars aligned and they were home together. Carpet that he, Mav, and his mom had rolled around on together during pack nights when Maverick was on leave.

He thought of a billion years of history in this room, thought about Mav coming home tomorrow, and that anger kept festering inside of him. Kept undressing her until she was naked in front of him and looking at him like he should know what to do, and he should, he was the alpha. Maverick wasn’t here guiding him and he was expected to take the lead. It didn’t matter that this was only his second time doing this, or that she wasn’t the one he wanted to do it with. He had to take charge.

She smiled expectantly at him and he pressed her down into the couch where Maverick liked to sit.

She either wasn’t on blockers or had eased off on them in anticipation of their date, but it didn’t matter because the result was the same.

Bradley could smell her slick as he spread her thighs apart, and watched it drip into the fabric of his and Maverick’s cloth couch. He was rubbing her and she was gushing while he watched, and he took in her body that was too small with too many soft lines to be familiar. Jenny looked up at him with doe eyes that were used to getting what they want and started lowering his zipper.

He hadn’t even realized that he’d made no attempt to get undressed. His dick was hard, but there was no wild drive to put it anywhere.

He kept going anyway, let her take him out. His dick looked huge in her hand, but her grasp was too loose and inexperienced, not getting him anywhere. He got the condom out that he had stashed in the couch, everything about their hookup premeditated.

Bradley pushed inside of her and it was all wrong. Not as tight, no dick between them; her scent irritating at the back of his throat, and he felt some wrongness, some uncomfortable nausea inside of him. There was a breathy moan in his ear in the wrong wrong pitch.

He crashed down deep into his own mind and fumbled for the tender pack bond that had been forming with Maverick since he presented. He wasn’t sure how a pack bond was supposed to feel and Maverick never wanted to talk about it when he asked, but what they did have always felt secret and guarded. He crushed his face into the couch as he fucked into the girl and tugged, pulled at Maverick from far away like a kid with a hand on the back of their parent’s shirt.

And he felt it, an answering warmth. Maverick.

Embarrassingly, he came.

He didn’t knot, and he pulled out quickly before he could risk losing the condom in her. He’d bought a special knotting condom, expecting it, but now it was baggy around the base of his dick where no knot had filled out.

Jenny smiled at him like she didn’t mind, petted her hands down his back, and he returned her smile sheepishly. Tried to finish her with his hand, and she at least pretended to come too.

He helped her get dressed and walked her to her car, hustling her out as fast as his mother’s manners would allow. Not fast enough still.

Bradley stood in the driveway and watched her leave, waving politely as dread filled his heart at the idea of going back into the house that now stunk of the wrong omega.

It had been his intent, but he was faced with the reality now. His dread and guilt deepened further still when he thought about Maverick coming home tomorrow to the same scent.

Notes:

He has sex with someone else but it's the most miserable sex ever. I think I'm getting CLOSE to the time jump now, not too much left for them here in the past.

Chapter 9

It all came to a head when Maverick got home.

Bradley had been sitting in the recliner for hours, textbook in his lap, and he hadn’t read a word.

He had spent hours vacillating between wanting to clean and air out the house, and wishing that he had taken pictures for Mav to see. He jerked off once to that thought, thinking about Maverick’s face if he saw another omega spread out under him.

In his fantasy, the omega in the pictures was having a lot better of a time than she had in real life, and so was Bradley. Bradley looked sexy and suave, older, like a real alpha; spread out in pictures for Maverick to see.

But Bradley couldn't escape reality for long. Reality was that their couch smelled like slick and alpha come, and he didn't even know what kind of reaction he was even trying to get out of Maverick. He didn't know if it was going to be worse if Mav was upset or if he just didn't care at all. He thought to himself that the worst possible outcome was if Maverick slapped him on the ass and said, ’Attaboy, Bradley. Good job getting over me and getting yourself a life.’

’You would have made your old man proud,’ Bradley imagined Maverick saying in the most devastating scenario, and his stomach was tense with nauseated anxiety.

He heard Maverick’s Kawasaki rumble into the driveway and finally thought to himself that he should have just left and been one hundred miles away for the fall out. But his goal had been to produce a response, crack Maverick’s armor, and peer into the heart underneath; there was nothing left to do now but to experience the fallout.

Maverick walked through the door already in his civvies, bag in hand. He had that leather jacket on with the collar pulled up high, that jet black hair tousled and windswept from his ride home. Bradley got to see about five seconds worth of his megawatt smile, Maverick’s joy at seeing Bradley that was echoed in soft bond pleasure at the back of his head, before the smile slid off his perfect face.

He turned bodily to stare at Bradley, and Bradley just looked back at him with no expression on his face. He didn’t know what to do. He had put them here, and now he didn’t know how to get them back out.

Maverick was never a tall man, but it was the first time that Bradley had ever seen him look small; deflated standing at the door. His mouth dropped open a little in quiet devastation, and he looked down and then darkly back up at Bradley under the shadow of his brow.

There had been an invader in their home, and Bradley had brought her in. Fucked her on Maverick’s couch, where he relaxed when he was home and free from war and angry Admirals and the judgment of being an unmated omega in the Navy who never quite could listen.

Neither of them broke eye contact, and Bradley felt his hackles rise. He knew that he'd been daring Maverick to say something, one way or another. Maverick stared back and looked lost, and there was naked hurt on his face too.

It was impolite at best, downright insulting in their case, to have sex with a strange omega right in the heart of your pack omega’s den. For him to do it to Maverick, with whom he had shared a rut and heat, was a violation.

The silence built in the room alongside Bradley’s heartrate, and it was the most that they’d ever acknowledged it, this thing between then.

And then Maverick turned away and set his bag down behind the couch. Called out softly to Bradley with his head still down, “Hey kid.”

Something fractured inside of Bradley and he was on his feet, throwing his textbook to the ground. Maverick didn't flinch or turn around to face him, and Bradley was at his limit.

He got a hand around Maverick’s shoulder and jerked, turned Maverick around to face him. He felt Maverick tense and fight the hold, but this wasn't like before. He was stronger now, alpha strength had settled in.

“Don’t come in here, and say hey kid, and keep acting like nothing, like it’s nothing,” Bradley growled, right in Maverick’s face, the anger and hurt cresting inside of him.

Maverick jutted his chin out and squared his jaw, “It is nothing, Bradley. You had someone over. What do you want me to say?”

And it was exactly how Bradley had known and feared he would react, what he would say and do. Good ol’ Mav, he didn't mind. They were just packmates, just buddies.

“I didn’t just have someone over. I fucked her, right over there,” he spat, and pointed to the couch. Where they both already knew it had happened. The smell still so thick and noxious that they both could have found its source blindfolded and from the next room.

Maverick rolled his shoulder, tried again to get out from Bradley’s hold, but Bradley was tired of not touching Maverick. He got nowhere, Bradley was unshakeable, and he sighed and started to look angry back, “Good for you, that’s what you should be doing. You’re a kid, you should be fucking you way around this neighborhood,” and he pushed back harder at Bradley and fought dirty, “I know I was at your age.”

Bradley had his mouth to Maverick’s temple, teeth out and bared and right against his cheek. “Don’t,” he warned, hoarse.

Maverick got both hands up and flat against Bradley’s chest, trying to create space between their bodies that Bradley was just refusing to give him.

He sighed, “What do you want me to do here, Bradley? What do you want from me?”

It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it, knew that he’d asked a question to which they both had already painfully experienced the answer.

“Say something, say something to me. Acknowledge what I did! Give me-- Mav-- I can’t keep just…”

Maverick cut him off there, sharp, “Well you have to just. There is nothing else for us. Look at me, I’m almost twenty years older than you. This is wrong Bradley. I could be your father. I was friends with your father, your mother. I’m—I’m trying to be here for you now. I don’t have anything else that I can give you.”

Bradley kept on pushing, and tried again, tried to sound more firm and confident, “Our ages don’t matter, Maverick. It’s us, who we could be together, it’s who we are.”

Maverick looked at him with eyes full of pain. Looked at him with that cutting gaze and spat out, “Exactly.”

Bradley stumbled back and away from him. Exactly.

Something terrible must have been on his face because Maverick closed his eyes and muttered fuck under his breath, and stepped back into Bradley’s space. But it was Bradley who put distance between them now, and this time Maverick didn't try and close it.

“Look, I’m tired. You had to know…” and he faded out there, sighed, tried again, “I just wanted to come home to you, okay? And…order a pizza or something. I just wanted to see you, eat dinner with you on the cou—just eat dinner with you. Can we do that? Please, Bradley,” he pleaded, looking up at Bradley with an open face that Bradley hadn’t seen since camping, since he fucked Maverick and fucked their bond up too.

“…yeah, okay Mav,” he granted distantly, and he went to sit back down, but his throat felt like it was closing.

Notes:

sad boys. I keep thinking about that "Exactly" of Maverick's from the film and channeled that in their fight here.

Chapter 10

They made it a long time after that, calling a silent truce in which they both agreed to keep their heads down and not acknowledge it. It, this thing between them.

So Bradley didn't bring anyone else around to fuck and psychologically torture Maverick. But he did ‘fuck them around the neighborhood’, as Maverick had suggested.

They didn’t acknowledge the stalemate between them or the smells that Bradley came home covered in, and that was enough to get by.

But Bradley kept quietly plotting, thinking about the long game and how maybe. Maybe someday, if he waited patiently and didn’t outright try and scare Maverick off again. Maybe.

Part of that ‘maybe’ was joining the Naval Academy after high school, and then graduating as an officer, and then flight school, and only after that came the big maybe. Maybe then he could be someone who Maverick saw as an equal. Not his friend’s kid, or the little boy who needed him, or the fresh alpha that didn’t know what to do with him. A man and a real alpha who could be everything for Maverick.

Maverick didn’t have much to say on the subject. He answered questions about the Navy when prompted, but never brought it up himself and was only tacitly encouraging. Nothing outright or enthusiastic, and Mav was always happy to talk about anything else. Bradley tried telling Maverick about his passion, how he wanted to be a pilot, and sometimes it was like Maverick was looking right through him. He didn't mention why he wanted to be a pilot, that it was all for Maverick, but he thought that he probably knew anyway.

Every time that Maverick tried to brush him off on the subject, Bradley filed it under the growing list of things that they didn't talk about.

After he finished his round of SATs and ACTs and was approaching he time to apply, Maverick finally had something to say.

When it rained it poured, and suddenly Maverick was overflowing with opinions on the subject. Had brochures for days on other colleges, and recurring speeches about the exclusivity of the Naval Academy and how he couldn't throw his future away on hoping for it. How Maverick himself never got in. How he could go to a ‘regular’ college, and then apply to the Navy after. If he wanted. Not even like it was something sure, that Bradley would still want to be a Naval Aviator if he didn’t get into the Academy. Bradley felt it in his bones like a sure thing, a path that he had to keep walking now, but Maverick didn’t agree.

Maverick even started showing him brochures for civilian aviation programs.

It chipped away at his self-confidence, piece by piece, until he was starting to believe for himself that he’d never get in to the Academy.

And then Maverick was right, and he didn’t.

It was devastating, but he tried not to show it. Tried to be a real alpha for Maverick and bounce back from the blow that took him to his knees, undid all of his plans.

It was fine, he was lucky that Maverick showed him so many more options. Lucky that he hadn’t put all of his eggs in one basket, that he had options, even as he kept staring at his ‘Not Accepted’ status for the Naval Academy online.

He was a humbled alpha all over again, but no mom to fall back on for comfort this time. He at least had Maverick. Maverick, who prepared him for the worst, so he wouldn’t get his heart broken.

He accepted admission to a university local to their pack house; didn't want to be too far from Maverick’s home base even when he stayed mostly on campus the first year. Maverick has already agreed to pay his tuition, and it was bittersweet but he could still see his goals in his sights. It still seemed possible, just with a longer journey. He had been thoroughly chastised by the universe, and Bradley could see that he had a long way to go until he was deserving of everything that he wanted. He wasn’t afraid to work hard.

But then.

He called the academy, one antsy morning after graduation. Maverick had left to bring home breakfast, had smiled at Bradley before he walked out of the door. Smiled at him more open and with something soft in his eyes, like Bradley was something cherished. Bradley was still feeling sore about his rejection, but hopeful at what seemed to be blossoming new between him and Maverick. So, he was hopeful, but he couldn't shake the fixation.

Kept staring at the ‘Not Accepted’ on the online portal.

Picked up the phone and called.

‘Sorry, Mr. Bradshaw. We never received any record of your application.’

'I’m looking at my application', he said.

’We’re...sorry, this has never happened before.’

And it was like death by a thousand cuts. He was beyond feeling, beyond rationality, broken into some new realm of hurt. There wasn't even a question of how.

Bradley was sitting on the couch when Maverick got home; a living statue.

There was no need for debate or discussion this time. As soon as he and Maverick locked eyes, it was on. They both knew what this was about, and Maverick’s arms deflated from where he was carrying breakfast. He set several takeout boxes on the ground. It was probably the most honest communication that they'd had in years. The omega had slammed into a wall of pure alpha rage when he entered the room, and they both knew that there was only one thing that Bradley would be this upset about.

“Why,” Bradley said, and there was a full inquiry in that singular word. Why.

“I—“ Maverick started, and he was confronted by the full force of Bradley’s rage. There was no backing the omega up against the wall now, he had gotten a hand around Maverick’s throat this time and he was forcing him to the floor. Bradley towered over Maverick as he laid there, still as a picture.

He didn’t want to hear what Maverick had to say, suddenly. Bradley knew. He knew exactly what it was that was wrong with him, why Maverick couldn’t bear for him to become a pilot too, couldn’t stand for Bradley to breathe the same air as him. Unworthy Bradley. If he was a pilot, Maverick would someday have to consider him as a real alpha, and that just wouldn’t do.

Not good enough to mate, not good enough to work with, or near, or anything. He was just a little boy, a loser in Maverick’s eyes. Couldn’t even trust the Navy to find out for itself what he was made of. Maverick had to put a stop to it before it got that far, had to keep Bradley in the little boy role that he’d been living in since Maverick killed his dad when he was six years old.

That alpha rage was climbing, climbing, soaring; gone.

He was beyond negotiation, but teased Maverick with the prospect anyway.

Bradley bore down hard into Maverick who laid there like he deserved everything; would take death at Bradley’s hands if that was the punishment that he deemed fit. Maverick’s eyes were off somewhere, maybe somewhere in the skies like they were used to, and suddenly Bradley couldn’t stand it. Fixed a grip firm on Maverick’s chin and turned him into Bradley’s own face, made him lock eyes.

“What will you do if I let you stay?” he asked, someone else’s voice coming out of him.

Bradley’s heart was torn in a thousand pieces, on top of the omega who wouldn’t give him anything. Couldn’t give him an inch. Had deemed him worthless, and now wouldn’t even let him prove himself, let him try to become his equal. He felt like something past human, past designation, like a creature with all of its empathy torn out.

“A-anything, Bradley,” Maverick whispered, frozen still but moving his eyes cautiously to meet Bradley’s. “I’d do anything. I’m sorry—I’m sorry,” he said, and shifted against the floor. Closed his eyes. Opened himself to Bradley, vulnerable and praying for his forgiveness.

Bradley flipped him over, couldn’t stand to look at him.

He moved without thought, traitorous body guiding him. He pulled at Maverick’s jeans and Mav raised his hips to oblige, helped him pull them down off of his hips. Anything, he said. He got Maverick’s ass out and palmed a cheek, remembering how it felt to fuck in between them. A memory so good, with such bliss. One that he thought Maverick would never let him have again, but here he was, soft and unresisting underneath him. Bradley dipped his head and nosed right into his soft valley, butted his head into Mav until he was burrowing right into that secret place between his legs. That place that Maverick had let him taste, but never come home to.

He nosed right down there and waited until Maverick raised his hips in offering, and after a moment he did.

Bradley pushed big fingers into Maverick’s mouth, and the omega silently got them wet. Didn't question. When they were primed and slick he slathered his hand between Maverick’s legs, but didn’t go in. Just got him sloppy wet, right where he was most open and private. Maverick didn'’t do anything to stop him, and Bradley pulled back into a crouch behind him, started fucking right between his cheeks, his legs. Imagined a different world where he was bringing an acceptance letter to Maverick, and Mav was proud. Couldn’t wait to fly together. Couldn’t wait to be together. Maybe this Maverick had never rejected him in the first place, maybe this Bradley was always enough, and they were together and bonded since that first day at the campsite.

Bradley fucked in between his thighs, felt his dickhead keep catching on Maverick’s tight hole that he hadn’t bothered to open up. His thoughts were haywire, and he couldn’t help but let his dick put pressure on Maverick’s cunt, pressing against his lips like he was threatening to go in. Maybe it was their last kiss.

He kept on like this until he came, knotted his own hand, and splattered come across Maverick’s hole and lower back.

He groped in blind rage into his own mind, into his heart. Found that secretive pack bond with Maverick and crushed, pulverizing it in his fist while Maverick let out a weak moan underneath him. Bradley ignored it, didn't care about his own or Maverick's ensuing agony. He was never letting Maverick in again.

It was all he could do not to rage and scream, but there was no point now. It was done. He knew where they’d always stood, and there was nothing else for him, not even a maybe.

“Get out,” he said. He imagined what his mother would do if she heard him say it, felt a stab of remorse, and then he banished that thought. Imagined what his dad would say, and became vengeful again. Fuck you, Goose.

“Get your shit. Don’t come back. Take me off your forms, I don’t want a call when you burn in.”

Bradley got up and staggered away, didn’t look back at the omega laying broken behind him.

It was over. He knew now how little Maverick thought of him.

Notes:

Timejump next. Finally. I don't know how it took this long, but these two were fighting against getting here.

This was meaner than I thought but Bradley is an ANGRY guy. I'm looking forward to him getting some distance and calming down......a little. Maybe some happiness is coming?!

Chapter 11

Rooster had always thought that it would be a cold day in hell when he saw Maverick again, but instead it was fated to be a sweltering morning in North Island.

He had known before Warlock said the name. ’His exploits are legendary,’ he’d heard, and his heart had seized. He had almost known, half wondered, since he had gotten to the Hard Deck and seen who all had been summoned for this detail. Half wondered and half dreaded, and maybe in some ancient way he had even hoped. Some secret part of him where his alpha called the shots; the part of him that had felt incomplete for the better part of a decade.

They were in a lofty hangar and his balls were sweating in his flight suit, but a chill ran down his spine all the same.

”—call sign: Maverick,” Warlock announced, and sentenced Rooster to his fate.

His eyes unfocused when Maverick took center stage, and it felt like something deep inside of his chest was cracking loose and spilling everywhere.

After he broke pack, after he kicked out Maverick, he had sold the Bradshaw pack house. Because there wasn’t a Bradshaw pack anymore. Maverick had pledged to pay for college and kept his word with dutiful checks every month, and Bradley had thrown away every last one until eventually they stopped coming. So he used money from selling the house, bought his way into a dorm, and funded his college education.

It hadn’t been a month before he had been forced to see a counselor.

Aggressive, they said. It took multiple complaints to the RA, and a roommate who moved out, before they had mandated that he see someone or leave the university. It took months after that of prodding and evaluation to determine that he had what the neutrals called Presentation Processing Disorder. The designated class called it bond sickness, but what did they know. PPD was most commonly seen in designated classes after rejection by a mate, and occasionally in households where there were there were no packmates to provide hormonal regulation to a juvenile. That didn’t sound far off to Rooster who had lost a father, mother, and a Maverick too.

He hadn’t cared what they wanted to call it, the rage inside of him. As long as he could keep heading towards his goal. Join the Navy. Become a pilot. Prove that he could do it, rank right up there with the very best. Become an alpha that his omega would be proud to mate.

It had taken extensive pleading and negotiation with his counselor to keep a formal diagnosis off of his medical record, especially a diagnosis with such a reputation for volatility. Categorized in the DSM by aggression, diminished judgment, loss of sexual inhibition, paranoid thinking, etc. The counselor had found off book ‘treatments’ for his ‘condition’ and he had agreed, done whatever was necessary to avoid a label that would get him rejected outright by the Navy.

He would have journaled a thousand stupid entries in his rage log if it meant getting to sit in the cockpit of a fighter jet.

What college didn’t beat out of him, the Navy did. Until he could be cool, hold down the eruption, and let his triggers roll right off his back. Let a douchebag like Hangman get in his face and not let out a roar; not a peep.

But here came Maverick; the test he had already failed.

Maverick was speaking in a steady tone to the pilots, words full of gravity and good-natured confidence.

Rooster couldn’t stop himself. Looked up once, let himself have one glance, and forced his gaze back off and into the distance before he could burn a hole through Maverick’s perfect face.

It had been enough.

Mav—Maverick looked fine. Looked good, Rooster let himself think, and ground his jaw hard. Molar to molar. Captain Mitchell was an omega, part of the designated subset of humanity who were subject to slower aging; longer fertility windows. Maverick was the shining fucking example of this. His striking features had barely softened with age, looked like the years had been unfailingly kind to him. Toned muscle shifted under his uniform when he shifted, enough for Rooster to remember what those limbs had looked like naked and pressed into the floor. He was wearing the same regulation clothes as everyone else, but wore them better; the picturesque pilot that they might cast in a porno, someone that you wouldn't be able to resist thinking about when you fucked into your hand and jerked off.

When Rooster had looked up for a fraction of a second, Maverick had met him with a devastating smile, locked him right into his sights. A small careful thing, that smile, that might have looked hopeful if Rooster hadn’t cut his eyes away too quickly to measure. Rooster had seen Maverick swallow hard right before they broke eye contact.

There was something screaming inside of him that he hadn’t felt since sitting in his counselor’s office, since drawing a maelstrom of sentiment in his feelings journal, since doing talk therapy, petting dogs, stacking cubes; a thousand mindless therapy tasks that were supposed to quiet the hurt animal that he’d had to lock inside.

“You show me what you’re made of,” Maverick said and Rooster was caught in his scope, in the challenge of his words. Rooster knew that the words were for him.

He couldn't get his alpha to show deference now and his gaze was drawn agin like a magnet to Maverick’s. They were locked, and Bradley slipped for a second, breathed in through his mouth deep and tried to taste the omega in the air. Remembered his first taste of slick under that wild sky; the taste of Maverick that he only got once, that night he went feral. Saliva pooled in his mouth and he pressed his lips together in a firm line. He couldn't taste anything, and shouldn't have wanted to anyway.

Maverick broke eye contact first, like the smooth son of a bitch that he was, impervious to fluster. He moved on with that same easiness that he'd been exuding to the class, like he didn't even know Rooster. Looked casual and unaffected like it wasn’t ’t their first sighting of each other in years.

Maverick dismissed them to get ready for their first flight lesson, and Rooster refused to look up at him again from his desk. Wouldn’t look up from the desk or the ground in front of him as he filed out to get into his gear. He felt the weight of the omega’s gaze on him and resolutely didn't ’t turn his head to look. He put one foot in front of the other and headed staunchly toward their first flight.

He knew that if he looked at Maverick for one more second, he was going to be back there. Back to being an angry knothead teenager all over again, and this time it just might get him kicked out of the Navy. He wouldn't get away with it this time, not like when—when he—

He felt righteous indignation white hot inside of himself, and a sick pride at leaving the omega that betrayed him alone and cum-covered on the floor. He felt something else too, something that he refused to think might be guilt, regret, a whole inferno of it locked up inside.

Rooster was walking out onto the tarmac, and he was tense, ready for it.

There was a shout, “Rooster!”

He kept walking. He could see his jet waiting for him up ahead, beautiful.

“Bradley,” Maverick tried now, and he sounded a little like he was pleading.

He was almost there, maybe the engine cover was too loud to hear anything.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw,” Maverick said forcefully now, and Rooster turned. Maverick had squared up to his full height and stood large with self-confidence borne of years ruling the sky. Rank over designation, and their eyes met from behind both of their aviators.

“Yes, sir,” Rooster acknowledged, cold. No reaction. He was stacking cubes in his mind. He was petting the dog. He was absolutely not staring at Maverick, at the peek of skin right under his collar. And he was not staring at his neck, but if he was, he would be seeing the modesty patch on Maverick’s neck. The one that he had taken to wearing religiously after that godforsaken trip to South Dakota; a patch designed for the designated to conceal their mate status. Maverick had brushed off any comments about it, always said he was getting too old to show so much skin, but Rooster had known from the start that it was for him. To keep him from getting any more ideas about getting Maverick into a hold and giving him a bite.

So Rooster was not staring. He was a thousand miles off, didn’t give a shit.

“Let’s not do it like this,” Maverick tried, pleading for real now, and it was an acknowledgement that Rooster wasn't ready for. They couldn't talk about this, weren't even supposed to dance around it. He was never supposed to see Maverick again. His proximity was doing crazy things to him. Maverick seemed as unaffected as he ever did, as if Rooster never fucked him (repeatedly) one time. Never held him down and rode his back like a dog. Never kicked him out of his life and told him to go die in private. It was like Rooster was nobody to him, when Maverick had been his everything.

Rooster’s insides keep squirming, miserably, in shame or lust or that same anger—no way of knowing.

“Are you going to wash me out?” he asked, keeping his voice flat and level. He was petting the dog. He was absolutely not about to take his dick out, which was starting to get fury hot in his flight suit, and come all over Maverick. Feed it to him, and rub his smell in, so there was no mistake—

He was petting the dog.

Maverick held steady against the shut out. He was Captain Mitchell here, and he was not going to buckle under Rooster’s controlled insubordination. “That’ll be up to you, not me,” he said, like he’d run out of steam and maybe he was even something like disappointed.

Rooster tried not to care.

“Am I dismissed?” rolled out of Rooster’s mouth, and he was fixated on a point beyond Maverick’s shoulder. Watching the techs ready their jets. His gaze skittered around them and he saw that they were under notice from other pilots on deck, thought good. Let them notice. Wanted them to see him put a hand on Maverick’s neck and thought to himself for a crazy second that Maverick might let him. Like he let him on the carpet that last day. Rooster had to shake those thoughts off and he pulled his fury back around him like a protective barrier; his hatred a shield.

“Bradley, I just want to say—"

He couldn't take it. He spun around and started walking away. He didn't give a shit, rank be damned. He was dismissed, and had been since he cried for Maverick in South Dakota.

Notes:

I'm weak. This chapter was hard, trying to find their roots in this era. They have so long to go.

Hope you like it, I should be asleep to get ready for work right now but who needs self control?! It's 1am so excuse my typos!

I'm kind of getting the urge to do Maverick POV but it feels very out of the blue. But he's been so stoic and such a good sport this whole fic...feels like he needs a moment.

Chapter 12: Interlude: Maverick

Notes:

This isn't a real chapter.

One time in South Dakota…

Bradley was heaving great breaths, panting between teeth that were still locked into the meat of Maverick’s own neck.

Maverick had to squeeze his eyes shut to contain his own panic, even as heady pleasure shuddered through him. His body was vibrating with fine shakes as heat hormones started to flood him and confuse his nervous system, started to shut off the part of his body that regulated normal thoughts like maybe don’t fuck that pup you helped raise.

His alpha, Bradley, was still nonverbal and grinding his teeth down through yielding flesh as he affirmed his claim.

He didn't want to panic. He'd been trying to keep a level head and weather them through this storm, tried to hold on so they could come out on the other side with their sanity still intact, but. Maverick was stripped down, on his back in the dry dirt, legs spread like a whore with a fresh sixteen year old alpha between them. There was no such thing as sanity anymore.

He was in his thirties and it was the first time that an alpha had fucked him, man or woman—no one had ever, and especially not a kid, their kid, Carole and Goose’s. Beta women were his hobby, and beta men his shame. He never would have made it in the Navy as Duke Mitchell’s kid if he had let an alpha between his legs; some knotrod jerk who would have loved to have told everybody why Maverick was walking funny on the airstrip the next day.

Instead, Maverick lived his life between his legs and strange women’s. Made a practice of burying his prick in every slit that opened and pretending that he didn’t have an empty one of his own. Stole pretty girls out from under the noses of alphas that he couldn’t admit to wanting, alphas that he couldn’t stand to give ground to. Fucked one of Ice’s girls one time and tried not to think about the alpha cock that had been where he was now going. Ice had married quickly to help advance his own career, and Maverick tried to never think about him or his cock in that context ever again. Took as many heat suppressants as the Navy would slip him and pretended like he didn’t feel the ache inside about to swallow him whole some days. Rode his Kawasaki all the way to nowhere until he couldn’t even feel his own legs when he was at his lowest.

It only got worse when Goose died, and without that bond and reassurance he started to slip sometimes. Let himself have an annual pity fuck when he was at his loneliest and furthest away from the military judgment.

But never an alpha. Never in the Navy. Never ever ever something real.

But now he was cradling between his legs the most real person in his life —Bradley. Not just a one-time guilty pleasure knotting; he had actually let himself get mated to the kid.

Maverick’s own waves of pleasure were echoed back to him by the mirror forming in the back of his mind, his soul. A bond forming, its newness licking at the edges of his periphery. He gasped into Bradley’s soft hair that tickled his face and felt the great and awful temptation of home.

A permanent home, inside of Bradley. Lightyears apart from the houses that he had bounced between as a child and unwanted teen with no living parents. A bond that would tie and nourish, and Maverick was weak and a lifetime of starved. He indulged.

Bradley couldn’t unlatch from where he lay bent over him, but he ground his hips deep into Maverick, into his hole; pulled with his fat knot just enough to put a threatening pressure on the stretched rim of Maverick's pussy. Maverick keened and pushed back onto the alpha as the teasing pressure engaged his knotting muscles for the first time, squeezing and rippling on Bradley and their tie. It was a dirty grind that Maverick could disassociate from and just enjoy, a thick cock that he could rock back on while he rubbed his own dick into Bradley’s belly. The dual sensations were too much and he came again, maybe had been coming, even.

It was okay to float on bliss and relax into being fucked until Bradley let go of his neck and whined, slow and anguished, “Ma—aaav,” looming over Maverick with big lost eyes and a mouth dripping blood.

They were locked together and both too dick stupid to move, but it was hard to reconcile his bliss with the panic on Bradley’s face.

Maverick had gotten lost in the moment, in the illusion that he had a man fucking him, but in an instant he was looking up at the scared face of a boy who had just done something that couldn't be taken back. Maverick’s new alpha and surrogate kid, both complicated roles twisted together in one young kid. Maverick’s neck throbbed and he tried to be more than an omega in the quiet throws of heat, tried to think past the knot pressed deep between his legs.

Bradley looked lucid but also not, like he was going to cry as he couldn’t stop grinding up into him and rubbing his hands over the downy hairs on Maverick’s legs. Even under the low light of a night sky right after dusk, the alpha’s eyes looked unusually blown open.

Bradley’s teeth were chattering from the hormone rush that forced his adrenaline to spike and fall in successive waves of catastrophe.

“Mav, I’m, I’m,” and Maverick couldn’t bear to hear the end of that sentence. Filled the ending in for himself in a thousand different ways that were filled with regret and disgust and fury. Emotions that he felt towards himself for not stopping this, not protecting Bradley from tying himself to an omega who was too strong-willed, too cocky, and too old to be worth something as a mate.

Worth something to Bradley, who kept on the straight and narrow. Never acted out for attention like Maverick did all the time. Took care of his single mom like a kid shouldn’t have to, could throw a curveball and not brag about it to anyone, play piano by ear, and looked so much like his dad sometimes that it ached like grief anew.

Maverick knew that he was the best pilot and the worst omega for all of the same reasons.

To tie Bradley to him was unforgivable. Maverick would be haunted forever and deserve it.

But the heat was rising again, and Maverick was sinking down down and helpless to fight.

The knot had gone down enough for Maverick arch back and disconnect them, and there was an audible wet thwap of that heavy dick slapping back into Bradley’s thigh as he lost ground inside of Maverick. The ache was instant for both of them. No strength of will was going to triumph here.

“Mav Mav Mav—,” Bradley chanted, sounding far away to Maverick who was disappearing inside of himself.

”Mav, please,” said a voice somewhere in the distance, far away from the crushing wave of heat.

Maverick rolled them smoothly, got his alpha flat on his back, and reached back to hold Bradley’s dick steady so he could sink down onto it. He let himself open back up, spreading wide to accommodate the stiff invasion that had made a new home in the tight cunt between his legs.

They groaned together as Maverick sat on his alpha’s thick cock. Bradley’s hands brushed ghostly over Maverick’s sides, feeling his tight waist first, incredulous at the privilege of touching. His hands lingered before they smoothed down his sides to hold Maverick by the hips, hands flexing in awe as Bradley felt the weight of a grown man on his lap for the first time.

Maverick rode him, fucked up and down with as much strength as he could manage beneath the fog. The whisper of Bradley in his mind was growing into a frenzy and Maverick’s movements became sloppier as he tried to wrestle the bond, capture it and contain it somewhere safe. It was growing in strength even as Maverick fought back, tried to fight Bradley away, even as he clenched down hard onto Bradley’s own dick inside of himself.

Back and forth they pushed. Bradley inside and Maverick out.

Underneath him, in the throes of fucking, rut, and heat, Bradley writhed.

Maverick felt a strong hand leave his hip and come down on the back of his head, trying to force Maverick’s own face into a needy alpha neck. Begging for a bite back, to seal them. Tie their connection steady and mark Bradley in return. He could feel the alpha’s desperation.

Maverick frantically tried to pack Bradley away, tried not to succumb. He tried to push at their bond, not knowing that there was nowhere for it to be pushed to. He had a sexual education that was pieced together like a patchwork quilt, collected in scraps, and he couldn’t know that there was no crowding Bradley out of that secret corner in his mind. No leaving Bradley’s in return.

There could only ever be a shared ache and the consequences of suppressing a bond that was half-formed but no less real.

Notes:

I had to revisit Maverick. He was talking to me.

I'm back on a break from work so I hope to make some real progress tomorrow, but this POV flashback was on my mind at work all day today...

Chapter 13

For Rooster, flying had never felt so dangerous before.

Flying had always been something sacred that opened him up in all the spaces that usually felt closed-tight and cramped. Eased the ache in the back of his mind that he always tried to ignore.

It was peace for him, made him feel good and quieted that angry part of himself, but under these circumstances it was an exquisite new brand of torture. He was cautious at the stick; knew what the other pilots said about him. Knew that there was truth to the stupid shit always coming out of Hangman’s mouth, but never let it get to him because everyone making those jokes didn’t know what it had cost him to get there. The therapy and coping mechanisms that gave him control over his own impulsivity and instinctive urges. Urges that he had followed before into ruin.

A lifetime ago it had been his dream to fly alongside Maverick (his hero) and see if he really was the legend from his fantasies. But today, for Rooster, flying together was his nightmare.

He couldn’t see Maverick. Couldn’t scent him, separated by two F-18s and a sky full of air. But he could hear him, that familiar voice that was happy and confident and taking a straight shot from his ears to the tip of his dick. G forces were the only thing that kept his erection in check, and he hated Maverick for it. But he hated himself more, and his gut felt cramped with pent up emotion, everything that he was trying to ignore.

In an alternate reality, he was living the future that his teenage knotbrain had envisioned for them—him and Maverick. Two elite drivers in the air, doing what they both loved and on mostly equal footing. Mated, in his dream.

But in cold reality they were strangers now at best, and there was a wall of hurt between them that Rooster couldn’t—didn’t want to take down.

All of that anger had nowhere to go over the years, had just been pushed under and far away. Now it was all coming back, pushing his alpha back to a familiar frenzy; old aggression warring with other familiar feelings stirring back in.

He was angry, but despite himself, he was a little awestruck too. He thought back on all his mom bragging about what a hot shot pilot Mav was; thought of the tales of Maverick and Goose that had been his favorite bedtime stories to beg out of her each night.

He saw it now for himself. Knew from the second that Maverick had blown right between himself and Payback and Fanboy that Maverick was the best pilot that he’d ever seen in the air. Knew that Maverick owned the sky, owned all of them.

And it burned. Burned in his throat, in his teeth, in his pride. Made him crazy, made him jump to take the heat off of Payback and Fanboy. But not because the controlled, logical part of his brain was working, not to protect his wingman. But because he was sixteen again and wanted all of Maverick’s attention on himself. Wanted to be the one the who had all of Maverick’s focus—the same thing he’d been wanting all his life.

He jerked his head around to get a visual on Maverick and hissed, “Not this time, old man,” and took evasive maneuvers.

He had to win, had to beat him to first kill, make Maverick know he wasn’t a kid anymore, he was an alpha, Maverick’s—

He was lost in his own head, sinking back into that red haze that Maverick and his rejection always pushed him to. He was tangling with Maverick, desperate to get a shot, mindless and losing himself. He was flying a fighter jet and there were no coping techniques that he could use mid-air, locked in the dogfight of his life.

“Rooster, you’re too low, pull up, you’re hitting the hard deck,” Payback’s voice came through, a yank back from the deep.

“Oh, shit,” he said and pulled hard on the stick to correct his altitude, pulling G’s in his jet which effectively reset his aching hard-on. He felt blissed out for a second in the familiarity of the intense forces, but hearing Maverick get tone on him broke him from his respite.

“That’s a kill,” Maverick said, and bought Rooster his two hundred pushups.

If Rooster had thought flying against Maverick was hard, it was in its own way much worse to be sitting in the debriefing room as the remaining pilots tried their own hand at a dogfight against Maverick. He had come off the flight deck from his pushups with Hondo and into the room where the pilots had gathered to wait their turn. He had tried at first to tune it out, but didn’t make it a minute before he found himself locked onto the radio that was transmitting the voices of the pilots as they gave their running commentary.

Phoenix and Bob and Hangman were up, and Rooster couldn’t help but shoot a hand out to clutch one side of the radio. Like that would help him listen harder, be there with them in the sky.

“Alright, Phoenix, let’s take this guy out,” Hangman said, and Rooster didn’t know what was real and what was delusion as his ears picked up alpha cord in his tone. He gripped the radio harder and tried to shrug off the thought, keep his lips over his teeth and push down the raging part of himself that cared.

He didn’t have the forces of gravity to distract his body from his hormones now.

“Let’s go, Mav, let’s see what you’ve got!” Hangman grunted, and there it was, those were alpha cords he heard bleeding through, and Rooster’s body started to respond to a challenge that wasn’t even directed at him. He focused his eyes on the ground, teeth gritted and trying to remember his therapy. Prayed that the flight and the pushups hadn’t burned through his scent blockers just yet.

It was against regulation to use alpha cords between servicemen of any designation, regardless of rank. To use it against an omega was sexual assault or harassment at best; the cords of an alpha working on their designation in a way that could force a hormonal reaction, something heavier than suggestion, a voice that could compel , and was a serious enough offense to get Hangman thrown out of Top Gun and maybe worse. But Maverick and Rooster were probably the only ones sensitive enough to pick up on it under the circumstances, and just like the rest of the systemic mistreatment of omegas in the military, it would probably go unreported.

Knowing Maverick, he probably brushed it off as another rebellious act of a cocksure pilot, one of a million microaggressions that he’d faced.

He'd put up with much worse from Rooster himself. Rooster had the painful, scorching memories to remind him.

But hearing that come out of Hangman and directed at Maverick was effective at pushing Rooster even closer to the brink. He had to pry his hand off the radio and walk away before he threw it across the room. He didn’t stay to hear how it ended. He already knew.

Rooster stormed into the locker room and stripped out of his flight suit out in the open, got naked where he stood and wrapped a towel around his waist. Tried not to punch a hole in a wall.

Rooster rubbed his hand over his face roughly and up into his hair, tugging hard at the roots. Eyes on the floor, counting tiles and taking breaths. He was sitting on a bench between rows of lockers and praying no one came in while he tried to collect himself.

He felt like he was being swallowed whole by immaturity and something dark, like he was right back there to when he was a teenager, and hating and loving Maverick simultaneously had taken over all of his thoughts. When he missed Maverick, even when he was in the same room, but still not with him like he had wanted.

They had a suicide mission to train for, but all he could think about was this.

He wanted to kill Hangman now, for talking to Maverick like that. Wanted to fuck Maverick right between the desks in the open classroom and show everyone what their history was made of.

Rooster didn’t know how long he sat there, or when he had gotten hard, but his dick was firm under his towel when the other pilots started to trickle in. Hangman was leading the pack and talking to the group as he entered. Rooster stayed hunched where he was and didn’t acknowledge anyone, leaned over his own lap so they couldn’t see his tent.

As soon as the doors to the locker room closed shut and offered relative privacy from the superior officers of Top Gun, Hangman let out a howl.

“God damn, that omega can fly,” he said, and then his eyes zeroed in onto Rooster.

Hangman, ever the shit stirrer, looked him up and down and read him dead to rights. A true executioner.

“Damn, Rooster, you got a chubby?” Hangman laughed, and reached a big hand down to cup himself through his suit, shaking his dick at all of the other pilots in the room. “Shit, me too after that. I think I was ready to fuck him as soon as he threw our NATOPS in the trash,” he said, and gave a grin that bared all of his teeth. There were chuckles and murmurs of agreement around the room.

“Shut up,” Rooster said, and closed his eyes, shutting out the world that had started to bleed red.

Hangman went for his throat.

“Did everyone see that patch on his neck? Wonder what’s underneath it. Think he’s got a mate back home, somebody to treat him right? Tight body like that, I’d doubt he ever put out any kids, but,” he paused, bore his gaze into Rooster until its heat forced the other pilot to open his eyes and look up, “If Maverick’s a mommy, then you can all call me a motherfucker.”

Rooster got up and lunged. Vulnerable in a towel but beyond caring, he shoved Hangman into the lockers and then they were grappling, arms tangled and wrenching at each other as the room descended into chaos and shouting. Everyone seized towards them, trying to pry them apart, but there was no separating the two. Hangman was laughing through alpha cords deep in his throat even as they wrestled against each other; Rooster too far gone to even know what he was trying to accomplish beyond just raging out.

He got his elbow deep into Hangman’s diaphragm and heard that stupid fucking laugh punch right out of him, and then he had him, had the upper hand with Hangman doubled over and gasping to get his breath back, and he was going to—

Get doused in spray. Anti-rut, he realized, gagging on it and spitting on the floor to combat the irritation of the aerosolized hormone. It was infamous for its gnarly taste and ability to stop an alpha’s rut in its tracks, buy enough time to take a suppressant. Coyote was holding the cannister that he’d deployed, the one that the Navy kept stocked in all high-tension areas for this purpose. The rest of the pilots started coughing too; the smell still unpleasant but less caustic to those not careening into a fucking hormonal melt down.

“God damn, Rooster,” Hangman said, infuriatingly starting to laugh again between coughs. “I’ve never seen you make a move that quick before,” and he shook himself off, and looked Rooster up and down as he stood there naked and heaving. Hangman looked smug, as always; the cat that got his canary.

Rooster closed his mouth tight and grabbed his towel off the floor, didn’t bother to put it back on as he stormed into a shower stall. He had been beginning to rut. Hadn’t made it a single day around Maverick and he was bursting out of his seams again. All these years, and there was his progress shot straight out the door. There really was no escape from the hold that Maverick had on him, no recovery.

“Get your levels checked, son!” Hangman called after him, still laughing like a hyena.

Notes:

This chapter was hard because because I don't know anything about flying jets. And there won't be any Hangman/Rooster, just a little naked fighting in this chapter!

But I like this one. I was struggling because I don't really want to rehash every movie scene. It's very restricting, but then I don't want to miss putting the ABO spin on all the TENSION. Trying to find the line to walk here.

Chapter 14

A few days passed and Rooster hadn’t been thrown out of Top Gun, so he figured that some code of alpha understanding must have protected him from news about his locker room madness getting out. Even an asshole like Hangman must have been above snitching.

Flying with Maverick didn’t get any easier, but the extra handful of suppressants that he started taking every day helped.

Rooster managed to show up looking halfway sane, complete his basic fighter maneuver training, study their briefings, and go back to his quarters, all without starting another fight. Rinse and repeat. He didn’t try and socialize at the bar again. Couldn’t risk it. It was taking everything that he had, and everything that the pharmacy had, to keep this thing at bay; the thing that went ape whenever Maverick was near.

He’d had a pounding headache since that day in the lockers. Chalked it up to the suppressants and lingering effects of the anti-rut.

They had a little over seven weeks to learn the mission course and master flying it, and Rooster knew that it wasn't enough time to ensure that the mission was survivable. But it was longer than he thought he could keep his worst self at bay.

He went up in the air with Hangman on his wing at 0800, and it was the first time that they’d been in formation together since the incident. It was too much to hope that Hangman could just be cool for once; leave someone’s last nerve alone instead of getting right on it.

Hangman didn’t waste any time bringing it up. Didn't even seem preoccupied with trying to spot Maverick and take him down. He had his own mission objective today.

“So, Rooster,” Hangman started, his tone casual but Rooster could hear the shit eating grin that was beneath all of his gear. “Mind if I ask you a personal question?”

Rooster knew that Maverick was on their com line with them, and Hangman knew it too. Don’t start, he thought. Please. He had himself under control, but he wasn't hanging on by much.

“Would it matter if I did,” Rooster responded in a flat tone, in a gambit that Hangman would drop it if he didn’t outwardly let himself get riled up. It felt like ants were crawling along his skin under his suit, and his headache intensified. There was no slack on his noose.

Hangman didn’t hesitate to take him out. Never did.

“What’s the story between you and Maverick? Seems like he’s got you a little rattled,” he said, playing innocent like it wasn’t a loaded question, and like the subject wasn’t also listening in.

“It’s none of your business,” Rooster answered, scanning the sky. Ostensibly looking for Maverick but hoping that they never found him at all. He squinted into the sun and wished that Maverick could be back at Top Gun with his headset buried deep in the sand.

“I was just wondering, you can see why I would wonder, after that thing with your rut last week,” he said, god damn Hangman hanging him out to dry. “You’re single, right? And Mav is—”

“Shut the fuck up, Bagman. Where the hell is he?” Rooster hissed through his teeth, failing to fight the aggression. He was going insane and highly volatile, but couldn’t let the alpha disrespect him so blatantly like this, even if it meant that he was feeding right into the reaction that Hangman had gone looking for.

“Been here the whole time,” Maverick said, finally chiming in but giving no reaction to what he’d just overheard. He’d been flying circles around them all since the first day, but it was still a surprise when he appeared out of nowhere and inverted neatly so that his jet was right on top of Rooster. It felt like sick innuendo, their jets crowded together close.

And suddenly, or maybe gradually all along, Rooster lost his shit. Didn't say a word, but he and Maverick locked eyes between their two canopies and he was done. His head felt white hot and throbbing and the pain opened the door that was protecting his self-control, and then it was all gone, and he was feral.

“Come on,” Maverick was ready for it, probably thinking that they could have it out and put it past them. But there was no putting it past them when it was Rooster’s present and future. “Let’s get it over with,” and they were on.

Locked in a death roll to the ground together, Rooster’s alpha was sick with it, the chase. An ancient tradition between alpha and omega pairs. Wires crossed all turbulent and confused in his mind; he was off after his omega, feeling like he could keep if only he could catch.

They blazed through the hard deck and unlike before when Rooster corrected himself when he went beneath it, it held no meaning to him today. There wasn't a Navy rule on the books that could keep him from getting his omega. If he ran his jet into the ground then it didn't matter because he couldn't keep losing something that he’d never been allowed to have.

“What is with these two,” Hangman said from far away, speaking to their audience at Top Gun.

But in the sky now it was just Maverick and Rooster, with the ground coming up swiftly to meet them.

“Alright, you put us here,” Maverick grunted out, like it was just about their training exercise. “How are you going to get us out?” he said, panting as the force of gravity tried to squeeze the oxygen out of his lungs.

Rooster didn't give a shit about getting them out, just wanted Maverick. Wanted his omega once and for all. His? he thought, and his vision was going greyscale.

“You put us here, sir,” he spat out, mouth all saliva and teeth. He couldn't bail out. He had to get Maverick.

“Come on, Rooster,” Maverick said, pleading, “how low do you want to go?”

Low. He wanted to go low low low and take Maverick with him. Military grade pills or not, his alpha had all but taken over, and Rooster felt close to a black out. He had to get Mav, had to catch because if he did then Maverick was his. Something in his mind was screaming at him.

“Altitude, altitude, pull up, pull up!” the console said, and Maverick did, like he understood that no matter what, Rooster wasn’t going to.

Rooster followed him, had no choice but to go where Maverick went and he righted his jet. When he did, it was like the beast fell back, and he had two hands on the stick again. He was back in the pilot’s seat instead of whatever instinct had just been driving him.

Maverick was ahead but hadn't corrected his altitude as high as Rooster had, had dropped into further into the canyon to avoid Rooster. But the shot was clear, and he could have him, be the first one to get a hit on Maverick, take him out, ’catch’, something in him whispered. But he was scared.

He didn't know what would happen if he did, if he loosened the reigns on his control any, he might revert right back to the run away horse that would have driven his jet nose-first into the rocks just for a chance at Maverick. He couldn't do it, couldn't risk it. couldn't pull the trigger.

“You got it, don’t think, just do,” Maverick begged, but Rooster was frozen.

“Come on Rooster, you’ve got him! Drop down and take the shot!” Hangman was screaming into his headset.

“It’s too low,” he said, didn't want to admit that he was worried he was going to lose himself all over again.

He was scared.

“Too late, had your chance,” Maverick said. Took Rooster out himself, done with giving him what Rooster knew was a peace offering; staying in position long enough for Rooster to get a shot in. It was a chance that he couldn’t risk. He had to keep control.

He needed a higher dose of suppressants. He almost put his jet into the ground. His alpha was lurking large under the surface. Wanted his omega that Rooster had failed to secure. Again.

“Go see Hondo about your pushups,” Maverick said, and peeled out. Left Rooster alone in the sky.

When he got back to the tarmac to do his pushups, he wasn't sure if he was crying yet, but by the time he was finished he knew that he was. Hondo had long since walked off and given him space when he saw that Rooster, Bradley, was breaking. Deep under his careful control and persona, there was a growing fissure.

It was Phoenix who found him. She was a beta and he was grateful, thought he probably would have to be brought before JAG on murder charges if it was Hangman right now. He’d fucked her one time, but she was too perceptive, and had looked at him raw and seen that there was something unavailable and wrong inside. It was just once, and it was a concerned friend who crouched down next to him now.

He was sitting knees to chest under his F-18 and didn't care if she knew that it was't the wind in his eyes. He couldn't hardly look at her. He was doing a breathing exercise. His control was so shot.

She came in hot, “Breaking the hard deck? Insubordination? Are you trying to get kicked out?”

He heard his voice crack when tried answering her, “Don’t worry about it.”

“If you get kicked out, you leave us flying with Hangman as Team Lead,” and she was sounding less angry the more she looked at him. “Talk to me, what the hell was that?”

He tried counting the cracks on the ground. Tried to refocus. The extra pills that he took when he got out of the cockpit were starting to kick in and craze was fading.

“He pulled my papers,” he finally admitted, and knew that it wasn't an answer. “Maverick. He pulled my application to the Naval Academy. Set me back four years,” he finished, risking a glance at her. He felt like he was made of glass.

“Why would he do that?” she said, and he couldn't help himself. He answered. And once he started to unburden he couldn't stop.

“He was pack. Flew with my old man. My dad was Maverick’s backseater when they had a bad ejection in a flat spin. It—it wasn’t his fault,” he said, knew it was the truth. Shamefully, he'd only ever pretended to believe otherwise when he could use it against Maverick to make him weak.

“He stuck around with us, me and my mom, until she died. And I was with him when I presented, probably—" he got choked up and cut his eyes away from her again, traced the outline of his boot. Breathed in shakily.

“Probably presented because of him, I’d been missing him for weeks and not feeling good. We were alone, and I rutted with him. And I fucked him. He—he let me,” sort of he thought, feeling the claw of guilt that he’d been throttling for years with anger, “had a heat, too. And then that was the end of it, and I was sixteen and he never even wanted to talk about it again. Definitely didn’t want—what I wanted.”

He looked up at her, feeling lighter with the truth in the air. Phoenix stared back at him, and he could see pity on her face.

She came at him carefully, “If you were sixteen, Rooster, he was…how old? I can see why he’d be—reluctant.”

The hurt was too old and too deep inside of him to consider all the ways that what she said was true. He shook his head. She didn’t get it, hadn’t felt that agony. Was a beta who couldn’t know what it was like to have Maverick and have him taken away.

“Sharing a heat during your rut, that’s a lot… If you had those feelings for him, I’m surprised that you stopped yourself from bonding while you were both out. Maybe you knew it was a bad idea too?” she tried, showing all of the ways she didn’t understand how it had felt to be a fresh sixteen year old alpha.

“I would have claimed him in a second. He didn’t want that, though. Must have stopped me,” he quieted, remembering that night. Precious recollections from his flashes of lucidity. Mav spread out so sweetly beneath him, before his life went to shit. That one time he was allowed to have what he’d always wanted.

Phoenix tsked skeptically and put a hand on his arm. It almost felt wrong to let her touch, and he knew that the suppressants weren't working as well as they should be. He could always tell when his doses weren't high enough because everyone’s touch started to feel a sickly shade of wrong.

“But what does that have to do with keeping you out of the Naval Academy? Why would he do that?” she asked again, and he felt the anger creeping back as he tried to answer.

“I wasn’t good enough for him, wasn’t good enough for the Navy…didn’t want to let me get to close to being the kind of alpha who he’d have to consider for a mate,” he told her through gritted teeth. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his closed eyes until he saw stars and felt tears start to dry off.

He could feel her wanting to say something else and he stood up instead of listening, couldn't talk about it anymore. Surprised that he had talked about it at all.

He needed to go home and take another dose.

Notes:

I've elongated the timeline of their training.

This Rooster has different reasons for needing to be so careful and in control....

Chapter 15

Maverick was going off on them all, and it was hitting Rooster in every single feeling of inadequacy.

He had come off the course they just flew feeling better than he had since arriving at Top Gun. He had made it to the target and kept himself under control. It galled him to admit that he was hoping for Maverick’s praise, but he was. He’d filed in at the same time as Phoenix and flashed her a smile that came easier than it had in weeks. Walked into that classroom like he was twelve years old and hoping for Maverick to take him out to the movies as a reward for a home run.

He had been instantly humbled when they sat down for debriefing; felt stupid for expecting something else from Maverick.

‘Why are you dead’, Maverick kept asking them all.

They had progressed to navigating a low-altitude canyon, and it was requiring a combined skillset that it was becoming apparent that none of them had. Maverick’s joviality was all bled out, and he was making clear his frustration with them all. His frustration at them, and the fact that as of now, no one was surviving this mission.

Tension was ramping up in the classroom with every chastisement.

‘Why are you dead’ he demanded.

Rooster had to spread his legs and rub sweaty palms against his thighs, pulling down on the material to adjust himself. Couldn’t quite sit still as the anxious energy of the room started seeping into him in earnest.

He listened to Maverick and watched him dress them all down in scathing criticism. There was heavy stress on Maverick’s brow as he chewed them all up and spit them out.

When he rounded on Rooster, his turn to get spanked, it felt like Rooster could feel the frenetic distress of Maverick’s thoughts. Maverick didn’t just look disappointed, he looked scared, and it had Rooster’s own emotions on a razor’s edge.

“You’re team leader up there. Why are you—why is your team dead?” Maverick demanded, all his attention on Rooster now. Attention that Rooster craved like air, but not like this. He was fraught with his own and Maverick’s anxiety, and it had his alpha swimming up to the surface.

“Sir,” Phoenix interjected, “he’s the only one who made it to the target.”

Rooster grimaced, wishing that she hadn’t jumped to his defense. Didn’t want someone else in this between him and Maverick.

Rooster had made it to the target, but he hadn’t made it fast enough. Whenever he tried to push himself, increase speed, his instincts started to skitter out of control and away from him. He was an alpha on a short leash, and it was starting to feel like he really couldn’t fly this mission. But he couldn’t admit that, couldn’t roll over. He was supposed to be showing Maverick that he could be more than the alpha that he had once deemed not good enough.

“A minute late,” Maverick shot back at her, dismissive, and then his eyes were back on Rooster and boring into him until heat rose in Rooster’s throat. His alpha was responding to the challenge. Maverick kept pushing, couldn’t know what Rooster was fighting. “He gave enemy aircraft time to shoot him down. He is dead.”

Rooster swallowed dry. Maybe Maverick did know, maybe he wanted—and had to cut that thought short, fast. That was the danger whispering at him, and he couldn’t start thinking like that, here, in this classroom. That really could be the end of his Naval career if he lost it now.

“You don’t know that,” he tried, defensive. Wanted to stand up and say it to Maverick’s face, to his throat. He felt like getting up. He should get up. He palmed his thighs again, hairs standing up on the back of his neck.

“You’re not flying fast enough. You don’t have a second to waste,” Hangman cut in, with his impeccable ability to pick a fight in any room. Rooster ignored him, couldn’t even let himself think about Hangman for a second or he was going to lose his goddamn mind. He fixed his sight on Maverick.

“We made it to the target,” Rooster told Maverick firmly. ‘Give me something’, he wanted to beg, before he lost himself here. Couldn’t back down and submit to Maverick while he was howling inside.

Maverick was unrelenting, looked angry himself now, and stole another step forward into Rooster’s space, “And superior enemy aircraft intercepted you on the way out, you are dead, Bradley.”

Rooster could hear someone whispering ’Bradley?’ behind him, but he only had eyes for Maverick.

“Then it’s a dog fight,” he answered, and it was a dog fight that they were in now.

Maverick was right on him now and looming over Rooster in his seat. Rooster’s head was craned back against the head rest so that he could stay locked on Maverick’s eyes, and he jutted his chin up to display his throat to the omega. Maverick’s eyes roamed down Rooster’s neck, at the absence of a claim, and back to his face as he hissed, “Against fifth generation fighters? In an F-18?”

Rooster spread his legs to make room for Maverick as he encroached into Rooster’s territory, ran his palms across his thighs again, didn’t notice that he was doing it, felt his dick filling out against his zipper. Felt irrational relief inside of him, even as he was being reprimanded; something deep settling and basking in Maverick being so close and focused on himself.

“It’s not the plane, sir,” he tried self-assurance, like Maverick always liked, and even risked a small smile, “it’s the pilot.”

“Exactly,” Maverick snapped, and then flinched back like he was instantly regretful.

All relief oozed out of Rooster as he reeled at the fury in Maverick’s voice, felt backhanded and wrong-footed suddenly. He could only look up at Maverick with naked hurt on his face as the silence hung thick between them.

He remembered the last time that Maverick had said that to him, when Rooster had made a last attempt to convince him that they could be good together.

“Our ages don’t matter, Maverick. It’s us, who we could be together, it’s who we are” Bradley had said, a thousand years ago. And Maverick had spit back, “Exactly,” and cut through Bradley’s heart with a sword.

They stared at each other in the classroom now, and Rooster knew that they were reliving the memory together.

“Am I going to be the only one to acknowledge this?” Hangman said, incredulous.

Maverick stepped back from Rooster and turned away. Rooster’s good feeling was gone, and the misery was clouding back on him like a storm.

“We’re trying to train to fly on a level that no living pilot has ever flown before, not even him,” Hangman paused, and trained his gaze to Maverick, dragged his eyes over the omega like a physical touch. Rooster wanted to rip his eyes out of his head. “It’s no time to be thinking about the past,” he continued, rubbing his pink tongue over his pearly white teeth. Throwing his words at Rooster, but keeping his heavy gaze locked right onto Maverick. Ever the provocateur; a dangerous one who could see right through Rooster.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rooster asked, dangerous.

Maverick could see the spark before the explosion and positioned himself between the two. “Lieutenants,” he said in warning, but the two alphas were in a deadlock now. Hangman was a dog on the scent and an omega wasn’t going to shake him.

Hangman laughed and looked around at the other pilots in the room, everyone uneasy and shifting in their seats. Preparing to get up. “I can’t be the only one that knows that Maverick here flew with Rooster’s old man,” he grinned, teeth bared at Rooster.

Rooster was boiling. He started to rise from his chair, and felt Maverick’s hand settle heavy on his chest. He couldn’t think in words anymore, just hot sensations throbbing through him. Eclipsing fury was settling into him, but his omega’s touch was pleading on his chest. He froze in supplication from where he had been shifting to spring. Rooster’s heartbeat was pounding in his ears, but the only urge more powerful than rage was the yearning for Maverick’s touch. He gripped down into his chair to hold himself back and stayed seated.

“Or that Maverick here was behind the stick when his old man had a bad ejection,” and Hangman grinned and looked beseechingly between Maverick and Rooster, waiting for the reaction he had been gunning for. Rooster felt Maverick’s hand squeeze down onto the meat of his chest, and could feel the misery rolling down Maverick. But he didn’t move. Looked up at Maverick, feeling hazy and alpha and tried to push reassurance at the omega, somehow, deep inside. Maverick’s head jerked back and he stared down at Rooster in shock.

But Hangman was unrelenting, and tried another angle to get what he wanted, “Can’t be the only one that notices how these two are about to get down on all fours—" and Maverick dropped his hand from Rooster’s chest, and that was enough. Connection broken, restraint gone, Rooster was going to fucking kill him.

He was up and going and the rest of the class rose too, responding to the blood lust in the air. Rooster got one shove in against Hangman’s puffed up chest before there were eight hands prying him back, and Maverick’s back pressed against him as he put his body between theirs as a physical barrier. An omega shield that even a raging alpha would hesitate to cross.

“That’s enough,” Maverick kept saying to both of them, ordering; begging. Hangman was still talking, but Rooster was pulling at his bonds and incoherent.

Hangman was unrestrained and smirking, didn’t need to be held back, it had never been a physical fight that he wanted from Rooster anyway. Just seeking to fuck with his mind and rattle his confidence; Hangman’s way of taking out the competition in the battle for Team Leader.

Rooster’s hearing was going in and out in waves, but he could hear Hangman telling Maverick that Rooster couldn’t handle this mission, ‘You know I’m right, he was saying confidently as he walked out, successful.

Maverick didn’t acknowledge him, kept his back pushing tight against Rooster’s front so that the alpha would quiet in his struggling. Dismissed everyone, but the other alphas holding Rooster back looked at him dubiously; suspicious that Rooster would run out of the door and eviscerate Hangman if they let loose.

At Maverick’s reassurance, they let go one by one, and Rooster didn’t move. Was breathing heavily from behind Maverick’s back, but stayed stock still at the hands left him. Killing Hangman a thousand times wouldn’t be worth breaking close contact with Maverick like this.

“You’re dismissed, I’ve got him,” Maverick said, and they all kept their eyes on Rooster as they filed out but they didn’t argue with their superior officer.

Maverick was still and steady as they stood in the empty room, and he waited for Rooster to come back to himself.

It was the closest they had been in years, and they both stood frozen as they tried to recover. Rooster was plastered to Maverick’s back, and that soft dark hair was tickling against his cheek. He felt his faculties start to come online as he and Maverick relaxed into each other, breathing shakily in tandem.

He’d grown since the last time he’d been allowed to touch Maverick like this. He remembered being almost the same height when they had curled around each other on the ground in South Dakota. He thinks that now he’s big enough to cover Maverick like a blanket; could hide the omega’s whole body under him and keep him tucked safe from the world.

The bad blood went quiet between them. An unspoken ceasefire that he hoped would last.

He felt like himself as Maverick permitted this, let him touch. It didn't feel like he was about to split out of his skin, and his headache was gone, but more than gone—his mind felt like it was glowing.

Maverick’s body was melting back into him as tension bled out of the room, but they still didn't separate. Basking, the both of them.

Bradley felt bold and dared to reach up and put a hand on Maverick’s waist; felt the starchy material rough under his touch, and the give of the taut tummy underneath. Maverick took in a shuddering breath but didn't stop him or tense. His head lolled back, just a little, onto Bradley’s shoulder behind him.

Bradley was hard as granite. He knew that Maverick was too without having to feel, but he wasn't thinking with his dick for once. Just wanted to be and enjoy. He gripped tighter onto Maverick’s suit and stole Maverick’s hand. His eyes were closed tight in bliss, and he was half scared that if he opened them, Maverick wouldn't be there. They had matching pilot’s callouses, and he stroked thankful fingertips down Maverick’s hand. Bradley carefully linked their fingers, caressing Maverick’s, and pulled their twined grip up to Maverick’s chest. They held each other like this; Bradley enveloping Maverick from behind.

Mav’s breathing went haggard, but he didn't move until Bradley got greedy, dropping his lips to the secret curve of Maverick’s neck.

The moment snapped between them and Maverick rolled his shoulders out from under him, dropped Rooster’s hand and staggered forward.

Rooster could only stand frozen and aching as he watched Maverick walk out.

Notes:

This chapter was hard to write, I started by transcribing that whole scene and it is VERY dialog heavy. Tried to cut down to what I needed and build around it

Hangman is a dick! He deserves to not be on the team. I have to just imagine that Cyclone and Warlock weren't there and this will also somehow be in the cone of pilot silence. I rewatched the scene and it's always embarrassing to see Maverick be ignored by these two big guys who don't give a crap that he's a captain and telling him to stop.

I liked this chapter, hope you do too.

Chapter 16

Notes:

Longest chapter yet, by a mile.

A few days of uneasy teamwork crept by, and Rooster maintained professional distance from both Hangman and Maverick. Didn’t think that he could handle going head-to-head with either of them.

Everything with Maverick hurt.

There was a growing mountain between them of all the things that they couldn’t talk about—old resentments and rejections, and the new events from the classroom the other day. Rooster still felt that same hurt simmering inside of him, but it was hard to hold onto when he had the fresh memory of how good it had felt to have Maverick in his arms. How peaceful it had made his alpha.

Years ago, when they coupled during his rut, his memories had been distorted and half-gone with lust.

But he had felt more sober and sane than ever when he had been allowed to press into Maverick, rub into his front and hold him. It hadn’t worsened the forest fire inside of him, it had soothed it; he’d been brought back from wanting to rip out Hangman’s throat with just the power of Maverick’s hand to his chest.

But Maverick had left, and. He needed to focus. Needed to tighten his control, and stop this thing from taking over. Never mind that it felt gone when he and Maverick were close and back to front. Maverick had walked out.

He couldn’t think about that now. He had to survive this mission. Had to get selected for it in the first place.

He was on the highest suppressant dose available now, and it was helping, more or less.

But only when he could focus, go back to this coping mechanisms, and self-soothe.

In proximity to Maverick, or under high tension, he was slave to his instincts.

They were due for classroom hours today to debrief on the past few exercises they had undergone, and Rooster was dreading it. He had his sunglasses on and a guarded look on his face, firm set to his mouth underneath his mustache and all-together personifying ‘fuck off’; didn’t make small talk with any of the other pilots as they made their way to their assigned room.

But the classroom was locked, and on the door there was a sign posted in neat print. Chatter rose around him as Rooster edged through the throng of bodies to get closer to the front to read:

Class Relocated
Beachfront at The Hard Deck
1500
Civilian Attire

Burn after reading

Everyone milled around uncertainly, discussing what the hell this meant amongst themselves, until Phoenix reached up and pulled the paper from the wall. Crumpled it in her fist, and then made a gesture to them all like ‘well?’

“You’ve got your orders,” she said, and snagged Rooster’s elbow encouragingly as he stood stock-still and reluctant. “Come on, boys,” she challenged them all with an eyebrow raise, and they trailed out behind her to go get ready.

Rooster’s abdomen was twisting. He had prepared himself to sit in the classroom, sulk in his seat, and keep his head down and mouth shut. Not to have a beach day with the people who were pushing him to his limits; breaking the control that he’d had to go to god damn therapy to maintain. What were they even going to do, build sandcastles? Or just conspire to make him fall apart? But he was powerless to refuse, allowed himself to be cajoled into changing clothes quickly and meeting Phoenix at her car and piling in along with Bob and Fanboy; everyone in their civvies. He could see her giving him a look of silent support through the rearview mirror, but he cut his gaze sullenly out the back window. He had spilled his guts to her before, and after witnessing the spectacle between himself and Hangman, she was now privy to almost all of Rooster’s worst hits.

He didn’t want pity. Just wanted to get through this with his sanity and life intact. Wanted Maverick too, but it had been a lifetime ago since he thought he might have a chance there. The other day had only affirmed that impossibility.

A few other pilots had beaten them to The Hard Deck, and they followed the trickling crowd out onto the beach.

Maverick and Hondo were already established on the sand and were throwing a football back and forth, passing time while the pilots collected in a group and awaited further instruction.

Rooster felt his belly go hot while he watched Maverick from behind his shades. He hadn’t seen Maverick in civilian clothes since he kicked him out of his life, had lost that privilege years ago. He was in a black shirt that must have been painted on him, and jeans that he’d rolled up to his knees. Maverick was barefoot in the sand and teeth-grindingly beautiful, and he must have noticed that they were finally there because he tucked the football under his arm and jogged over to address the group. He had his aviators on and a splitting grin that tugged something inside of Rooster, made him want to return it, but he kept his lips pressed closed. Crossed his arms across his chest and surveyed Maverick from behind the privacy of his own dark glasses.

“Dogfight football,” Maverick addressed them, as he rolled the football between his palms. “I want you to form two teams, Team Captains Bob and Fanboy,” he said, and he pulled back his arm and sent his football to Bob, who caught it against his stomach with an ‘oof’.

“Team Captain Bob?” Hangman laughed, and turned to Bob who was staring back at him steadily, “May as well—”

“Team Captain Bob,” Maverick cut him off, taking a step towards Hangman with squared shoulders and the jutted chin of a superior officer. “And any disagreement will be accepted as resignation from this mission, and Top Gun is back that way for you to collect your things,” he added, nodding his head back towards the base. He didn’t break his gaze away from Hangman as Hondo handed him the other football, and he threw it cleanly to Fanboy without looking.

Hangman swallowed before finally being the one to look away, but he pulled a grin back on his face to repeat, “Team Captain Bob,” and nothing more.

Rooster couldn’t stop the grin that cracked across his face then, and he saw Maverick glance over at him and return it with a small smile that they shared for only a second. Rooster’s body felt like it was humming.

Maverick stepped back to address them all again, and nodded towards where the surf met the sand, “You’ll be playing offense and defense simultaneously, and the losing team buys the first round,” he said, gestured at the bar behind them, and then nodded at them all to get to it.

They divided into teams easily, and to everyone’s surprise, Maverick lined up dutifully near Fanboy and huddled in.

No one knew what the hell dogfight football was, or why they were doing it, but it surprised everyone by being completely fun. Rooster could see why it was called dogfight football at least because there was no strategy, but instead constant movement and buzzing activity, and what he was now starting to think was an excuse to touch each other. It was like Naval restrictions and professionalism had been lifted, and they were suddenly all over each other. He was grabbing and being grabbed in returned, and instead of setting off the time bomb inside of him, it was like he was letting the caged animal stretch.

Hangman was the first one to take off his shirt. None of them were in bathing suits or anything more immodest than his own pair of jean shorts, and they’d all fallen in the wet sand enough to be uncomfortably sticky. So, naturally, Hangman pulled his shirt over his head and howled, the sound halfway between a joke and a happy alpha noise.

Like they had been waiting permission, everyone followed suit, including Rooster. With alphas on display all around them, and Maverick the only omega in the group, he wasn’t stronger than his own urge to present himself too. He knew his body looked good, had filled out and defined since he had been a teenage alpha trying to beg Maverick to fall in love. He ran his shirt back to leave it at the beach chair that he knew Maverick and Hondo had set up, and when he turned around his jaw went completely slack.

Maverick was pulling that black tee shirt over his head, and it was bordering on obscenity. His belly was as washboard tight as any young alpha on the beach, and tan. He was bare all over but for the flesh-toned modesty patch on his neck; the only spot he chose not to reveal.

Maverick was only getting away with being shirtless on a technicality; the exposure of a male omega’s chest generally only considered to be explicit after they had started having children. And Hangman really was a motherfucker, but Maverick was no mommy, so it was acceptable for him to take his shirt off at the beach. But being acceptable didn’t make it any less tantalizing, and Rooster was frozen by the beach chair as he stopped to stare.

In reality, Maverick’s chest didn’t look any different than a non-breeding male, but it was the suggestion that those were tits, something that could be secretive, that had himself and the other alphas covertly fascinated.

Rooster watched as he rubbed a hand over his saltwater sticky belly for a second before running those fingers through his mussed hair.

Rooster had the memory of that body underneath him burned into his mind, and it was no less defined after all of these years. And he wanted him just as much now, if not more.

He had to shake himself out of his reverie as Maverick was running towards him, happy and glistening and holding his own shirt. Rooster stood there as he approached, unable to make himself walk away and miss the opportunity to be a little private and close.

Maverick, as touch drunk as any of them and feeling daring, chanced a grin at him as he tossed his shirt on top of Rooster’s and said, “Close your mouth before you start catching flies,” and jogged with a laugh back to the dogfight.

It was like bad history was gone between them, and Rooster laughed freely and for a second chased, following him back to the group. Eyes drawn like magnets to Maverick’s tight waist and the dimples at the small of his back, and the hips that he’d once grabbed with both hands.

But he couldn’t get too far into that quicksand line of thought because as he rejoined the group, Hangman bumped his bare shoulder against Rooster’s. He nodded his head admiringly at Maverick and grinned at Rooster with his eyebrows raised. Rooster couldn’t help but snort and smile back.

It was a gesture that would have felt incendiary yesterday, probably would have made him lose his shit, but today he could feel Hangman’s good intentions. Could smell Hangman, he realized. Could smell everybody.

The water and coarse sand had rubbed everyone’s topical blockers off, which we were required at the Navy. They were all still on hormone regulating suppressants to help prevent unexpected ruts and heats, but suddenly they weren’t all nose-blind and cut off from one of their most important senses. He didn’t realize how restricting that had been until it was gone, and he was breathing in Hangman’s happy smell, and it was making a happy smell pump out of himself in return.

It felt like pack. Reminded him of rolling around on the floor with his mom and Maverick.

They kept playing, all scorekeeping done, and now it really was just a game of tease and touch. Their group was closing in from their earlier wide spread, and they were all high-fiving and grabbing each other excitedly around the shoulders more than they were catching or throwing the ball. He watched everyone milling around Maverick, like puppies all waiting for their turn to get a rub. Every alpha in the group wanting their chance to rub a little bit of themselves off on their unofficial pack’s omega.

They were all scent-naked and exposed to each other now, and the group was thrumming with joy and good times. It was intoxicating and a balm on Rooster’s soul that he hadn’t known he needed.

Coyote threw a great pass and he and Rooster beamed and hollered at each other, and leapt together to meet in a chest bump. Their slick chests met as they both laughed and shared scents, and it felt so good, Rooster was riding high and feeling free. Everyone was shouting and excited around them, and he threw his head back and couldn’t help but shimmy in a blissed-out celebratory dance. He felt amazing, and there was heat tingling through him and down his spine, and he opened his eyes and saw Maverick staring.

Rooster laughed, preened, and ran a hand down his abdomen just to watch Maverick’s eyes follow. He ran light as air back to the group and smirked at Maverick who was looking at him with his head ducked now, a little bashful. Rooster knocked a finger under his own chin as he kept eye contact with Maverick, a ‘close your mouth, honey’ gesture, and Maverick listened, laughing too, before turning and going after the ball again.

Phoenix ran by and slid her arm against his, and he ducked his head so she could whisper in his ear, “He smells like you,” and she nodded at Maverick. Rooster thought about their embrace in the classroom and smiled at her, only enjoying the happy memory of it now. She rolled her eyes and pushed off of him, bounding away to jump on Fanboy’s back.

Fuck, he felt good.

Rooster didn’t even try to tamper the urge to clap Hangman on the back as he followed Hangman’s appreciative gaze over to Bob of all people, and they shared a grin as Hangman gave a shrug like ‘yeah, so what’.

He turned his head in time to see Maverick get knocked onto his back, and he saw the other pilots start swarming over to help him up, but he got there first, had to.

Maverick looked up at him from the sand in a smile, his head tilted up and that patch-covered neck on display. Rooster reached down with hands that were dying to touch and clasped him by the hand to pull him upright. Maverick’s hand against his was like touching a live wire, and the sensation zipped from his hand throughout his body. When Maverick was upright, he couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop his own urge to mark and rub puppy free on Maverick. Rooster ran his hand up Maverick’s arm to clasp him around the elbow, and then he pulled, brought Maverick right in against him and Maverick came easy. He didn’t hesitate; dipped his head down and ground his cheek right into Maverick’s. Felt his moustache tickle against the corner of Maverick’s mouth, and made eye contact with Phoenix who was giving him a thumbs up behind Maverick’s back.

And fuck, Maverick did smell like him. Smelled like engine and sweet sweat, and Rooster. If Rooster thought he was scent-drunk before on everyone else, it was nothing like Maverick’s was making him feel now. He hadn’t been allowed to scent Maverick since the omega locked himself down tight after their time in South Dakota.

He breathed and breathed for a second or an eternity before Maverick nudged him back gently with a hand flat on his belly. Wasn’t mad though, just smiled tentatively at Rooster before he ducked around him and started jogging back to his chair.

Rooster stood and watched him go, feeling hopeful as Payback approached him to grin and rub a hand across his back. The entire group called after Maverick, pleading for him to rejoin them. He resisted and sat down heavily, waving them off good-naturedly. Rooster rejoined the scrimmage but kept an eye on Maverick as the omega pulled his shirt back on; turned and waved to someone sitting outside of The Hard Deck. The pretty beta bartender that they all knew. Just Maverick’s type.

That good feeling started to abate as a tension pulled back to his stomach, but it didn’t stay long. It was as if the group could sense his changing emotions, and they probably could with the blockers rubbed off, and they were running to him and pulling him back into their circus. Putting the ball in his hand, and he was off again and sinking back into that happy good pack vibe.

They were barely playing a game anymore, just a swam of shared thrill, but Bob still somehow managed to score his first point. The pilots went wild with whoops and shouts of delight, and Rooster charged forward and ducked under Bob, stood up with the soft-spoken alpha seated on his shoulders. Everyone coalesced around them, and it was like a singular ecstatic hive mind. They all dropped to the ground into a puppy pile and lay there laughing and wrestling on the shore.

A sour note hit the air and they all looked up as one to see Maverick seated in his chair and looking up at Cyclone, who had a hand on the omega’s neck.

It was old school Navy discipline that was against regulations now, and Maverick turned to stare out at the pilots on the beach with a steady look on his face that didn’t seem cowed. But his displeasure was in the air, and Rooster knew that it wasn’t just him who felt like storming over there and raging.

Cyclone could feel the disapproval of his audience, and pulled his hand back, but didn’t move. Maverick rolled his shoulders with the weight of the hand gone from his neck. Rooster was starting to stand until Hangman clasped a hand around his wrist and shook his head, pulled Rooster back down for his own good.

It was Bob who acted, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Come on, Maverick! We’re getting killed out here!”

Everyone joined in, a steady chorus of pleas for Maverick to join them, ’We need you!’; a ridiculous notion from a group of pilots laying together in the sand. They all knew it but kept calling for him anyway.

But Cyclone relented anyway, turned and stalked off, and Maverick walked over to join them again but left his shirt on this time. Came back with his scent smelling like relief.

Phoenix hooked him by the ankle and pulled him down into their pile, and he was swallowed by the group. Rooster didn’t seek him out to touch again, didn’t want his arousal to permeate the air, but found himself occasionally being nudged up against Maverick anyway and he reveled in it.

They eventually got up to play a little bit more, but for a while it was just a push pull and nudge on the sand while they luxuriated in the shared happy mood.

After Hondo eventually declared a mutual victory, the group of pilots meandered around and lazily redressed before heading towards the bar to celebrate and dehydrate with some alcohol. Maverick didn’t move to follow them, seemed to be eyeing his Kawasaki that was parked in the lot, and the entire group complained.

“Come on, Maverick!” Phoenix tried, wrapping a damp hand around Maverick’s arm as he tried to beg off and leave. Rooster watched them steadily, wanted to see what Maverick would do. “First round is on Hangman,” she grinned.

Hangman stepped forward and teasingly knocked his fist against Maverick’s bicep, looked like he wanted to scent mark the omega more but surprisingly resisted, “Yeah, old timer. First round’s on me. Next one on Rooster.”

Maverick laughed and looked like he was still going to beg off, but hesitated and cut his eyes to Rooster instead. Looking for permission.

It was dangerous. There was a million years of history between them, and if they called it a night now then they could keep this easy truce. Maybe Rooster wouldn’t have to go into their next exercise with dread in his heart, maybe he could keep this going. But, maybe, his heart whispered, maybe he could have more.

“Come on, Mav,” he invited, pulling his glasses off to look Maverick steady in the eye, “You don’t want to miss seeing Hangman pick up a tab. It’ll be a historical event.”

The rest of the pilots nudged into Maverick until he smiled and gave in, but the smile went shark when he said, “Alright, but I’m first on pool.”

And the pilots all roared their approval and shepherded Maverick through the door.

Rooster followed, drawn to trail after the omega like there was a string tugging from behind his navel.

True to his word, Hangman bought the first round and posed in rare good nature for pictures of everyone and their first-ever drinks purchased by Hangman. Rooster was next, and then Maverick, and everyone went round robin paying after that until they were all at least buzzed or outright drunk.

The team felt completely different now, felt like they were a team. They all knew each other’s smells now, and were covered in a shared scent in turn. It didn’t make them love each other, but there was an understanding and a connection beyond just being Top Gun graduates vying for the chance to be selected and fly. Didn’t make Hangman less of a dick, but it helped to smell the insecurity in his scent when he said something inappropriate.

Rooster hadn’t been able to keep his eyes or his mind off Maverick all evening, nor his thoughts either. They were dancing around each other, and it felt good. Like ten years ago when his best evenings were sitting with Maverick in the living room and eating chips.

Maverick even challenged him to a game of pool, but he wisely declined and elected Hangman to play in his stead, which made Maverick roll his eyes and laugh. Rooster’s eyes stayed on Maverick the whole game, admired his ass as he bent over to take shots, and made fifty dollars on Maverick to win.

The group howled and took more pictures of Hangman as he stood there in defeat.

He got Maverick alone at the bar, once. Leaned heavy into the omega and whispered conspiratorially into his ear, “Why football today?”

A question that had been on his mind since they met on the beach.

Maverick turned his head and looked up to meet Rooster’s eyes, and smiled soft, “Old navy trick, from before. Sometimes you have to let the dogs off the leash to sniff at each other if you want them to get friendly,” and he knocked arms with Rooster, just for a moment, and walked back to the group with his beer in his hand.

The drinks kept flowing and the group didn’t break up. Stayed huddled close and plied Maverick with drinks to coax him into talking about his exploits; won a story about a liquored-up Admiral ‘Iceman’ Kazansky as their prize.

Rooster was feeling so good that he wandered away from the pool tables, unplugged the jukebox, and took a seat on the piano bench. Wanted to show off, make a spectacle of himself; an alpha gesture aimed at catching the eyes of an omega. His omega.

He combed through his repertoire for a song that reminded him of Maverick, put his hands to the keys and let a song from an old memory flow. The pilot group filed over and joined him, and he hoped Maverick was coming too; hoped Maverick was watching. Couldn’t smell him over the scent of sweat and beer in the air, but kept playing; played for him.

“Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!” they chorused, and Phoenix leaned far into him to knock their heads together in breathless enjoyment.

He kept playing but looked up, scanned the bar, and saw a stricken Maverick talking to the owner, Penny, and hurriedly trying to close his tab. Anxiety crept up into Rooster too, and he struggled to finish up the song as he clenched tight at the sight of Penny running a hand up Maverick’s wrist to clasp her hand around his; watched them talk with their faces close together and too far away to hear.

Rooster finished and took his hands off the keys, let a loose Phoenix slide onto the bench behind him and take up playing herself. There was a swarm around the piano and he weaved through the tight crowd of people to try and get to Maverick. He was slowed down by a sea of hands coming down to clap him on the shoulder or grab him by the hand, but he kept pushing. Watched Maverick go to leave the bar and stagger towards the side door exit like it was hurting him to stay.

“Maverick, Maverick!” he called, frantic to catch him.

He followed out the side door and found Maverick leaning into the outside wall of the bar with his eyes closed tight.

Rooster stepped into Maverick, took away all the free space around him and bracketed Maverick into the wall with his body and arms up on either side of his head. Maverick didn’t resist and stayed still where Rooster pinned him.

“Why’d you leave?” Rooster panted, giving Maverick just enough room to be able to look up at him. Wanted to see his face, but Maverick wasn't obliging and kept his gaze pinned to the floor. He shook his head and wouldn't look up.

“That was your dad’s song,” he finally admitted, tilting his head up but not to look at Rooster; stared somewhere off into the distant night instead.

Rooster closed his eyes, that answer being the last one that he wanted to hear right now. He was years tired of hearing about his dad, about the number one reason that Maverick would never just give in and give him a chance. He thumbed through his memories and knew that Maverick was partly right, could remember his dad at the piano with his mom in his lap and Maverick by his side playing that old tune. Remembered Maverick dancing around with Bradley himself in his arms.

“It wasn’t just dad’s song,” he disagreed, moving closer to press his chin to the side of Maverick’s head and speak into his hair. “That was our song too,” he said, wanting to curl his whole body around Maverick and stop his hurting. The years old anger felt drained now, and in its place only longing and want. He felt so good pressed into Maverick like this, so at peace. Breathing his scent in like it was his life’s air.

“Bradley…” Maverick whispered, but didn't fight. Didn't push or move.

“Who was that girl?” Rooster asked, suddenly. Couldn't talk about his dad anymore, and had on his mind that hand touching Maverick at the bar.

“You know Penny,” Maverick sighed, and Rooster realized that he did, even beyond their interactions at the bar. Remembered Maverick bringing her home, once upon a time, and remembered hating her on sight. She was exactly the kind of girl who would have been perfect for Maverick if he hadn’t always belonged to Bradley.

“You know what I mean, Mav. Are you going to meet her at her house?” he asked, and it was forward. Might even be forward enough for Maverick to draw the line in the sand and run away.

Maverick sighed again and shifted, pulled his hand up to grasp onto Rooster’s shirt. He closed his eyes and nudged back firmer into Rooster’s hold, not fighting now. Giving in.

“Maybe I would have, in another life. Now—no. I’m going home alone,” Maverick said, like he made a habit of it.

Bradley could see that modesty patch from here, wanted to peel it back. Wanted to cup his hand on Maverick’s naked skin and imagine making him his. He put his hand on Maverick’s heart instead and it was beating hard under bone and skin.

“Let me come with you. Let me go home with you. Please, Mav,” he pleaded, pressing deeper into Maverick like they had in the classroom. But this time they were face to face, and he thought wildly that Maverick might let him duck his head for a kiss.

Maverick didn't answer, and he pressed on, desperate, “Don’t you feel—it feels so bad, when I’m not with you, Mav. It feels like I might go crazy—feral. Like I’m not myself; I’m someone worse. And when we’re together, it feels… feels like nothing is missing.” They breathed together, quiet after that for a beat. Bradley tried again, soft, insecure, “Is that—is that anything like how it feels for you?”

And Maverick gave a great shuddering breath. He leaned in hard and pressed his face into Bradley’s neck. His neck started to feel wet from Mav’s hot breath and maybe tears.

“Yes, Bradley,” Maverick said, sounding exhausted and weak, “That’s how it’s felt for years.”

And Rooster pulled back and held Maverick’s face with two hands, waited until Maverick’s looked up at him. He saw need and misery, and tear tracks running down his face. Rooster ducked down and in, took Maverick’s lips in a kiss. Mav was salty and moaned piteously into his mouth as Bradley pressed against him, moved their lips together and encouraged them to open so Bradley could lick in. Teased Maverick’s tongue to push back on him, and he did with the smooth movements of experience.

He was flat on him now and slotted his legs between Maverick’s, felt the omega’s thick erection against his thigh. He breathed in deeply as they kissed, and he could smell arousal, slick, and desperation that matched his own. Maverick grabbed his hips in both hands and grinded against him; Bradley’s hard dick digging into his belly. Bradley pulled back from the kiss and felt his alpha urges going crazy, tried to push them down, tried not to fuck Maverick up against The Hard Deck.

“Take me home, Mav,” he asked again, and Maverick gave in, and they didn't waste any time getting the hell out of there.

Rooster had ridden there with Phoenix, so all they had was Maverick’s Kawasaki.

Maverick moved quickly and slung his leg over the bike, adjusting his cock in his pants when he sat down before looking over his shoulder at Rooster with heat, “Come on then, sweetheart” he said coyly and grinned, “I’ll ride you.”

Rooster climbed on snugly behind him and wrapped his arms around Maverick’s hips, pressing in to the omega so his hardon was riding the line of Maverick’s ass, and whispered in his ear, “I’d love it if you did.”

Maverick laughed, and it was so easy. Like it always should have been, like it never was before. But they were just slotting together now like the years and anger were nothing.

He held on tight as Maverick careened through the streets like a man on fire.

They got to Maverick’s bungalow and tore off of the bike and into the house. Didn't try to touch each other until the door slammed shut behind them, and then it was on.

They didn't bother turning on any lights in Maverick’s house, lit on fire by each other’s touch and their sense of smell. They met teeth first in a hard clash of a kiss, and it was a frenzy. They undressed themselves and each other, clawing clothes off until Rooster wasn't sure who removed what when they were both naked in the doorway of what must have been Maverick’s bedroom.

Rooster thought he was drunk before, on the beer and the pack scent on the beach, but it was nothing. He was fucking obliterated now on the touch and smell of Maverick. He hadn't had so much as a hand on his dick yet, but something in his mind was blaring out pure ecstasy.

When their clothes were on the floor and they were finally undressed, they slowed down in the doorway and Maverick ducked his head down to Rooster’s chest. He felt a strong hand wrap around his dick and pump hard and confident, a stroke up and down that ended with Maverick squeezing firm at the base where his knot would be. He hadn’t—hadn’t done that in years, not since Maverick. Never could or wanted to with anyone else.

It felt good to be touched, but Rooster was desperate to do the touching. He bent down and grabbed Maverick behind each thigh, moaning when he felt the slick under his fingers. He hauled Maverick up against him, slotted himself between Maverick’s legs that he was spreading, and pushed them both back down onto the bed.

“Mav, Mav, Mav,” he whispered as the omega lay splayed out under him. In the low light, he could see Maverick’s hard dick against his leg, and he was powerless to resist taking it in his hand and pressing a kiss into its tip.

“Jesus, Bradley,” Maverick panted, canting his hips up at Rooster’s face, and he opened his mouth wide to take him. Maverick was big, especially for an omega, and heavy on his tongue. He fucked his own face down onto him, tried to relax his throat but reached his limits and came up gagging.

“No wonder the girls all like you, Mav,” Rooster said, pulling off of Maverick’s dick to jerk his hand along the spit-wet shaft instead. “Maybe you could fuck me with it sometime instead,” he said, slutty and needy for Maverick whatever way he could have him. He'd never been fucked before and didn't know where the idea was coming from now, but the words were bubbling out of him, and he wanted Maverick completely.

Maverick had thrown an arm over his face and moaned at that, arching his back and pulling at Bradley, back up for a kiss. Rooster pushed that arm off of his face, wanted to see him though it was almost too dark to make out anything but Maverick’s lust-blown eyes.

“That’s not where I want you,” Maverick admitted, voice throaty. “Please,” he added, and there was a scent in the air that made Bradley’s alpha seize. They were both on suppressants, had to be, but suddenly it tasted like heat in the room. Couldn’t be, but somehow smelled like it was. And Rooster was on more suppressants than anyone was supposed to need, but he felt fire in his blood, and something inside was rising up to match Maverick’s need with his own want.

He lost his voice after that, lost everything in Maverick.

He pushed the omega back onto the bed and drew his legs up high and spread them apart; fitted himself in between. He nosed down and pressed his face hard into the crease of Maverick’s thigh, felt Mav’s hard dick rub against his cheek as he nuzzled in there. His mind was swimming and he scented Maverick deep, instinctively looking for the smell of someone else, that girl at the bar, anybody—but found only Maverick and himself deep, like he was still fucked into him from all those years ago.

Rooster moaned and sucked open-mouthed at Maverick’s leg, Mav’s thigh twitching against his head at the tickle of his moustache against that secret sensitive skin.

He licked and sucked down the curve of Maverick’s body until he was lapping at that tight hole between his legs, made his tongue a hard point and licked in and fucked up, pulling Maverick’s hips down at him and encouraging Maverick to ride his face. Maverick was carding fingers through Rooster’s thick hair and moaning loud, had Rooster right where he wanted him.

Rooster devoured that tight heat, licking and sucking at where he had been once and never allowed to revisit. He was desperate to get in, tie them, never let Maverick leave. He couldn’t help but grind his dick down into the covers under him until he couldn’t stand it anymore. Knew he was close to popping a knot with his face in Maverick’s cunt and his dick not where it needed to be.

He pulled back and Maverick leaned up to grab him by the arms and bring him up, blanketed on top of him. They pressed in close and Rooster rubbed his face all over Maverick’s, claiming, affirming. He found Maverick’s mouth in the dark and met him in a kiss, and they shared the taste of Maverick’s slick between them.

Maverick pulled Bradley closer with his legs and got his thighs up high and locked around Rooster’s waist, pressing him in. And it felt familiar. Almost exactly how they had done it before, a lifetime ago. And it was similar, but so different. He was a man now, close to being Maverick’s equal, like he had always been desperate to be. And they both wanted to be here, weren’t forced together in the wilderness this time. Maverick wanted him, invited him here; just Bradley.

They breathed heavily and Maverick reached down between them, grabbed Bradley by his dick and helped angle him.

Rooster felt that wet heat against the head of his dick and started pressing in, felt Maverick start to give around his dickhead, but Maverick whined and shifted under him, holding on tight to his bicep.

“Easy, easy Bradley—I haven’t, I don’t,” Maverick admitted, in so many words. And it was a big deal, meant something, for an omega who went through heats not to take someone. Not to let themselves have that relief. “And you’re—you got bigger,” he adds, panting.

“Jesus,” Rooster said, holding still at the precipice of entering him, and tried not to blow his load and pop a knot right there. He didn't move for a minute, on the verge of coming virtually untouched.

Maverick tilted back at him again, finally, and he pushed forward fully, head of his dick popping in completely into the slick snugness. He was tight, and Rooster moaned. Maverick pulled at him hard and he kept sliding in until he was bottomed out and it was Maverick everywhere, all around him. Clenched tight around his dick, in his arms underneath, and in the blossoming pleasure in his mind that he knew was Maverick without knowing or questioning how.

He held steady and buried, leaned forward to take Maverick in another kiss, and they started fucking like that. Maverick holding his arms and Bradley above him and pressed in close.

It wasn't the most skillful he’d ever been, but he couldn't stand to be further away from Maverick. He only pulled out enough to get a taste of friction before he was slamming back in hard, balls slapping against Maverick’s ass. They broke the kiss but didn't move their mouths, just breathed into each other. Maverick made a soft cry against him and it went straight to Bradley’s knot, and he felt it start to swell and catch a little on the rim of Maverick’s pussy.

He dropped his face to Maverick’s neck and couldn't stop himself, put his mouth right on the spot where Maverick’s claim spot would be, and—and it was naked. Maverick's modesty patch had to have come off in their frenzy, and Bradley moaned, and lapped and tasted that forbidden skin.

Maverick didn't stop him, instead he shouted like the sound was torn out of him and came between their bellies without even a hand on his dick.

His body rippled around Bradley’s and his knot swelled, growing faster than it ever had and locking them together. Bradley hoped permanently, and he whined hard, eyes rolling back into his head, coming continuously; pumping his spend deep into Maverick.

He didn't move his mouth from Maverick’s neck, but somehow he resisted the urge to bite and take and make Maverick his. Knowing that it would be wrong without talking about it, no matter how right it felt, how he was sure to his bones that Maverick was made for him.

But he was lost to pleasure, and he pushed his own neck at Maverick, begging. Angled his head out of the way so Maverick could bite him, claim him if he wanted. Like Bradley needed. Bradley would lay down his life if he could be Maverick’s forever.

Maverick didn't, didn't bite, said “Bradley,” in a heavenly voice but still didn't bite, instead opened his mouth on Bradley’s neck in a soft wet kiss.

Bradley moaned as his dick pulsed again inside of Maverick, working his hips to grind in harder, chasing that pleasure even as they were still locked.

“You could, if you wanted,” he said, didn't care that he was desperate and needy and feeling sixteen years old and gone on Maverick again. Kissed Maverick’s neck again too, knowing that Maverick was feeling just as much pleasure.

“I want, I do want,” Maverick admitted, but still didn't give in. “We’ll talk, okay? We have so much to talk about,” he said, and groaned at Bradley’s continued grinding.

“Okay, Mav,” Bradley agreed, not the raging adolescent that he had been. He had Maverick, and it felt so incredible, and all of that anger felt like it was lost, had belonged to a fading version of himself. He could wait. They could wait, together. They had time.

He was home.

They stayed like that, rode out Bradley’s knot, and with a hand on Maverick’s dick he was able to coax him to come a few more times. They finally separated and fell into a heap together, and on another night Bradley knew that he would have wanted to do it a few more times. But the football and the beer had their limbs feeling heavy on the bed, and they weren't as young as they used to be. The air in the room was thick with their shared scent, and it was the most comfortable Bradley had been, maybe ever.

They slept like the dead.

Bradley was the first to wake up, blinking at the sun peaking in through the blinds. Maverick was in his arms, really there, and still asleep. Snoring a little, something that Bradley knew from a lifetime ago to be a trait leftover from a break to his nose. It felt real but not, and it had taken a million years and battles to get to this point.

He was tucked up behind Maverick whose back was to him, and there wasn't a molecule of space between them. Bradley was thick between his legs with morning wood, and it was a complete high to rock his dick forward, right into where it had been nestled against Maverick’s back.

That earned him a sleepy moan of acknowledgement, and he curled his head around to press a kiss on Maverick’s mouth. Missed, couldn't quite reach. Instead he got him on the side of his sleepy smile and tickled him with his mustache, which earned him a half-hearted slap on his ass.

Rooster laughed and kissed a trail down Maverick’s cheek, under his jaw, onto his neck.

Kissed down right over a bond mark, large scar unmistakable and glaring up at him in the light of day.

Notes:

I've been excited to write beach day since the beginning but I didn't always know how it would end.

I really enjoyed writing this chapter and hope that you enjoy reading it too!!!! I got a promotion as work so this is my present to me, and I'm sharing it, haha! Not sure when I'll be able to update next but soon, I hope.

Also I know that some of the expectation was that there'd be a crazy tear your clothes off style rut, but I think they did that part already and they've been trying to make their way back to each other ever since, so I hope this wasn't disappointing!

Chapter 17

Rooster’s rationality left him as he grabbed Maverick by the shoulder and rolled him flat on his back. 

Maverick went from sleepy to high alert in a millisecond; could feel the temperature drop in the room and he stared up at Rooster, expression immediately slipping to shocked and guarded.

“You’re bonded,” Rooster said, matter of fact. There was no arguing the truth.

With Maverick on his back and his neck exposed in its entirety, the mark was shiny and pearlescent on his skin. It was a big and jagged bite, done without care. Rooster had seen the kind of bond marks that were done at weddings, in front of family and friends. This wasn’t that. It looked like it had been done impulsively; without thought to Maverick’s comfort. It wasn’t fresh and purple bruised, like a lot of marks were from repeated reaffirming bites. It looked old and neglected; had long since been given a chance to heal.

Maverick swallowed and stared back at him, at a loss for words. Tried to move his hand to his neck to cover the mark, like Rooster hadn’t already seen it.

Rooster grabbed his hand and pinned it to the bed. Grabbed his other hand and pinned it too, Maverick’s rib cage stretching up as his arms were trapped above his head, and Rooster rolled to straddle him and press him down into the bed with his naked weight.

Rooster felt like he was looking at Maverick from far away, lost somewhere deep inside of his head. Looking at a stranger underneath him. Who had a whole bond, and had let him think—let him hope.

“You’re bonded,” he repeated, Maverick still frozen and unresponsive beneath him.

Maverick still didn’t say anything. 

They had been close and cuddling, a minute ago. 

“You are bonded, Maverick. Pete,” he spat, the name unfamiliar and thick on his tongue. He needed Maverick to say something. An excuse, a defense, anything but confirming the truth.

“I am,” Maverick finally said, sounding lost. Like he wasn’t prepared to wake up and have this talk. They had just been cuddling. 

Rooster sat on top of him and his mind spiraled into the abyss. He was shaken, and hurt. Angry.

He felt waves of revulsion rock over him, at the unfairness, at his life, at the fact that he had knotted Maverick last night—had made love to him, and he still wasn’t his. Would never be, could never be. And it was the story of his life all over again.

“To who?” Rooster agonized; the words wrenched out of him.

He pictured a thousand universes, a thousand men that Maverick would pick over him. Terrible realities where Maverick had given in to him as a joke, or to placate him; little Bradley and his feelings.

Sleep with Rooster one last time and then go home from Top Gun and back to his life, some pretty beta girl that he could laugh with about this later. Another alpha somewhere, higher rank, more man than Rooster could ever be. Iceman, or someone similar, a great hero from Maverick’s past. And here he was; a Rooster who couldn’t leave his perch.

“You,” Maverick breathed, searching his face, “it was always you, Bradley.”

And the earth shattered around him. He let go of Maverick’s wrists, but the omega left his arms frozen in place, naked torso stretched long and submissive underneath him. Rooster rocked back onto his heels where he sat atop Maverick, stunned.

“Me,” Rooster said, empty. Watching this all play out like he and Maverick were characters in a movie, distant and unattached from his real life. There was no way. The idea was unfathomable.

“That—that day, when you went into rut. You marked me,” Maverick said, and he did move his arms then. Pulled down a hand to cup at his neck, his secret that he’d kept so long. While Rooster was falling to pieces.

Rooster stayed shocked, quiet. Didn't know what expression his face was making anymore, but whatever Maverick was reading on him just made him more frantic to explain.

“You didn’t remember after. And I didn’t want to tell you, I wanted you to have options. Not have your life decided at sixteen and on accident. It was a claim on me, you were still free to make choices and—find someone else. To live the life that you wanted,” Maverick said, pleading but firm.

Rooster was gutted. Pushed up and off the bed, walked naked and bare to the furthest wall and pressed his head to the sheetrock. He wrapped an arm around himself and tried to count to a million, to breathe, to pet the dog. Anything but go out of his mind right now. He buried his head into the crook of his own arm and ran his hand through his hair.

“Bullshit,” he said, voice wretched in his throat. “Bullshit, the life that I wanted, I wanted YOU,” he roared, and slammed his fist through the wall.

His hand ached and he felt more impotent than ever. There was a hole in Maverick’s bedroom wall and a crater in Rooster’s heart. But he was beyond it all. Beyond livid or hurt or pleading. He just felt done and aching.

“You were a kid,” Maverick tried to counter, still on the bed, and it was the wrong thing to say. He couldn’t have chosen words intentionally that would have hit Rooster harder in the gut.

“I had to go to therapy,” Rooster spat, closing his eyes against the waves of red and rage that start to rock him. “I was losing my fucking mind. I knew something was wrong, something was missing. And it was you! I couldn’t make it through a fucking month of college without you, without going crazy, and they told me I just wasn’t adjusted from my presentation, but the whole time I had an omega that didn’t want me.”

He panted and wanted to hit something again, wanted to hit Maverick even.

“I’ve been losing my mind this whole god damn mission,” Rooster said, and he was crying, and lost, “And it was you this whole time.”

“It wasn’t wanting you,” Maverick tried, and he got out of bed and was trying to get close. He was standing in front him with Rooster’s own come dripping down his legs, naked and vulnerable and pleading. And it was falling on deaf ears. “I wanted you. I’ve wanted you every day, every heat—there was never anyone else.”

But Rooster didn't turn around, couldn't acknowledge him or anything that he was saying, and Maverick tried again, “You were so young and didn’t mean it. And I’m—I was…”

“Too good for me,” Rooster finished, and he was done. He had to get out. The animal inside of him was gnashing its teeth against the bars of its cage, howling for Maverick, and he didn't know what would happen if it escaped.

Maverick tried to approach him again and put a hand on his hip, squeezed, “No, no, Bradley,” and he was distraught.

“You pulled my papers,” Rooster said, on autopilot and broken, “Tried to stop me from being you—or being worthy of you. Didn’t tell me I had fucking bonded you. You just let me go, and what? Had no one? For years? And that was better than me?”

Maverick just stood lost in front of him, and there were bruises and love bites scattered across his skin, but nothing stood out as harshly as Rooster’s own claim bite. The bite that Maverick had rejected, had hidden from him for years.

"I thought you would be okay, that you might forgive me someday," Maverick said, anguished. "I thought that I was protecting you from being forced to live your life with me."

Rooster jerked away and started pulling his clothes on, and Maverick didn't stop him. Just kept standing there stock still and miserable.

After Rooster had his pants on, he broke a little, and rounded on Maverick again. Cupped his hand on Maverick’s lower belly and hissed, “You decided that having no one was better than me, or my bond, or letting me—letting me get a pup on you,” and Maverick whined, low, like he couldn't stop himself. He grabbed Rooster’s hand and tried to press it in hard to where he was touching, where his full womb would be.

“Believe me, Bradley--” he started, and Rooster cut him off, jerked away. 

“My dad believed in you,” he said, stalking towards the door, “I’m not going to make the same mistake.”

And he left, Maverick standing there in ruins as his phone started to ring in the distance.

Notes:

I liked last chapter much better. I debated if Bradley should find out right away whose mark it was but I don't think he could leave that question unanswered and I also don't think that Maverick would lie

Ughhhhh

I definitely did not finish editing this at work 🤫

Chapter 18

Rooster had to get out, run.

They had ridden the motorcycle there, no vehicle of his own to escape in, but he had to leave. Needed to be away from Maverick and his own breaking heart. So he started walking, and kept going until the sun had risen high in the sky and he’d reached his quarters at the base.

Knew he had class, training at Top Gun, and didn’t even consider going. Couldn’t bear to sit in class with Maverick and pretend like nothing had changed.

He could have walked around the earth and kept going, if it had gotten him back to a time before today.

Before he knew that while he dreamed and pined after Maverick, the omega had been his the whole time.

And hid it. Lied about it, kept a coverup on his neck for years to keep it a secret. Maverick, who wore his body with pride and wasn’t afraid to show skin, hiding part of his neck. He should have known. He felt foolish for being deceived.

Rooster made it through the doorway to his assigned room and let it shut behind him before he slid down to the floor. Was lucky that he made it that far, nothing left in him.

Not the anger, or the want, or the warmth that Maverick had put there. He felt hollowed out and bone dry.

Painfully and mind racing, he fanned through years of memories with Maverick. Tried to remember the claim, from that night, and he squeezed his eyes tight as his stomach twisted and he thought about all the things that he always tried to forget. Remembered Maverick trying to push him off, telling him to ‘go jerk off’, and he remembered persisting. Using his alpha cords on Maverick, guilting him—using his dad’s death as a debt to collect until the omega went prostrate underneath him.

Knew that Maverick hadn’t wanted that, even if he had given in; hadn’t wanted him. Had just wanted to take him on a camping trip and had gotten fucked stupid and bonded against his will instead.

Maverick hiding everything from him while he lost his mind with grief was proof.

Rooster felt melted into the floor, like he could never get back up. He stared sightlessly at the popcorn ceiling above him. His alpha was whining and clawing at his throat, but he swallowed it.

He was hurt, deep. Felt the full weight of rejection from Maverick, whom he’d wanted, had as a mate, and he had still been turned away. Treated like a child, and not the alpha partner that he’d always wanted Maverick to see.

He felt that anger, the hurt, rise back up inside of himself like a swelling sea.

He’d tried to get Maverick to bite him last night. Had felt, in the heat of the moment, like everything was aligning and they were getting their chance to be real. A real couple, not Rooster and his unrequited crush. Rooster and the omega that he’d forced into spending a rut with him when he was sixteen, and had been paying for it with a broken heart ever since.

What a joke. Had Maverick been laughing?

Rooster’s neck flushed hot with anger, embarrassment, guilt. He shut his eyes tight, but tears squeezed out and tracked down his face to trail wetly behind his ears.

He thought about naked Maverick, standing in front of him in his bedroom; beautiful, marked, and begging for Bradley to stay. But it was a hurt so enormous that he couldn’t give in to his alpha’s cries, or to the call of his omega.

He just needed to leave and go back to life how Maverick had wanted—like the bond had never existed.

He’s missed class today, he knew. It might be enough to get him kicked out of Top Gun even if he wanted to stay.

His cell phone was in his pocket, and he’d felt it ringing on his thigh, but there was nothing on the other end of the phone that could compel him to answer.

The phone quit ringing and became a banging on his door instead.

“Rooster!” came the voice from the other side of the door, irritated. Phoenix.

He pulled himself into a sitting position against the door, took stock of himself. He was still wearing his sandy beach clothes from dogfight football, probably looked like death, and smelled to high heaven like sex and Maverick; a dead giveaway mating scent of alpha come and omega slick. He ran a hand over his face and fuck, he probably had slick still in his mustache, hadn’t washed his face. Every inch of him painted a guilty picture. And he knew that he was guilty, in more than one way; thought about leaving Maverick devastated, and claiming him without permission years before.

He couldn’t let her in.

“Why aren’t you in class?” he asked, stalling. Stood up from the floor and stared at the door, racking his brain for excuses to send her away.

“You’re not in class either. No one is in class, training was cancelled today,” her muffled voice came back, sounding bewildered, “Admiral Kazansky is dead.”

Rooster stepped immediately to the door and ripped it open, Phoenix stumbling a little from where she had been leaning against the frame.

“What?” he rasped, mouth dry. Iceman.

“They’re calling everyone to assemble and brief for his funeral, and jesus, Rooster, you reek,” Phoenix said, taking a large step back from where he hung haggard in the doorway. “You’re not supposed to be in the dorm without blockers. Everyone and their admiral is going to know what you’ve been up to.”

Rooster flushed, knew he was being indecent and against regulations. But he was too lost to respond, thinking about Ice, and what he meant to Maverick. That Maverick had probably gotten the call when he was alone in the wake of Rooster’s rejection.

He was hurt and mad and a thousand other things, but the thought made his alpha whine somewhere down low.

“I’ll get ready,” he said, and did.

When Rooster was presentable and the smell of Maverick and their coupling was washed down the drain, he followed Phoenix through the base and into one of the larger conference rooms at Top Gun. She tried to goad him into talking about the damning scents in his dorm, but he brushed her off. She could and probably had drawn her own conclusions, and he was in no mood to talk about it.

At least not with her.

Some traitorous part of himself, the same part that had sworn off speaking to Maverick just hours ago, couldn’t help but want to talk to the omega.

Learning about the secret of his claim had been devastating. But before that, when it had been so good between them and everything that Rooster had been waiting for, Maverick had promised him that they would talk later. Had given his word when Rooster had been buried in him knot deep, and now Rooster half wished that he hadn’t gone nuclear like he always did. That he had stayed and heard him out.

Half wanted to hear Maverick out, and half wanted a chance to keep screaming. His alpha was simmering and electric under his skin and he didn’t know if it wanted fight or fuck.

He checked his phone for the first time all day and saw missed calls and texts from several people, but nothing from Maverick. He put it away and tried to stifle disappointment.

In the conference room he immediately looked for Maverick. Saw Cyclone and Warlock with their stony countenances amongst other faculty, but Captain Pete Mitchell was nowhere to be found.

He sunk into his seat and distantly listened to instructions for the funeral proceedings, still covertly trying to scan the room for a glimpse of the omega.

But he wouldn’t see Maverick again until the funeral.

He searched for him in the days that followed learning about Iceman’s death—the days since he had left Maverick alone and crushed.

Training exercises continued and Warlock oversaw them in the air, and Cyclone in the classroom. Neither of them addressed Maverick’s absence, but they continued to instruct based on his lesson plan. Their chemistry in the air as a team wasn’t the same without Maverick leading them, and Rooster knew that the anxiety growing inside of him was also being felt by the other pilots.

They’d established a loose pack bond that day on the beach, and Maverick had been instrumental in connecting them. Although he was their instructor and superior in the eyes of the Navy, as an omega it was their shared affinity for him that allowed a group that was primarily alpha to mesh.

With Cyclone at the helm, they were back at each other’s throats; camaraderie forgotten without an omega to appease.

Their flying was getting worse, and they all knew it. The hopelessness of the mission was weighing on them all, and they could see it on the Admiral Simpson's face too. They couldn’t fly at that low of fan altitude, couldn’t make it in time, couldn’t handle the steep climb out. All of their progress was falling apart, and Maverick wasn’t there, and Rooster’s headache was back. He was not performing like he should, heart in his throat at the stick and aching, instincts locked so far away that he couldn’t fly with any more ingenuity than a textbook.

He knew why now, knew it was Maverick and the absence of him, but the feeling wasn’t stopped by knowing the truth.

He worried at that shadow in his mind where he knew Maverick was supposed to be, had been once in a fragmented and incomplete way; prodded at his own longing like a tongue running over a sore tooth.

Rooster had just come off the flight deck from another attempt, another fail.

’Why are you dead?’ Maverick might say. And because you’re not here was the only answer.

He stalked towards the locker room and found Hangman waiting for him, dressed down to a towel and sitting on a bench. Coyote and the rest of the others weren’t flanking him like they usually were, and he had a look on his face that told Rooster that this was a planned ambush.

“Where’s Maverick?” Hangman said, full of shit but never a bullshitter.

“I know the answer to that question the same as you, Hangman. He’s not here,” Rooster said, turning his back to Hangman in dismissal. Started stripping down and getting ready to shower, not waiting around for Hangman to spit it out.

“You’re flying like shit, even for you,” Hangman added, standing up and coming in close. He leaned into Rooster’s exposed neck in a way that wasn’t socially acceptable between two alphas. Could start a dominance fight on a bad day.

And for Rooster without Maverick, every day was a bad one.

Rooster ground a hand into the locker, but didn’t turn and give Hangman his front. Knew that if he did turn it would be to throw a fist, but he was tired, and a few days ago Hangman had almost felt like a friend.

Hangman gave a deep inhale, nose almost touching Rooster’s hairline on the back of his neck. The spot where his scent would be most potent after a day in the jet wearing away his blockers.

“You smell like him. And sad sack alpha. Did you fuck him, or just fuck it up? Or all of the above?” Hangman said, but backed up with both hands raised as Rooster’s entire body tensed. Rooster spun around and did feel like throwing that punch, the aggression flowing unchecked with his alpha’s frustration. But the look on Hangman’s face held him back.

He didn’t look dog shit perfect, or teasing. Hangman's brows were furrowed in concern, and he looked placatingly at Rooster. For once didn’t seem like he was trying to start a fight, even if his mouth said otherwise.

“All of the above,” Rooster admitted after a beat, honest.

“Bradshaw,” Hangman started, “On this mission—a man flies like Maverick, or a man does not come back. We need him,” he said, honest too.

‘I know’, Rooster almost said.

Instead answered, “I didn’t send him away,” and closed himself off to Hangman, headed for the showers.

“Well maybe you could get him back!” Hangman hollered, but Rooster drowned him out under the spray. He counted every tile on the shower wall, but he was still aching and drifting inside.

Iceman’s funeral was the next day. He and Rooster hadn’t been especially close, but they had both existed on the periphery of each other’s packs—Maverick being an omega who in some ways had belonged to them both.

Maverick had brought him on vacation with Ice’s family once, when he was younger. He remembered being thirteen years old and eaten up with jealousy when Maverick had sent him to bed one night. He had snuck back up and peeked through the blinds of the lake house they were staying in, and had seen Iceman and Maverick sitting together on a porch swing, sharing beers between them. He remembered feeling sick with it, looking at the two of them. Iceman’s arm slung around Maverick’s shoulder, quietly talking into his ear. Maverick had laughed at whatever Ice was saying, and Bradley would have given anything then to trade places with Tom Kazansky; an adult alpha Maverick’s own age. He had sat up late and watched the two of them sit there as real friends and equals, and coveted what they had.

He and Maverick had been sharing a bed at the old house, and Bradley had stayed awake until the omega had finally come to bed. He had shot back under the covers when he saw Ice and Mav get up, and he feigned sleep when Maverick came into their bedroom and shut the door behind him, quiet and considerate to his bunkmate. Bradley had watched through slitted eyes as Maverick took his shirt off and shimmied out of his pants, and crawled into bed next to him in just his underwear. Bradley hadn’t presented then, it was in the before time, so his neutral nose was blind to Iceman’s alpha scent all over Maverick, but there was no mistaking the cologne. Possessive even then, Bradley had shot out a hand to rest on Maverick’s bicep. Maverick had let him, and together they’d settled into sleep, and it was the first time that Bradley had ever imagined what if Maverick was his.

He’d never hated Iceman, a reserved family friend who would never let him win at a board game, but part of Bradley had resented him since that day.

But it was still hard now to attend his funeral, stifling grief in the heat of his dress uniform.

They were excused again from Top Gun instruction again for the day, as the faculty and students alike were in attendance to pay respect to Admiral Kazansky, Commander of the Pacific Fleet.

Bradley shifted from his position in formation, and his eyes skirted over the attendees, Ice’s omega wife and kids, now grown with pups of their own. Iceman’s pack looked lost and hurting, but still true to their alpha—ice cool.

Standing near Ice’s omega, Sarah, was the man that Rooster had been desperate and terrified to see. Maverick.

It had been over a week since he had seen him. A week of absence from Top Gun, a week of Rooster hating himself and Maverick in twisted turn and measure. Pain from years of missing him was made all the worse now by Maverick’s proximity and the knowledge that he was Rooster’s, irrevocably, even though he had never wanted to be.

Rooster ached inside, and wanted to go rip Maverick’s starched collar down, see his bond mark again. Show everyone. He didn’t know if Maverick had put a new modesty patch on, but he didn’t see the point; it had been a secret just from him. White hot anger simmered in him at the reminder.

Rooster didn’t know how to feel, but his raging emotions couldn’t stop him from watching Maverick. The omega looked shaken, like Ice was taking all of Maverick’s fight with him to the grave. Rooster remembered seeing this version of Maverick at both of his parent’s funerals, but he’d never seen Maverick look so wrecked. Without Iceman, he was truly packless, at a time when circumstances had made it clear that he also didn’t have Bradley.

All of the designated were pack animals, but omegas especially were never meant to be alone.

At Ice’s funeral, with shared loss heavy in the air, Rooster thought about his mom, and Maverick standing with him at her funeral. Maverick had never left his side, had offered unwavering comfort when Bradley’s world was turned inside out. The omega had pushed past the tension that had been there between them after Bradley’s presentation, after Maverick's claiming, he now knew.

Before she had died, his mom had told him ‘take care of each other’, and Maverick had. But here he was now, hurting, and Rooster had left him all alone.

Guilt grappled to the surface of Rooster’s heart as he watched Maverick step to Ice’s coffin, take off his golden aviator wings, and pound them into the mahogany. There were tears running down Maverick’s face as he stood in salute, and Rooster’s heart seized tight in his chest.

He was fucking everything up, he knew with clarity. But he couldn’t act.

He stood frozen with the rest of the pilots as jets flew overhead for the fallen Admiral Tom Kazansky, a jet splitting off from formation to honor their missing man.

Rooster watched as Maverick returned to Iceman’s pack, and a toddler dressed in black stood at his feet and put her arms up at him. The omega bent, picked her up with familiarity, and cradled the little girl on his hip.

It was gutting for Rooster to see so clearly a life he hadn’t had, and his alpha yearned.

He had half-formed plans of lingering and trying to speak to Maverick alone, but the omega left the cemetery with Iceman’s pack, and the chance was gone.

Instead, he dragged himself to The Hard Deck and tried to find peace at the bottom of a bottle.

The bartender was blessedly not Maverick’s old girlfriend. There was an older man working, and he obliged Rooster with bar nuts and a heavy pour. He hadn’t bothered to change out of his dress uniform, but the other officers could sense the sour miasma that he was putting out and gave him a wide berth.

Alone at the bar with too much alcohol, too many thoughts, and too much time to think them.

Rooster finished another drink, mind still swimming, and wore his heart on his face.

“Drinking like that, there has to be a girl or a football game that you’re losing somewhere,” came a teasing voice, and fuck, there she was. Penny.

Rooster raised his head and didn’t try for congeniality, didn’t have the sobriety to make an attempt, “You know it’s neither,” he said, voice unpleasant. Felt like he was talking through a mouth full of rocks.

She gave him a considering look and read him with a bartender’s wisdom, “Come on, tiger. Let’s take this outside,” and she didn’t give him time to consider, came around the bar and lifted him by an elbow. He went easy and boneless, lucky to be supporting his own weight.

“I don’t have to throw up,” he said, and finished with the yet silently.

“No, I know. But that’s a crowded Navy bar with a lot of ears, and it’s not just your business that’s on your mind,” Penny said, and steered him to a picnic table on the patio that overlooked the dark sea.

Rooster sat heavily, and stared up at her until she took a seat across from him, “You know,” he said. Another betrayal.

She gave him a guarded smile, “A man like Pete Mitchell stops wanting to sleep with you, and you find yourself with a lot of questions. Get him vulnerable enough and you get some answers, too. And Pete has been a whole lot of vulnerable lately.”

Rooster pulled a face at the idea of her and Maverick, a jealous stench rolling off of him under the astringency of alcohol, and she smiled down at her hands and said, “I know, you never liked me being with him even when you were little, Bradley Bradshaw.”

He was a fifth too deep to guard his emotions, and surprise showed on his face. “You remember me?” he said, had never forgotten her. Maverick’s perfect pretty girlfriend. He thinks he might have said that out loud because she laughed.

“You never forget the angry kid telling you to get off his Maverick,” she smiled, and then looked more serious, more wistful, “And you especially don’t forget when your boyfriend listens.”

Bradley took this in and couldn't help feeling a small sense of victory, even under the circumstances, but didn't offer anything back.

She continued, “Pete’s always been a guy who would do anything for you. So why are you here, on the day of his best friend’s funeral?”

And it hurt, and she was right, but he was too lost in old sore spots to admit it.

“Did he tell you that we’re—that I claimed him? That he’s bonded to me? For years now,” he said, throwing his words out a little bit like ammunition, looking to see if any of it would land a hurt on her.

She looked back at him steady and worldlier than he’d ever been. Maverick’s match, except.

“He told me when it happened. We had been seeing each other again at the time,” she said, and instead he was the one who got hit. Rooster put a hand over his face, a small privacy so she didn't see it if he started to cry. She continued, “He tried to just break it off with me without explaining, but—I made him tell me why.”

“And what did he tell you?” Rooster croaked, feeling unsteady even in his seat.

“That you hadn’t meant to do it, and didn’t know that you did, but that it was done now and he wasn’t going to lead me on,” she said evenly, but Rooster didn't need an alpha’s nose to sense her pain.

“It was a lot more than hadn’t meant to,” Rooster said, like it was being ripped out of him. “I don’t remember doing it, but I’m sure that I meant to. Did it against his will, is more like it,” and tears were rolling out into his hand now.

And underneath the anger and the resentment, there had lived an enormous guilt that had been growing since he found out about the claim. Guilt at what he did to Maverick that day he presented, guilt at still wanting him anyway, and guilt at being resentful that Maverick didn’t want him back.

“What Maverick wanted then and what Maverick wants now are worlds apart, I think. Ask him and he might tell you that,” she said gently, and he laughed wetly.

“Mav has made a career out of rejecting me, and there was a whole lot of time between when I was sixteen and now. If he wanted something different, he could have told me about the bond. Not hidden it away while I went fucking crazy,” Rooster said, and took his hand off of his face to stare out into the rolling ocean.

Penny was silent for a second before she looked out to the ocean too, and came back at him, “Seems to me like I recall you sending him packing after you told him not to bother you again,” and her words cut him like a knife.

“I did more than that,” he said, wishing for a second that the waves would carry him out.

“I know,” Penny admitted, and he closed his eyes, ashamed. Haunted by the memory of Maverick on the floor. He had been losing his mind a little bit, from bond sickness he now knew, but it had been him who did that, his rage.

“I was angry. I am angry. At being—cast aside,” he said, and he heard his own hypocrisy. “If he wanted me, even some day, even the possibility—I would have waited. But he made it clear. He pulled my papers, kept me out of the Naval Academy. I knew I would never be good enough, that he would never want me,” Rooster said, through gritted teeth and years of resentment.

Penny was quiet for an even longer time then, and he was starting to feel dizzy and sick from the alcohol and conversation.

“Maverick is a lot of things,” she said, “And loyal is number one. When your mom made him promise to keep you out of a cockpit—out of the Navy, then he was always going to have to do it. Even if it cost him his world.”

Rooster staggered up and leaned over the patio railing, vomiting into the sand.

He felt sick sick sick and it had nothing to do with the alcohol now. He threw up again. Saw Maverick with his pants pulled down on the floor of their packhouse behind his closed eyes.

Penny stood then too, and led him by the elbow to the parking lot. Phoenix was waiting for him in her car, and he saw her start to get out to help him in.

“I tried to call Pete a while ago to come get you, but the call rang through,” she said, and Rooster didn't know if she meant to say it to hurt him, but it did.

He closed his eyes and tried not to be sick again, but knew that he deserved it.

Notes:

SO that whole movie I just want to make SOMEONE tell Rooster. So I decided that Penny would. Someone needs to stick up for Maverick!!!
Maverick needs a hug and Rooster is getting a kick in the pants.

Is there a discord for this pairing?? if not, one is needed

Also, I tried multiple times posting this chapter so hopefully it works today!

Chapter 19

“It’s time to move on,” Cyclone said from behind his podium, countenance grim.

They were debriefing from another exercise.

Rooster’s gaze was elsewhere, focused out of the classroom window but unseeing. He hadn’t flown well. He couldn’t trust his instincts that had been howling at him, and his flying was suffering for it. ‘Time to move on’ echoed in his mind, thoughts far away from the Top Gun facility. It had been weeks since he had seen Maverick at Iceman’s funeral. And longer still since they had talked.

Since Rooster had fucked everything up.

But there was no moving on.

“Captain Mitchell is officially no longer your instructor, and objectives have been adjusted accordingly. As of tomorrow, there will be new mission parameters. You will be briefed at 0600 and then you will begin new exercises. We don’t have any time to lose,” Cyclone said, nodding at them all. “That is all for today.”

Rooster’s attention snapped back to class with the announcement, and the other pilots all shifted in their seats around him, exchanging concerned glances.

Maverick hadn’t been present in class since he taught them all dogfight football, made them a team, but Cyclone and Warlock had still been teaching them to fly under the parameters that he had set. And they had all been failing and been measured as failures by Top Gun in turn.

More than failing, they were losing hope. It was becoming clear that the mission was expected to be completed, but not survived.

“Sir,” he started, sitting up in his chair, belly tight with a sudden rush of tension.

Cyclone’s eyes cut towards him like steel, and he gestured at the door, “That is all,” he said. Dismissed.

They all filed out of class, more despondent than ever. There was no chatter between the pilots, and Rooster knew that they all recognized the situation for what it was—fucked.

He didn't stop to shower, or to change. He walked out of the classroom door and didn't know where he was going until he was at his Bronco. The old bucket of rust. Maverick had taken it on the long journey to come save him from his grandparent’s, once upon a time. And it had been a trip that had defined the rest of their lives. He wanted to take it to see Maverick this time, and try to redefine their lives all over again.

Maverick had been the only thing on his mind. For Rooster, it was Maverick Maverick Maverick; a chorus on repeat. He had woken up in his dorm the night after Iceman’s funeral, body so rotten with alcohol and vomit that his stench could have peeled paint. After coming back to himself, he had wished for the relief of a blackout, but instead he remembered everything.

Every honest word that came out of Penny’s mouth; death by a thousand cuts.

Phoenix had dumped him at his dorm that night, and he had crawled into bed and wanted Maverick. More than anything. Not in the dick aching want that had taken over his life, his sanity, and their relationship. He wanted like he was seven years old and waiting for Maverick’s motorcycle to come down the driveway. But his wanting was selfish, and he’d been selfish for too long.

So Rooster didn’t text, and didn’t call. He knew now what the depth of his wanting had done to Maverick, and it twisted his gut and scraped his throat raw, so he didn’t push. Instead, he quietly waited for Maverick to come back on his own terms. Kept showing up at Top Gun, scanning the skies, and hoping to see Maverick inverted in the cockpit above him. Kept going out on the futile training exercises, flying getting worse and worse as his want grew.

But now it was clear that giving Maverick time wasn’t going to work, that time was his greatest enemy.

‘It’s time to move on’ Cyclone had said, but Rooster couldn’t. Couldn’t move on, and couldn’t go back. He could only go to— to Maverick.

He got into the Bronco, and drove to Maverick’s house. The little bungalow that he was staying in, where Rooster had once been allowed inside. Allowed inside Maverick, too, where he’d found bliss and subsequently taken it away from himself with his own anger and explosive insecurities.

When Rooster got to Maverick’s, he could see that there was no Kawasaki waiting for him. There was nobody home, but he got out anyway, and followed the path to the backdoor that he remembered taking with Maverick. He was anxious then too, desperate to be with Maverick, desperate to mate. He was anxious now for different reasons, as it occurred to him in his walk up the steps that Maverick might not even live here anymore.

He took a deep inhale and there was no hint of Maverick, but with scent blockers that didn’t really mean anything, but. But. He was sweating in his flight suit on Maverick’s back porch, and it wasn’t just from the California sun—anxiety, guilt, and desperation roared through him.

Rooster cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his face to the windowpane on the door, peeked into the dark house. No signs of life, or of Maverick. The only hint of occupation in the house was an open book left on the coffee table in front of the couch. Rooster closed his eyes tight and dropped his hands, but let his face rest on the glass, stomach rolling.

Maybe Maverick still lived here, more likely he didn’t, but there was nowhere else for Rooster to be if there was a possibility that Maverick would come back. He would wait.

There was a lonely lawn chair on the back porch and he sank into it, spread his knees apart and rested his elbows on them, face in his hands.

The porch was shaded but still warm from the afternoon heat. He was uncomfortably hot in his flight suit, but didn’t have anything else to change into, and wasn’t worried about it anyway.

The sun set eventually, and Maverick finally came home.

Rooster startled at the sound of his motorcycle, but felt drunk with the relief that washed over him. Relief and a little fear, too, that Maverick might see him and walk the other way. He could hear Maverick before he saw him, footsteps slow and deliberate on the gravel. He must have seen the Bronco in the driveway, and when he approached the porch his eyes and jaw had a firm set.

Rooster felt the anxiety and fear that had been boiling over inside of him, but also just felt happy, and soothed. Even if Maverick was about to chew him up and spit him out, it would be what he deserved, and it would be better than the loneliness that had settled on him in the omega’s absence. Mav was a sight for sore eyes, in his form fitting blue jeans and white tee, had his leather riding jacket on too. He looked like Rooster’s dream, and was.

Maverick climbed up the steps of the back porch but didn’t fully approach, stayed there on the top step with a hand on each railing. Looked like he was bracing himself, and his posture was stiff. Rooster could see the keychain in his left hand, but Maverick wasn’t moving to go to the door; probably didn’t want to invite Rooster in like politeness would dictate. Rooster swallowed hard, and deserved it.

“Rooster,” Maverick said, not an invitation or a greeting, only an acknowledgement.

Rooster screwed a hand over his mouth and mustache, stayed seated, and tilted his head up to look right at Maverick. He didn’t know what expression he was wearing on his own face, which of a million emotions were showing, but Maverick furrowed his brow.

“What if I had never claimed you? Where would you be?” Rooster asked, and the question stole out of him before he knew that it was coming.

“Rooster…” Maverick said again, tired, and looked like he was shutting down, his expression closing in. Rooster couldn’t bear it, slid off his chair and went to his knees before Maverick. Begging and submissive. He knelt on the porch and sat back on his heels, wanted to show Maverick his neck too but he couldn’t bear to move his eyes away from Maverick’s guarded face.

He made half a move to put his hands on Maverick’s hips before him, but Maverick swayed back a little, and Rooster was scared to spook him. Instead he rubbed his sweaty palms on his thighs and swallowed past a lump in his throat. His alpha felt even more anxious now, wanted to fix this, please his omega.

“I think I’ve stolen from you, Mav,” he tried again, searching for words to confess the enormity of his guilt. “I’ve been taking from you and I don’t think I have anything to give back,” he said, and his eyes were hot and stinging.

Maverick stayed quiet, and he looked away from Rooster, away from the gutted alpha in front of him.

“I stole you, I took your life away. I had no right,” he said, and the hot tears ran down his face. He wanted to lean his head into Maverick, press right into his lower belly. But he had no right then and had no right now.

“You were presenting—in your first rut,” Maverick said, voice tight but still Rooster’s defender, always. “You didn’t mean to.”

“No, I meant to,” he said firmly, needed Maverick to know, and it was the truth as much as when he said it to Penny, “I don’t remember, but I know that I meant to. I’ve probably never meant anything more. Wanted anything more.” He gave a great shuddering breath and bowed his head, “I always wanted you to be mine.”

“I was always yours,” Maverick said immediately, still not looking at him. “You’ve always been my family.”

His words churned Bradley’s stomach, and he clenched his fists on his thighs, thought about the enormity of being sixteen years old and claiming someone like Maverick—a grown man, desirable and accomplished, and deserving so much more than a bond that he had to hide from an immature alpha who was undeserving.

“I wanted to be your everything,” Rooster explained, miserable, “I’m not sorry that I did it, Mav, but I wish that I was because you deserve better. You were right not to tell me,” he said, and knew that it was the truth. That he had made himself Maverick’s alpha, but had never earned that right.

The quiet stretched out between them, and Rooster squeezed his eyes shut, tight. It felt like an eternity, and then he felt Maverick’s hand coming down on the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair. He was warmed by the full weight of Maverick’s benevolence.

“Get up, Bradley,” Maverick said, softly. Always soft for him, his forgiveness stretching out like an endless pool.

But Rooster wasn't done confessing.

He did lean forward then, hiding his face in Maverick, pressing in tight to where Maverick’s jeans stopped and the skin of his tight tummy began. Wishes selfishly that he could crawl inside of Maverick and hide there where he felt safe.

“And then—and then,” he said, and he was crying in earnest now. “When I thought you pulled my papers, and I had you on the ground,” he said, and suddenly couldn't finish his own sentence. He ground his teeth together and hated himself and loved Maverick in equal measure.

“I did pull your papers,” Maverick said, and he sounded lost, tightened his fingers in Rooster’s hair.

“For my mom,” Rooster argued, and he felt Maverick’s abdomen tense at the revelation, knew Maverick was wondering how, but he didn't name his source, didn't tell about Penny. Didn't want her here, between them in this conversation.

“For—for me too,” Maverick said, and Rooster let that old hurt wash over him a little, but Maverick kept talking, “I wanted you safe. I didn’t want you in the Navy. I didn’t want you on this suicide mission for Top Gun. I didn’t want you to be where your dad ended up. I did it because your mom made me promise, but I wanted better for you, too. I always knew that no matter what I did, I could lose you forever.”

Rooster’s tears soaked into Maverick’s shirt, and he didn't say anything. Just kept breathing and wishing that he could have Maverick’s scent, but the blockers had him nose blind.

“And I still might lose you now. Top Gun…”, Maverick started to say, but trailed off. Didn't explain where he’d been or why he was grounded from the mission.

“Top Gun needs you, Mav,” Rooster said immediately, and it was the truth. “I need you,” he added, and that was truer.

Maverick was silent for a long time then before he brought another hand down to Rooster’s head, took him by the jaw on either side and tilted Rooster up to look at him. Maverick looked devastatingly beautiful looking down at him. He swiped his thumb across Rooster’s lips and Rooster chased it, turned his head to try and kiss at Maverick’s hand.

“If you had never claimed me, maybe you’d be dating some gorgeous girl right now, maybe you’d be down at the bar with the rest of your friends, the kids your age,” Maverick said, and his voice was awful. He looked down at Rooster like he was guilty, but he’d never done anything wrong.

“Mav, if I’d never claimed you, I’d be doing the same thing as I am right now—wanting you,” Rooster said, steady and honest. He took one of Maverick’s hands in his and pulled it down to his neck, splayed Maverick’s hand around his throat and pressed it in tight where his claim mark could be. “Where would you be? If I hadn’t stolen you for mine, where would you be, Mav? With—Penny?” he whispered, submitting to Maverick and whatever brutal truth he wanted to present him with.

Maverick made the smallest sound, soft and pure omega. Flexed his fingers against Rooster’s claim spot and it was ecstasy. “I’d be here,” he said, fingers rubbing and soothing against Rooster’s skin, “wherever you needed me. Trying to keep you safe.”

Rooster whined, and Maverick moved his hands to under Rooster’s arms, tried to pull him up. But Rooster wasn't ready, rubbed his face into Maverick’s belly instead and breathed in hard with old and new hurt.

“I’m sorry, Mav. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated, didn't know how many times he said it before Maverick put his hands in his armpits and made him get up this time. Pulled him up and quieted Rooster with his mouth, swallowing the regret and apologies that were spilling out of him. Locked him into a quieting kiss, and it tasted like tears between them.

They backed into the house together, somehow unlocking the door, but they didn't break contact. Rooster’s tucked his head down to stay right there against Maverick, and their bodies stayed pressed tight. Maverick guided them, permitted them to head into his bedroom, and they only broke apart to undress.

Rooster hesitated then, standing naked with Maverick at the foot of the bed. They were both erect between their bodies but not touching, and he wanted, but he knew now like he never did before that he had no right. He raised his hands to cradle Maverick’s hips, rubbing his thumbs into the defined Apollo’s belt of Maverick’s body, the tantalizing vee that led to his groin. He ached for it, for Maverick, for his, but he was done taking.

They stood together in quiet reverie and Rooster thought that another apology might have been about to come out when Maverick read it on his face, and stopped him with a kiss. Open mouthed and wet, Maverick pressed in, sucked on Bradley’s lower lip beneath his mustache until Bradley opened his mouth to kiss back; no apology escaped, but Maverick kissed like forgiveness.

They broke apart and Maverick panted between them, needing, and Rooster tilted his hips forward until their cocks touched and rubbed against each other. They both fucked into the friction, and it was electric, but not enough. Rooster couldn't stop chasing the high though, and grinded into Maverick’s answering hardness just for the pleasure of seeing their dicks together. He kept going until Maverick whined plaintively, tipped his neck back, letting his old bond mark shine at Rooster in the soft light. No modesty patch necessary now; secret out in the open.

He pressed in deeply to Maverick, trapping their erections between them, as close as they could get, and said, “Mav,” softly, in question. Dipped his mouth down to hover over the mark and waited for permission.

“Bradley,” Maverick answered, and tipped his neck to grant Rooster the gift.

Rooster lowered his mouth softly in reverence, his lips parted and sucking that sacred spot, and they both pushed their hips into each other in pleasure when the mark was touched. He lost himself, forgot that sex was on the table, mouthing, licking, worshipping the bond mark that was his, his ill-gotten gains.

Maverick arched into his touch, a starving omega with a years-neglected bond. Rooster was ravenous.

It was Maverick who broke the touch first and Rooster chased after him, wanting his neck, wanting Maverick, but Maverick turned and gave him his back instead. Rooster plastered himself to every curve, every morsel of Maverick, and slotted his dick into the small of Maverick’s back, riding the dip above his ass.

They descended together to the bed, Maverick on his side and Rooster crowding up tight behind him, and Bradley kissed down his spine where he could reach. He nudged his right leg between Maverick’s and pulled Maverick’s leg up and open, parted his thighs enough to guide his hardness into the valley where it belonged.

He fucked forward, felt the tip of his dick slide on the catch of Maverick’s hole and up past the softness of his balls. Maverick’s slick coated him as he dragged past, and the blockers were wearing thin because he could smell everything, the world of sex scents that were blooming between them. He smelled Maverick too now, and his own scent deep in the undertones of him; knew now that it had always been a smell of ownership, of his claiming that he never knew. Maverick always carried his scent as part of him, and he wanted to carry Maverick’s too.

Rooster kept fucking easy and slow between Maverick’s thighs as the scents between them intensified, and he breathed them in like a starving man. His hand had been clutching Maverick’s hip, but he slid it up to his chest instead, cupped Maverick’s tit in his hand, caressing and stroking his thumb across the nipple. Maverick arched his back and ground down into Rooster’s dick and pressed his chest forward into his hand, driving hard into both points of contact. Rooster pulled Maverick back tight against him so there was nothing left between them, no space.

His hand left Maverick’s chest out of necessity, so he could slide fingers down between them, making just enough room between their bodies to tease a fingertip at Maverick’s lush pussy.

He worked his finger in, and it was tight, and home. Maverick was bearing down on him and trying to fuck back, and he was wet but not dripping with slick like he was the last time that they coupled. He felt too tight and just this side of too dry to comfortably take Rooster, his alpha thickness and knot, and Rooster pulled his finger back out.

“Brad—Bradley, come on,” Maverick said, hips chasing back at his hand. Started moving like he was going to roll over and take things at his own pace, but Rooster shifted his body weight and pinned him back instead.

“Patience,” Rooster said, knowing who he was talking to, and Maverick choked out the desperate laugh of an impatient man.

Rooster pulled his own fingers to his mouth and coated them in his saliva, tasted Maverick’s slick on himself and moaned. He wanted to go after that taste and devour, but he couldn't make himself slide away from the tight press of their bodies to get his head between Maverick’s legs.

He brought spit-wet fingers back to Maverick’s hole and got one and then two in, fucking in to the knuckle and rubbing encouragingly at Maverick’s soft walls to produce more slick. Fucked in and out, unable to help himself, wishing it was light enough to see his fingers disappearing into Maverick, wanting to see his dick go in, too. He tried to pull his fingers apart to encourage that tight hole to stretch to take something bigger, and Maverick cried out, “Come on,” begging.

Rooster couldn't refuse. Pulled his fingers out and stroked himself once with slick-wet digits, quickly up and down because he was already close, embarrassingly, and then he pushed his dick to slot right up against Maverick’s hole.

He nudged forward and it was tight, but Maverick pushed back and made himself open around Rooster’s thick dick. They both panted in pleasure, but Maverick was Maverick and he was done waiting, instead pushed back until Rooster was seated to the balls and his eyes were rolling back into his head.

They were spooned together tight, but it was hard to get leverage to thrust, and Rooster’s foot slipped on the covers trying. Hard to get deep enough, hard to make himself pull out enough to get that addicting friction. Rooster pressed in as far as he could go and kept grinding in like that, reaching around to stroke Maverick’s own cock. He was rewarded with a heavenly moan and a hard clench all around him as Maverick rocked forward into his hand and back against Rooster inside of him. He was moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing his own pleasure while Rooster provided his dick and his touch.

Rooster was close, close, but not done fucking, so he rolled them. He got Maverick on his belly and Maverick pulled his knees up under himself without needing instruction, arching his back with his perfect ass in the air, still stuffed full of Rooster. Rooster lifted up to his own knees, suddenly had a lapful of Maverick, and it was so much more than he ever thought he’d get. More than he deserved, but he took anyway, grateful and greedy.

He had both hands on Maverick’s hips, had to reluctantly let go of that pretty dick to roll them, but he could thrust into Maverick in earnest now, hard and deep. Punching groans and whines out of each of them, and Rooster lost himself to the pleasure, kept fucking. He was so close, and his knot was starting to grow. At that angle there was enough light so that he could see himself disappearing into Maverick’s body, watch his thickening base stretch Maverick taut where he was going in. His knot was close but he wasn't ready to stop thrusting yet, as good as it felt to be fully enveloped. He pulled almost all of the way out just to watch himself go back in, watch Maverick take him, scent the air for Maverick’s pleasure and feel it, feel where their bond was maybe starting to strengthen in the back of his mind, deep inside of himself.

Rooster groped for that special spot inside of himself that felt like Maverick, pulled at it, and a flood of pleasure, blinding love pushed back, and then he was coming, spending deep inside. Had to bury himself all the way into Maverick before his knot got locked out, and he felt it growing snug inside of Maverick’s heat, and he heard the omega whining underneath him at the swell.

He couldn't stop himself, flattening down down onto Maverick, still coming and riding the waves of his own pleasure. He fixed his mouth on Maverick’s neck, feeling the raise of scar tissue under his tongue and he let himself bite. He bit big and sloppy on Maverick’s neck, and how could he not have known instantly that this was his mark because it fit perfect into his mouth; his big mouth that had said horrible things, things he didn’t mean, to this man that he loved. To Maverick, who he had always been gone for.

Rooster moaned around his neck and worked a hand under Maverick where he was flat and gasping into the bed, found his fat omega cock and pumped it savagely until Maverick was coming too, pushing back on him and into Rooster’s mouth, fully taken.

He pulled his teeth out where they’d sank in, still recklessly desperate for Maverick like he’d always been. He licked at the skin, saw it splotch up pink and red in the low light, and felt whole, not like his alpha was satisfied, but like his alpha was him, and he was one repaired soul.

He pressed a kiss into the bond, and rested his forehead on Maverick’s jaw.

“Thank you,” Rooster breathed, wanting to say love you and you’re mine, but he was afraid to disturb the peace. Couldn't do anything but luxuriate in the den of their lovemaking and enjoy their shared scents. Maverick smelled like him, like them, every inch. Like something fresh had blossomed beautiful between them.

“Don’t freak out tomorrow,” Maverick said, tone joking but vulnerable, his meaning open to interpretation.

“I won’t,” Rooster said, a promise and a plead, “I won’t, I swear, Mav, never again.”

He flexed his hands on Maverick’s hips, and rolled them onto their sides again so that he wasn't crushing Maverick into the bed while they stayed locked. Mav was strong and fierce, but he was his, he was Bradley's, and he burned with the need to treat him delicately, though the omega was anything but.

They were locked together and Rooster was in his bliss. It smelled like them, like home, and the urge to sleep settled over them both.

They needed to talk, but sleep was too tempting, good dreams guaranteed like this. Rooster already living his good dream now. He slid a hand around Maverick and settled it on the soft swell of his lower belly, where Maverick was filled with him, and they fell asleep like that together.

But when Rooster woke up to his 0500 alarm, Maverick was gone, and the bed was cold like he was never there.

Notes:

Sorry for the long wait! I just finished working for the week so hopefully the next update will be sooner. I wrote half the chapter after working 16hrs yesterday and felt myself getting sleepy so I quickly jotted down notes for the rest of it then finished it this morning. I'm trying to estimate how much of this fic is left and we have to be CLOSE but not quite there yet. I love all of the nice comments that everyone has left ;_;

Chapter 20

Rooster was naked and sticky with his heartrate picking up as he absorbed Maverick’s absence.

He ran a hand over the sheet, feeling again that the omega’s body heat was long gone. He wanted to whine, call him home, but instead he leaned over and pressed his nose to the bed. Breathed in pure Maverick, where he had laid with Rooster’s knot locked tight inside as his sweet scent transferred to the bed. He smelled sex, and sweat, and them, intertwined like he didn’t know two scents could be.

It calmed him, a little. Enough to not freak out, but it was a near thing, and he tried to trust. That Maverick was downstairs, or out for a run, or—he hadn't been around Maverick in years, didn't really know what his routine was, or what he did in the morning. Maybe he was always gone by now.

His anxiety rose and fell as he tried to believe in Maverick, like he’d sworn the other week that he never would.

Rooster took in another deep breath, and the smell was so intoxicating and heady that his dick started to fill against the covers. He was still coated in dried come from falling asleep tied inside of Maverick, and it was uncomfortable, but he thought that he could still jerk off now. Imagined fucking his fist in Maverick’s quiet house and coming over the bedsheets; marking his territory.

But the clock was ticking and he was due at Top Gun at 0600, so he made himself get up and ignore the hardness slapping heavy against his leg. When he did stand up he saw a neatly folded paper airplane on the nightstand, waiting just for him.

Rooster picked it up and turned it over between careful fingers, knew without opening it that there was no note. It was Maverick’s calling card, and the anxiety flattened out again. Don’t freak out.

He got into Maverick’s shower, willing his dick down as he did; his excitable imagination running wild picturing the omega in there every day, wet and naked. Everything was stacked with military precision in the tiny washroom, and he replaced each item with care after use. Maverick’s toiletries were all designed for omega body chemistry, but he didn't have any other options. He doused himself in the scent blocker that Maverick had on his shower shelf, but didn't know the efficacy, and didn't have time for any alternatives. He washed quickly and efficiently, with only an hour before he was expected to report to Top Gun, and just ran a perfunctory hand over his now soft penis where he was still coated in come and slick. Any more attention to his dick and he was going to lose it, deep inside of Maverick’s den where it still smelled like the heady scent of their sex.

He stepped out of the shower and reached for suppressants instinctively, but there were none in Maverick’s bathroom, missing from the lineup of deodorant and cologne on the counter. Maverick’s wouldn’t work on him anyway, and Rooster sent up a prayer that the omega blockers would be enough to make him passable on the base. He rubbed Maverick’s cologne and deodorant on himself liberally anyway, just in case.

His flight suit was a lost cause; he held it up to his nose and it smelled like alpha sweat and traces of Maverick. But it was all he had, and there was no time to change before their briefing.

Rooster got dressed and he was pressed for time, but he made Maverick’s bed anyway. It was half military training and half the desire to trap their mating smell under the sheets, so if, when, Maverick came home, he’d be blanketed by their scents when he crawled inside. It burned fresh heat in Rooster’s belly to think about Maverick ensconced in the scent of them while he slept at night. He hoped that maybe, if was careful, if he was good, he’d be allowed to sleep in the bed with him. He had to force himself to leave, casting one look back at Maverick’s bed and shutting the door. Sealing their nest in tight.

There was no sign of Maverick in the rest of the house either, but he knew that there wouldn’t be. He could feel the omega’s absence like a missing limb, but there was no time to freak out now. He had to trust, and hope. He locked Maverick’s house as he left it behind, daring to believe that he might be invited back in.

Rooster made it to the base and into the classroom with enough time to pick a seat that was a reasonable distance from the instructor’s podium, had to hope that he wasn’t projecting a guilty omega fuck smell to the Top Gun pilots. Or at least not to Cyclone himself, who had the nose and aggression of a K-9 cop.

The mood was tense in the room, the announcement of the official loss of Maverick from yesterday having settled in. Rooster felt eyes on him but didn’t turn to see whose, couldn’t take the scrutiny with the wrong designation’s blockers being all that held his scent in.

Cyclone filed in and turned on the screens behind him, taking his place behind the podium with a look like he had dog shit under his nose.

“As of today, there are new mission parameters. Time to target is now four minutes. You’ll be entering the valley at reduced speed, not to exceed four hundred and twenty knots. You’ll be attacking the target from a higher altitude, level with the north wall. It’ll be a little harder to keep your laser on target, but you’ll be avoiding the high-G climb out,” Cyclone said, staring at them all steadily like he wasn’t handing out their death sentence.

“Sir,” Bob said, disbelieving, “Won’t we be giving their planes time to intercept?”

Yes, was the answer that they all knew. Rooster shifted in his seat, throat tight. His flying was had been poor enough without Maverick that he had no doubt that Cyclone would pass him over for the mission, but that was six pilots in this room that would never come home.

There was only so much that topical blockers could do, and their limits were being tested in the confined room; the pilots dripping with sweat from California heat and tension. Rooster could smell the stench of fear rising up uncomfortably around them. He wanted to pull at his collar that felt too tight, but couldn’t risk letting out the scents that were still on him in a thick coat.

Cyclone’s face gave no room for argument, “Well, Lieutenant, you have a fighting chance against enemy aircraft. What are your odds of surviving a head on collision against a mountain?” He glanced around at them all, daring anyone to argue.

“Sir,” Fanboy tried now, daring to speak. “We’ll be sitting ducks for enemy missiles.”

Cyclone turned to address him, lightning fast and with all the empathy of a desk jockey who would never leave the aircraft carrier.

“Do you think we don’t know that, lieutenant? No one has been able to complete the mission under the current parameters. And mission failure is not an option.”

Rooster’s gut was tight and anxious. He had been overseas, seen combat, but this was different. This was unwinnable, flown Cyclone’s way. Everyone was trying not to squirm, but the tension in the room was ratcheting up now, and the air was thick was stressed alpha. They, he, needed—

There was a beeping on the display screen, a jet was starting the course. Everyone’s focus shifted, and they sat up in their seats. There had been a knot in Rooster’s gut since he woke up alone in bed, and suddenly it relaxed, and he felt relief pour over him like syrup.

“Who the hell is that?” Cyclone said, but Rooster knew. Knew exactly where Mav had gone.

“Maverick to range control. Entering point alpha. Confirm green range,” the omega’s voice came in confidently, the display transmitting the audio from his headset.

The tension in the classroom reached a crescendo as they watched the screen. Cyclone’s back was turned to them, but they could all see his shoulders tighten up, stiff with anger. They were all silent, in awe, and wary of the Admiral’s fury.

The reply that came back was hesitant, “Uh, Maverick, Range control, green range confirmed but, uh, I don’t see an event scheduled for you, sir.”

“Well, I’m going anyway,” Maverick replied, and Rooster knew that this was the omega he’d fucked last night, and also someone more. This was the Maverick of his bedtime stories, the one he’d laid in bed and dreamed about, wanted to fly backseater for. The Maverick that he had craved so badly he would be sick with it, listening to stories and growing heavy with hot envy for his own dead dad who got to be up there with him, got to be somebody important to the hero of his stories.

“Setting time to target, two minutes fifteen seconds. Maverick’s inbound,” said Maverick, God of the skies.

“Nice,” Phoenix said, bringing voice to a shared thought. Cyclone’s shoulders tensed further, but he didn’t turn. None of them did, unable to look away from Maverick’s progress on the display screen.

They were all silent. Maverick had their full attention.

The sound of omegan panting flooded the room. Maverick’s headset was left wide open, and it was a stream of gasps and forceful groans as he breathed harshly against the G forces. It was obscene, and it wasn’t just the scent of fear in the air anymore from the alpha group.

If Rooster had been worried about anyone detecting the sex scent on his skin, there was no need to be concerned now. The hot smell of arousal more powerful than any blocker had infiltrated every corner of the room; every alpha on the edge of their seat and captivated by Maverick, his skill, his sounds.

No one had been able to do this run, and Maverick was doing it better, faster, under tighter conditions, and moaning in their ears. It was Rooster’s wet dream, and the other pilots were sharing it. He felt suffocated by their scents, by the unavoidable lust for what was his. It was completely inappropriate, and he kept waiting for Cyclone to say something, dismiss them all to the showers and maybe deploy a cannister of anti-rut, but Cyclone was as transfixed as anyone. No one could tear their attention away from the screen.

“Popping in 3, 2, 1,” Maverick’s voice cut back in, shaking with effort and panting between breaths as he started the steep climb up the simulated mountain.

They all held their breaths as he inverted and flew down, down to the valley, and they watched in wonder as he got target lock without a WSO, no laser guidance to assist.

“Bomb’s away,” Maverick said, and they watched on the display as his aircraft pulled up into the high G climb out, panting growing heavier in all of their ears. Rooster felt sick with it, with want, with envy, possession. His dick was hard and he didn’t need eyes to know that everyone else’s was too.

The bomb struck with precision as Maverick reached 10 Gs, his breathing easing as he leveled out again, like the shaky breaths after a good orgasm; their own private pilot porn.

“Bullseye, holy shit!” Bob shouted, normally the quietest person in any room, and he jumped to his feet along with half of the classroom. Maverick’s standing ovation.

Rooster swiped a hand over his face, and cut his eyes over to Hangman, who was none too subtly adjusting the bulge between his legs.

“Damn,” Hangman said, rolling his head around to smirk right at Rooster’s scowling face. Hand still on his dick. “I think I need a cigarette.”

“Heading back to base,” Maverick panted, and his headset cut out.

They were still, frozen. Waiting for Cyclone to react, waiting for their dismissal, anti-rut, anything, but the Admiral never said a word. Turned and walked out of the door without acknowledging any of them, and they were left squirming and turned on in their seats.

Rooster tried frantically to sort through all thousand of his feelings, feeling both weightless and like he weighed a ton. Maverick had gotten out of bed and come here, stolen a jet, and shown them all that it could be done. Turned on everyone in the room, casting the same spell on everyone else that had enchanted Rooster for years. Forever.

And he’d told Maverick to do it. ‘Top Gun needs you’, he’d said, and Maverick had listened. Had always listened, when he was honest with himself and let years of resentment clear his blind eyes.

He felt hot guilt about what that demonstration might cost Maverick. He had already cost Maverick a lot.

Rooster ground the heel of his palm into his erection, tried to will it down or smother it, and lurched up and crossed the classroom to get to the window that overlooked the airstrip. The other pilots followed suit, and they all watched as Cyclone strode across the tarmac to wait for Maverick. He looked like a one-man wrecking crew, waiting to give the omega hell.

The scent of arousal was still oppressive in the room even as it started to clear out, and it made the hairs on the back of Rooster’s neck stand up to breathe it in with so many alphas pressed close. He leaned further into the window, tried to steady himself and count backwards from one hundred, feeling that familiar tight alpha tension wind from his cock to his chest. His erection still wasn’t going down, and he felt like an unmoored ship. Relieved to know why Maverick had left, anxious about what would happen to him, aroused at the display, territorial at everyone else seeing it. Rooster’s teeth were on edge as his emotions waged tug of war with his alpha. He needed Maverick. Maybe it would be different if he had the grounding of a bite, a shared bond; if Maverick was a steady fire in the back of his head keeping him warm.

Hangman’s presence sizzled behind him, and he leaned over Rooster’s shoulder to look out of the window at Cyclone below. He whistled low under his breath, “Whew, that was some performance,” he said, smirking in Rooster’s ear. By the grace of god, Rooster resisted the urge to elbow him in the gut.

Hangman kept talking, unable to stop, either due to no sense of self-preservation or a love for getting hit, “But it looks like our Admiral’s going to tear him a new asshole now,” and he paused, the bastard, leaning into Rooster’s ear for maximum effect, “By the smell of him when he walked out, that’s the least that he wanted to do.”

Rooster jerked around, really ready to hit now, but Hangman squared him with a serious look and spun him back around with a hand on his shoulder to refocus back out of the window. The asshole had a smart mouth and a passion for instigation, but his words usually rang true. Maverick’s jet was coming in, and Rooster felt anxiety shiver through him.

The arousal was ebbing in the room as they all waited for the showdown, enough that he could roll some tension out of his shoulders. Could almost forget that Hangman was still behind him, probably winding up to talk more shit.

Maverick’s canopy opened and he was getting out, climbing down to the tarmac, and even from a distance he didn’t look quite right. He pulled his helmet off and shook his head hard, like there was water in his ears. The best pilot by a mile, proven, but he looked like he was taking the G’s hard as he took his first steps. But they all watched him straighten out as soon as he spotted Cyclone; posture stiffening and tightening up as he approached the Admiral.

“That was a great run,” Phoenix said, suddenly. Tried to cut the tension as they watched and waited for the hit that was coming—a hit that Maverick was taking for them. “If we can fly it like that, then maybe…”

“No one can fly like that,” Rooster said quietly, his attention locked onto the tarmac.

“We can try,” Phoenix countered, and there was a hope in the air. The Maverick effect.

They were silent after that, watched Maverick meet Cyclone, and stand rigidly in front of him with his chin jutted defiantly like he expecting a punch. There was no way to hear them, but they all saw Cyclone leaning in hard to Maverick, using every inch of his height, and they saw him settle a hand on the back of the omega’s neck and squeeze.

Maverick’s head bent reflexively, face was hidden, and they could only see a shock of black hair; helpless to resist an archaic omega instinct that forced a mock-bow. A violation.

Rooster felt sickly responsible and alpha savage. Remembered Cyclone trying it at the beach, too, but retreating under their collective scrutiny.

He didn’t think, couldn’t, drowning in rage and impotency as he watched the scene through the window. He pushed away and made to stride out of the classroom, but was stopped short by a jerk to his wrist. It was Hangman, and he’d clamped a hand down on Rooster’s arm.

Rooster pulled against with his full weight, but Hangman didn’t let go, let himself be tugged along.

“Be cool, Bradshaw,” Hangman said, staring him down hard. Imploringly.

“Be cool?” Rooster hissed, spitting venom and tugging his arm free. He wanted to rip Cyclone’s throat out, but if Hangman was closest, well. “He can’t do that,” he growled, blind to their audience.

“No, he can’t, but do you want him to know right now that you care? Want him to know why?” Hangman said coolly, and risked pulling Rooster close to whisper in his ear. Rooster shoved against his chest, but Hangman was his own vice, and his breath was hot on the side of Rooster’s face as spoke, “Because I can smell why. You want him to smell why, too?” And he pulled back, set Rooster free. Free to blow up his own life and Maverick’s too.

Rooster shoved Hangman’s chest again, just because, needing to spend his aggression somewhere, and strode out into the hallway. He swiped a hand across his face, and felt shaky and sick, nauseated. Didn’t know where the feelings were coming from, rising up inside him out of nowhere. His eyes swept down the hallway and he heard footsteps before he saw them approach.

It was Maverick, head still bowed low at the ground. He was pale, and holding his helmet under one arm. Cyclone was next to him, and had his hand on the small of Maverick’s back, pushing the omega to match his own longer strides.

Rooster’s breath froze in his throat as he watched them pass. He didn’t know what to do. His alpha knew, was ready to rip Cyclone apart, but then the incredible run that Maverick just completed was for nothing. ‘Don’t freak out’, he tried to tell himself. Kept his feet rooted to the floor and tried to resist making things worse. His alpha felt far away from himself, whining and caged.

Maverick never looked up, but Cyclone did, and his eyes burned into Rooster as he passed. A dare.

“Hit the showers, Lieutenant,” Cyclone commanded, “You stink.”

And he kept walking, Maverick in tow.

‘Don’t freak out,’ Rooster thought, but did.

Notes:

Top Gun Kink Meme is here!!!!!! https://topgunkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/
I'm planning to fill some prompts if there's something Roosmav that I can write.

Hope you like this chapter, it was a bear to write for some reason.... thank you everyone for the nice comments.

Chapter 21

Rooster was losing it.

He was pacing in the hallway where Cyclone and Maverick had passed, and his unsettled alpha was raging deep in his chest. He was sweating into his flight suit and there was an unrelenting tension between his temples. The beat of an ancient drum sounded inside of him, to the rhythm of Mav Mav Mav, and the song was inciting his savage beast.

In that moment, he wasn’t an aviator, wasn’t in the Navy, wasn’t beholden to anything other than the need to find Maverick and sequester him away somewhere safe. Somewhere that could be defended, and fortified from intruders.

Instead, Maverick was lost to the unknown and alone with a superior officer on an alpha power trip.

Rooster’s jaw clenched, and he breathed heavily.

There was no scent of Maverick’s to follow. There was Cyclone, oppressive in the air. Alpha. The admiral’s blockers were as vulnerable as anyone’s, and sweating in that classroom had worn his thin, and now he was a rancid stench in the hallway to Rooster’s own sense of smell. But no Maverick, and even in the fog of rage and possession, Rooster retained enough of his mental faculties to resist blindly hunting Cyclone down.

But it was a close thing.

He turned and rested his head against the painted cinderblock wall, felt the coolness against his heated skin. Tried to soothe and recenter.

‘Don’t freak out’, Maverick had said to him last night in bed, innocuously. Rooster breathed in through his mouth, pretended like he couldn’t taste alpha threat, and breathed back out through his nose. Calmed, barely. Without the stress relief and outlet of pacing, his leg was tapping impatiently, wanting to go, rescue.

He could go find Maverick’s Kawasaki. It hadn’t been in the driveway this morning, so Maverick had ridden it here. He could wait by it, be there when Maverick finally came out; fate decided by Cyclone one way or another. Mav had stolen a jet, gone on an unsanctioned exercise. There was no telling when he would be released. Or even if he would be. He could be court martialed, for all that Rooster knew.

Rooster should leave. Go to the Kawasaki. Go to Maverick’s house. Go home, anything.

But he was stuck, and waiting.

He breathed, and tried—reached into himself, for Maverick. It wasn’t a completed bond, just a one-sided claim on the omega. He’d been naïve as a teenager and thought it was a pack bond he felt there, blind to his own claim, and he’d torn at the spot in rage when Maverick had pulled his papers. But he’d felt that connection start to take space there again, and he tried to find it now. It felt like dipping his hand into paraffin wax, going down into a viscous substance, trying to find Maverick beneath the boundaries of his own mind. If they were bonded, had a mutual claim, Mav would have been right on the surface of himself; easy access. With the one-sided claim atrophied from distance and abuse, he had to sink.

He needed now, and searched. Sunk down into the dark, looking for Maverick’s consciousness.

Rooster panted into the wall and felt far-gone from his body, the person standing and shaking in the hall.

He went deep, and found.

Maverick.

Mav was electric, and a surge against his mind. A shudder ran throughout his body, and he shook against the wall, but deep inside of himself it felt like firm caress—reassurance that lit his nerve endings on fire.

Breathe, count, calm.

Rooster gasped and his head fell back, as he came back into himself; resurfaced from the deep. His heart was pounding and he was sweat-soaked, but Maverick was okay.

Something deep inside of himself said still, and Rooster waited; fought the urge to sink to the floor. Pressed his head against the wall and waited, an alpha frozen in the thrall of an omegan command. Rooster felt like a puppet without strings. He raised a hand to trace a finger on the wall; tried not to go berserk.

Since everything, since Maverick was back in his life, his control over his alpha was all or nothing. Stifled or out of control. Back with the omega, he was sixteen years old and coming into his designation all over again. Ready to fight, rage, fuck. The was no regulator and he felt wide open. Rooster shuddered, and closed his eyes against the chattering of his jaw.

A hand curled around his shoulder, and the air smelled like Cyclone, and he jerked around swinging.

It was Maverick, who had to duck his head and take a quick-footed step backwards to avoid the punch. Maverick, still in his flight suit, who was looking up at Rooster now with an open mouth and cutting his eyes up at him from under his raised brow. Maverick who reeked like Cyclone and had red streaks from the alpha’s fingers on the back of his neck. Who still looked a little pale and not quite right, and Rooster ached to examine every inch of him.

“Rooster, jesus christ,” he said, like Rooster was someone to expect rationality from, but he wasn’t. Not now, with Maverick coated in another alpha’s scent.

Rooster took a fast step towards Maverick, wanting to scent and reaffirm and inspect; wanted to know exactly where Cyclone had touched him and why. But Maverick stopped him with a stiff arm and held him off with his palm flat on Rooster’s sternum, a solid presence over his pounding heart.

“Don’t,” Maverick said, posture stiff and looking down the hallway in either direction.

They were in the heart of the Top Gun facility, but it felt like a thousand years since Rooster was someone who cared about that. Since he cared about anything other than making sure that Maverick was his, like he’d wanted all his life, and right now Maverick smelled wrong, like a challenge.

His gut ached. He was back to waking up in that tent all those years ago, having gone to sleep with Maverick in his arms and on his knot, and then waking up unwelcome and not allowed back.

Rooster pressed against the limits of Maverick’s restraints; pushed until that strong hand dug deep into the flesh and muscle of his chest, but he needed to be closer still. Cyclone was scorching his senses, wrong and taking up space where his own claim should be. He couldn’t even smell Maverick underneath the wrongwrong musk, couldn’t find that elusive scent of omega that had his own coiled inside.

Weeks ago, he had been surviving by stifling his need for Maverick behind resentment and rejection, and now he was right back to needing him like an addict craved their drugs.

“Mav,” he tried, and kept stepping into the omega’s space until Maverick’s back was flat against the door, Rooster still held off and away from him. The urge to mark Maverick was intense and had replaced his own good judgement. Rooster licked his lips and he was still shaking, he realized, overwhelmed by the offensive odor of another alpha. “Why do you smell like him? What did he do? Why did you leave—why did you come back here?” he asked, hurriedly and desperate, crowding into Maverick as close as the other man would allow. They weren’t touching, that arm length between them, but Rooster dipped his head until his mouth could almost touch the downy softness of Maverick’s hair. Rival alpha scent overwhelming.

Maverick groped his free hand around to the door knob behind them, and opened the door to a small conference room. They tumbled in together, Mav walking them in backwards and Rooster closing the door behind them without pausing to look. He rushed towards Maverick and tried to close the space between them again, but Maverick’s arm came back up. Agony. He whined low and frustrated.

“You can’t touch me here. I can’t—have your scent on me,” Maverick said, haltingly and careful, but a steady look on his face like he was unaffected by the wrongness of it all.

“You reek like Cyclone,” Rooster grunted, flexing where he stood. “What the fuck was he doing? I saw him grip you,” he added, jealous and outraged and all the shades in between.

Maverick dropped his hand from Rooster’s chest then, and worried that same palm over the back of his own neck. It was the hand that had been on Rooster’s body and he was unconsciously rubbing it over where Cyclone had gripped, instinctively trying to replace the imposter’s scent with that of his own alpha, despite his own words to the contrary.

“Mav,” Rooster said again, itching to reach for him. He was trying to control himself and be the alpha that Maverick needed, and not the desperate teenager that he could bear to turn down.

“I came back to show you, show everybody, that it could be done. That you could fly this mission and come home,” Maverick said, swallowing hard, and Rooster could see something desperate and wild in his eyes. “And Cyclone—he’s just an alpha in command. Disobey them long enough and they all want to prove a point,” he added, cocking Rooster half a smile like it was nothing new, no big deal. Just a drop in the bucket for an unbonded omega who made a career in the Navy.

“That doesn’t mean he’s allowed to do whatever he wants,” Rooster gritted out even as his gut clenched, knowing that he had been an alpha wanting to prove a point, had done whatever he wanted, and never faced a consequence. He was standing in front of an omega who had been violated by a collection of alphas a lifetime long, and his name suddenly felt starred on the list. “Maverick,” he tried to start, miserable at the thought.

“It’s fine,” Maverick said, catching his eye and holding his gaze. A thousand meanings. “It’s fine.”

“Did he do anything else?” Rooster said, jittery with the effort of not going to Maverick, not soothing his hurt. “Did he—”

“No. Just my neck. Just a lot of posturing. It’s fine,” Maverick said again, and hesitated before admitting, “And I think he was trying to test me— see if I was close to my heat.”

Rooster reacted with his whole body, tensing up and crowding in close again until he had Maverick up against the wall, a hair’s breadth between them. He pinned the omega’s body in, arms bracketed beside his head and legs spreading easily to envelope Maverick fully; hide the omega completely under his own bulk. He held Maverick’s gaze and forced him to tilt his head up to meet him. Rooster tried to say something, but his throat closed tight and all that made it out was a low and possessive rumble.

“Not like that, Rooster,” Maverick soothed, and it was painful now not to touch and claim. “That’s how he grounded me before, after—after Ice. He always kept my records locked tight, but now… the good admiral could see that I was due for my heat leave, so he pulled me out of Top Gun. For my protection, so I could have a safe heat out of the sky and away from the mission,” he added, breathing out a weak laugh.

Rooster wasn’t laughing, and his mouth felt crowded as he struggled to work the words out.

“Did you? Were you—was there,” he tried asking, and for all that he wasn’t supposed to touch Maverick, wasn’t supposed to drench him in his scent, he knew his body was pumping out alpha pheromones anyway. He was lost and sick with the idea of Maverick alone, or not, and riding out his heat because Rooster had left him. Again.

“No, Bradley,” Maverick breathed, confessional. “I don’t usually heat, and especially not when I’m supposed to. It’s a rare thing.”

Maverick was still looking up at him, and it felt like they were touching in every spot that they weren’t as the air thickened between them.

“What do you do—when you do? When you have a heat?” Rooster asked, already sailing down the river on that tangent, distracted during their talk. Unable to think about anything but Maverick and the heat they’d ridden out together, half-remembered through the fog of his own rut.

The sound that Maverick made was soft and hedging, a quiet ‘ahhh’ as he tried to shrug it off as no big deal. A claimed omega in his heat, with no alpha mate present. Cruelty, and Maverick’s eyes went tight, but he gave nothing away; forever Rooster’s protector.

“I wait for it to be over,” he said, like he wasn’t describing torture. Knowing Maverick, it was a punishment that he felt he deserved.

Rooster couldn’t help it, couldn’t have held himself back from asking for anything, a needy teenager again with a crush, and opened his mouth, “By yourself?” tumbling out, a question that rightfully he had no business asking. Especially not at Top Gun, Cyclone lurking around every corner. Already suspicious and posturing.

Maverick’s hand came back, easing him off again as he’d been trying subconsciously to close the distance. The omega curled his hand against his abdomen, resting right against tense muscles that he wished Maverick would soothe.

“By myself,” Maverick agreed, not giving him anything else. Making him ask for it. For Maverick, Rooster would get on his knees and beg.

“Always by yourself? What about—alphas?” he pressed, needy, breathing hot on the omega’s open mouth but not touching. Being good for Maverick, trying. But still an alpha needing reassurance, with the smell of Cyclone all over what was his.

“No alphas,” Maverick said, “Just you, for me. Even before you—just you. The only one,” and if Maverick had felt electric in his mind when he’d tried to find their bond before, this was like a lightning bolt right through to his dick. The only one.

“Just me?” he breathed, flying high on Maverick’s words, better than any cockpit had ever felt.

“I always thought they’d take my wings, felt like they were always trying to anyway” Maverick admitted, hushed, “I knew that if I had an alpha, if I let them really think about me as anything other than an aviator... it wouldn’t take much. And then I was yours, and kind of no one’s too, and I didn’t have to worry about the Navy, at least,” he said casually, with a small smile on his face like it wasn’t heartbreaking.

Rooster ached, and needed. Needed to touch, and reaffirm, and coat Maverick with his scent until everyone knew that he would never be no one’s again. Wanted to bury himself inside of Maverick, in the space that no other alpha had ever been; a concept that made him feel like he could bust right there in his flight suit.

“Mav,” he groaned, low, “Please, Maverick,” he begged, leaning forward and into Maverick as much as he could without touching. It felt like the force of their distance would push Maverick through the wall. But Maverick shook his head, unrelenting.

“Cyclone—” he started, and Rooster cut him off.

“I don’t give a shit about Cyclone,” he said, hot with anger at the name alone.

Maverick pushed him back a little bit, widening the gap, “Cyclone,” he continued, like he’d never been interrupted, voice going stern and Captain Mitchell even as his neck was tilted like he wanted Rooster to bite it, and there was that fucking modesty patch again, “is paying too much attention right now. If I walk out of here today, and he smells you on me, the mission—“

Rooster cut him off again, impatient, “I don’t give a shit about the mission either. When you were gone, my flying was the shittiest it’s ever been. There’s no way he’s letting me near a cockpit, let alone team leader, so he can think whatever he wants to think, and it doesn’t matter. I just want to be with you, with no one standing in our way. Fuck him, and fuck the mission.”

He looked Maverick up and down, and tried again to reach for him, to come close, but Maverick was unrelenting.

“He made me team leader today, in his office,” Maverick said, and for Rooster it was like the air had been sucked out of his lungs. He took a step back then, of his own volition, as horror rose up in his throat. Maverick, on this mission that was virtually unflyable except by Maverick himself, yet needing to rely on five other pilots for success at well. A death run.

He had just gotten Maverick back, truly had him for the first time, and now he could lose him forever.

It wasn’t fair, but he’d been in the Navy for too long to think that it was worth anything to say so.

“So, it’ll be me letting you in a cockpit. And I want you as my wingman,” Maverick said, as he gave Rooster the approval he’d craved his entire life. The approval that Rooster had been willing to destroy their relationship over, once. “You’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Rooster said, desperate for reassurance, mind reeling between pleased and terrified. For himself, and for Maverick; someone that biology was telling him to keep safe, but a lifetime together still had part of himself expecting Maverick’s protection.

“You think I can fly like you?” he asked, small, a kid under Maverick again. The man that he’d claimed when he had no right to.

“I think you can fly like you, when you trust your instincts. When you don't think, just do,” Maverick answered, strong voice lending Rooster his own confidence.

It was a terrifying prospect, and part of him had written it off as a foregone conclusion that he’d be grounded for the mission after his recent performance. It had been a comforting thought as they all became increasingly aware of the survivability.

Holding his alpha on such tight of a leash all of these years in the Navy had made him a cautious pilot, and to go on this mission was to throw all caution into the wind. But there was no way in hell he would want Maverick to go without him. Even, especially, if where Maverick was going was somewhere without hope of coming back.

And flying with Maverick had been his dream, in another life, and this one too.

Don’t think, Maverick had said, and he didn’t.

He surged forward, and covered every inch of Maverick with himself, plastering his heavy body possessively against the omega underneath. Maverick groaned in protest and tried to get distance again, but between the wall and Rooster there was nowhere to go.

“Rooster,” he grunted, but tilted his head forward against Rooster’s shoulder and breathed into his neck.

“I still don’t give a shit, we’ll sneak out, Mav, I don’t care. If we’re going to fly this mission where no one comes home, then I don’t give a fuck. I can’t take it, that smell, when you’re mine. Please, Mav,” Rooster agonized, and it was too late to even argue, he’d sweated through his blockers a long time ago, and plastered this close his scent was already seeping into Maverick’s pores.

Maverick latched onto his hips then, a desperate grip on either side of him, and pulled Rooster into his own body and swore, “You’re coming home, Rooster. I’m bringing you home from this.”

“I’m bringing you with me,” he returned, turning his head to pepper desperate kisses into Maverick’s hair. Kissed down onto his neck, and Mav’s blockers must have been strong today because there was no hint of the omega, still just the foul odor of Cyclone on his skin. Rooster licked and nipped anxious stripes into the reddened skin there, where another alpha had found purchase, had taken Maverick by his scruff. He laved at the skin until all he could smell was himself, and the slowly blooming smell of Maverick. He pulled off the modesty patch as Maverick grunted a short protest, but otherwise arched into his touch, and ran fingers through Rooster’s hair encouragingly. Raised his other hand to grip Rooster’s neck, right where his own claim mark should be, and tears rose to Rooster’s eyes at the sensation and the force of his own want.

“Mav,” he begged, grinding his face hard into Maverick’s bruised claim, fresh with his reaffirming bite. He pulled back to take the mark into his mouth and suck at the scarred skin in a bid for reassurance. Rooster didn’t have to voice his need, his request. Maverick knew it, could maybe feel it through their half-bond that was just starting to gain strength.

“After—after the mission,” he promised, gripping Rooster’s neck harder with his vow.

Rooster whined in answer, and let go of Maverick’s neck to keep kissing down. He fumbled with the zipper of Maverick’s flight suit, got it down to his navel. He rucked up the undershirt, too eager and shaky to try and get it all the way off, just kept following naked skin with his mouth.

Here, under his clothes, Maverick’s skin was hotter and his scent was burning through some of the blocker’s potency. Rooster could smell him, just a taste of that sweet smokey engine that was pure Maverick, with currents of his own scent running underneath. He smelled incredible, like ‘Mine’, Rooster thought. Knew without having to be told that he couldn’t fuck Maverick here, on the base. Couldn’t be inside of Maverick’s tight pussy without popping his knot, and there was no way they would get away with a tie here in this room. Especially now that he knew he was the only one to ever get him like that, ever knot into him like the intent was to breed. He doubted he’d get inside of Maverick all the way to his balls before he came just at the thought of being Maverick’s first, last, and only alpha.

Rooster kissed down his chest in fervor at that thought, Maverick’s tits exposed just under his bunched up tee. They were tight and mostly muscle, almost indistinguishable from his own pecs, but there was just the smallest swell of tissue there that suggested more, purpose. He bent his head and took a breast in his mouth and cupped his hand around the other, feeling Maverick’s nipple go tight against his tongue. Felt it plump back up as he sucked hard, tried to get as much into his mouth as he could, eyes closed tight as he soaked in the gift of Maverick.

“Bradley,” he heard Maverick say, strained and breathy, still keeping that hard grip on his neck as the omega arched his chest hard into his mouth.

Rooster pulled off and admired the puffy swell of Maverick’s tit after he released it. Felt drunk, and nuzzled across Maverick’s chest; luxuriated in rubbing his cheek hard into Maverick’s exposed skin, trying to chase more of his scent. He bit into the side of Maverick’s rib cage and kept going down, guided by the heavy weight on the back of his neck pushing him encouragingly to the vee of the omega’s legs, where Mav’s hard dick was straining up firm against the zipper. The hand never left his neck as Rooster teased the zipper down past his groin and reached inside and under his briefs to pull the heavy weight of Maverick’s cock out.

He'd known that Maverick was big, easily passable as at least a beta male, but his dick felt bigger still as he knelt down and took it into his mouth. Rooster didn’t have much practice, and his jaw ached, but when he looked up and saw Maverick glassy-eyed and watching him, he felt desperate to take him deeper, please him at any cost. He sunk down until the tip of Maverick’s dick triggered his gag reflex, and that strong hand on the back of his neck encouraged him back up, but he resisted. Tried to swallow around Maverick’s length as saliva pooled in his mouth and tears welled up heavy in his eyes, but he wanted to be good, be exactly what would make his omega feel best, make him stay.

Maverick eased him back up again as he breathed heavy through his nose, and the hand on his neck fixed him in place as Maverick inched his hips back and forth, gently fucking into his mouth. The omega’s breath was coming in harsher pants as he watched Rooster take it.

Rooster’s hands clenched and rubbed on Maverick’s thighs as he knelt before him and kept his mouth open and wet, tried to rub with his tongue on every stroke out. He wanted to work a hand down, try and feel Maverick’s slick hole under his fingers, could smell it in the air, but the flight suit was too tight to reach.

Maverick’s hips sped up, and his hand tightened on the back of Rooster’s neck in warning before he pushed him down as deep as the alpha could tolerate and held him there, coming in thick ropes against the back of his throat.

Rooster choked a little but didn’t pull off, dragged a hand down to his own straining erection and barely got a grip on himself through his own suit before he was coming hard into the fabric. He felt a sudden rush as he popped his knot, untouched, triggered by the scent and flavors of Maverick. Rooster shut his eyes and whined hard, didn’t pull off Maverick’s dick as he swallowed, but pawed blindly at his flight suit. Tried to get it down, down quick, pain blooming in his dick as his knot bulged without any comfort, any pressure.

Maverick saw his desperation and withdrew from Rooster’s mouth, not bothering to tuck himself back in before he was kneeling down too and helping Rooster get his zipper undone. Together they wrestled it down and Maverick had his hand inside, finding his way down Rooster’s agonized dick to wrap a strong hand around the neglected knot. He squeezed hard on the aching bulge, a facsimile of the pressure his own internal muscles would provide, and Rooster gasped in relief as he started coming in earnest, fully painting the inside of his flight suit.

They knelt together, dazed, until Maverick started to chuckle. Roosted rolled his head around to look at him, and took in the picture of Mav with his tits out and softening dick hanging over his zipper, hand jammed into Rooster’s own flight suit, wet patch blossoming on the fabric overtop. They met eyes and Rooster laughed too, panting a little as his dick kept pumping.

“Jesus, Rooster. Popped a knot just like that, didn’t need anything else?” Maverick asked, and it was teasing but might have hit Rooster in a sore spot if he wasn’t still coming and sitting there with the salty taste of Maverick hot in his mouth.

“It’s you,” Rooster said back honestly, lips quirking as he shuddered, reveling in the squeeze of Maverick’s hand still around him. Feeling pleased and alpha sated. The room stank of them now. So much for being careful around Cyclone.

They risked sitting there a few more minutes so that Maverick could get his hand off Rooster’s knot without backing him up and restarting the agony. It was dangerous, and even Rooster knew that it had been foolish to do this here. They had to hope that the room wouldn’t be occupied for a while, and then if it was, just pray that no one could identify their exact scents.

They weren’t seen leaving, and to Rooster it felt like a victory.

They were allotted another day of exercises before they were to be deployed on the mission, and everyone’s faith was bolstered by Maverick’s successful run. It could be done, they all now knew for fact, and so then it felt like it would be done. Every pilot flew past the top of their previous ability, flew as a team, united under their unofficial omega.

For Rooster, it was thrilling, to fly together successfully. To feel confident about the insane mission they were about to undertake, but more than confident, feel proud because it was an ancient fantasy that he had for himself, but here he was finally; an alpha that Maverick wanted and trusted on his wing.

He and Maverick didn’t spend their last night together, too self-aware to think that they could share a bed and not crash into each other. The pull between them was too strong, and it was too dangerous of a risk to take with their scents when they would be in such close proximity with everyone on the aircraft carrier the following day.

Rooster was feeling good though, like they were on the right path, even with the mission looming in the days ahead. It all was starting to feel like a sure thing; something he just had to wait out. Given time and freedom, he and Maverick were going to be together; a dream decades in the making.

But he should have listened to Maverick, should never have underestimated Cyclone and his vindictiveness.

They had transported separately to the aircraft carrier, and it wasn’t until he and the other pilots were seated in the pre-mission briefing room that he had a chance to see Maverick on the day of the mission.

Maverick was standing before the room, suited up and flanked by Cyclone and Warlock. They all looked somber, with the gravity of the day reflected on their faces. Rooster ached to give Maverick reassurance, wanted to get some back, but there was no smiling secretively at each other in the full room. He searched down within himself, quicker and less intense than before, and tried to clumsily nudge up against where Maverick’s presence was, and was rewarded with a quick brush of Maverick back.

They locked eyes for just a second, Rooster hyper-aware of Cyclone’s gaze boring into him, before they both looked away and Maverick cleared his throat. He stepped forward, commanding the attention of the room.

“It has been an honor flying with you. Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission; my choice is a reflection of that and nothing more,” Maverick said, searching out all of them with his eyes, resolutely not lingering on anyone. He looked like he might have been on the verge of saying more, but Cyclone cut in.

“Choose your two foxtrot teams,” the admiral’s voice struck out, impatient.

“Payback and Fanboy, Phoenix and Bob,” Maverick answered, sure.

“And your wingman,” Cyclone said, turning his head to stare hard at Maverick. Maverick paused, and Rooster saw Hangman straightening up where he stood.

“Rooster,” Maverick finally said, locking eyes with him finally. Rooster looked back steadily; assurance mirrored back in their gaze.

“No,” Cyclone cut in, and Maverick’s head jerked around to stare at him, “Lieutenant Bradshaw’s flight performance has been subpar since arriving at Top Gun. We can’t jeopardize the mission on nostalgia, Captain,” and Cyclone never looked at him, but Rooster felt a bone deep chill slice through his heart.

“Sir,” Maverick tried to interject, wrong-footed and as undermined as the admiral had hoped.

Cyclone wouldn’t hear it, and cut him off again, “Choose someone else, or I will choose for you.”

Rooster’s heart was beating out of his chest, and he felt that old familiar red rage fall across his eyes like a curtain. He was an idiot. Maverick had warned him, with their scents that day, and he hadn’t listened. Had just done instead of thought, and left Top Gun reeking with their sex scent when Cyclone was on the warpath.

“Hangman,” Maverick said, strong figure turned uncertain now. An omega put in his place for disobeying his alpha superior. Rooster was in shock, but having seen Cyclone’s hand on Maverick’s neck that day, he probably shouldn’t have been.

Hangman’s head turned to look at Rooster, and there was no smug look on his face now. His expression was drawn tight in sympathy.

Maverick and Cyclone were locked onto each other in silent conversation, so Warlock stepped forward to address them.

“The rest of you will stand by on the carrier for any reserve role that is required. Dismissed,” he said, and turned to walk out. Cyclone moved to leave after him and signaled for Maverick to follow.

Rooster had broken into a heavy sweat, overwhelming fear and anxiety seizing him at the reality of Maverick going on the mission without him. He’d promised to bring Maverick back home with him, but it was impossible to do that from the carrier.

He ached for Maverick to say something, to look at him, but Maverick followed Cyclone out and never brought his gaze up from the floor.

Notes:

I've been fairly canon compliant (sex and A/B/O-ness aside) until now, but it just wasn't meant to be here.

Sorry the update took so long! Hopefully this chapter was worth the wait. It's longish, so I hope that helps! Thank you for all of your support/comments, I am so appreciative.

Chapter 22

There was an undercurrent of danger beneath Rooster’s skin.

He was uncomfortable, like he was going to tear himself or the world apart. He was pacing in the hallway, waiting for Maverick to reappear. Needing for their fate to change.

It was a nightmare scenario.

He had returned to Top Gun weeks ago ready to take his orders and do his job, and then Maverick had been there and changed everything. And then he’d been gone, and changed everything again, and in the wake of the loss of Maverick—his omega, he now knew, his flying had gone to hell and he’d written the mission off. Counted himself safe from the suicide run, until Maverick had shown back up, shown them all who was still Top Gun after all these years, and then miracle of miracles, had wanted Rooster to go with him. On his wing, by his side, with the promise of forever when they made it home.

And now. Fuck.

Maverick was going on the mission without him. With god damn ‘hang you out to dry’ Hangman, of all the pilots in the world.

He was reaping what he’d sowed, with the shit-ass flying of an uncontrolled alpha, and now he was being left behind. Again. Back to being a kid, Maverick leaving for duty again; stuck standing achingly miserable in the driveway and watching that old bike disappear down the road. Off to be with his Navy buddies, to Ice, to the real alphas of the world, while he waited. Little Bradley Bradshaw, never the alpha that Maverick needed—never enough.

And that stupid fucking stunt on the base. Getting their scents everywhere, right in Cyclone’s territory, when Maverick warned him not to. Rooster snarled, shame-faced at the knowledge that he’d been an idiot.

His flying had been bad. No doubt about it. But Cyclone publicly denying him as Maverick’s wingman had been personal.

Rooster gritted his teeth and spun around to face the wall, grinding the top of his head against the cold steel panels. Trying to rub away the headache that was searing between his temples, stress having rocketed the tension in his body to level one thousand. His alpha was scratching desperate at all corners of his mind. The sensation of wrongness at Maverick going where he could not follow was all-encompassing. It was wrong wrong wrong, and he couldn’t settle.

He didn’t even know where Maverick had gone after he’d trailed after Cyclone and left Rooster’s sight. There was no scent trail to follow. He felt impotent and cut off at the knees.

“Fuck,” Rooster hissed, wanted to put his fist through the wall, but reluctantly knowing better than to do anything that could fuck up his flying even more. He closed his eyes tight when his vision started to bleed red, tried to get himself back in line and count backwards from fifty, but there was no shaking it. “Fuck,” he said again, and had to straighten up. Had to start getting ready for flight if he was going to be Dagger Spare, standing by on the carrier as backup support.

While Mav flew for his life.

Fuck.

Robotic steps took him to the locker room as he watched the corridors pass by, vision narrowed down to a keyhole that he was looking through from far back in his own mind. Static in his ears, terror in his heart, and a belly full of lead.

The alpha drum was beating loud and frantic, deep inside, same steady shockwaves of wrong. This was wrong. Something was wrong.

Rooster went through the motions of gearing up, and he was mostly alone. He’d spent long enough pacing and hoping for Maverick that everyone was probably on the tarmac by now. It felt like someone else’s hands were dressing him, his mind recessed away somewhere deep inside of his own body. Hanging on by a thread.

He was buckling his vest when a hand settled on his shoulder, and his whole body jerked, restraint hanging on by an inch.

“Bradshaw,” Hangman’s voice came from far away, drifting through Rooster’s ears that felt like they were underwater. The absolute last person that he wanted to see right now.

“Don’t,” Rooster snarled, at the outer edge of his limits. He kept working at the vest and didn’t turn.

“Look,” Hangman tried, never having read a room in his life, “With me up there, this mission has a chance. We’ll have the best pilot in the Navy,” he said, smirk in his voice. “And Maverick will be there too,” he continued, and Rooster wanted to put a fist through his perfect face.

Rooster ached to tell him to shut up, but if he let any sound leave his mouth it was going to be a scream.

He didn’t know if Hangman was trying to reassure him or set him off, but knowing Hangman, the sentiments were probably one in the same.

“I won’t do anything with him that you wouldn’t, except fly well,” Hangman added, and he must not want to go on the mission after all because he was standing in front of Rooster and trying to get himself killed before he ever left.

Rooster couldn’t help himself anymore. He had a mouthful of teeth and nothing to do with them, and the alpha frenzy was scratching up his throat. He jerked around and got as far as getting both hands on Hangman’s shoulders, but Hangman locked his arms on Rooster’s too and held him just out of reach. Rooster’s head was swimming and sick with rage, but there wasn’t antagonism on Hangman’s face when he got his vision to focus, got a good look at him. He looked serious, regardless of the smug shit that was coming out of his mouth.

Rooster had to shake himself, try and let the rage fall back, could only get it to ease off so far.

“If you leave him out there, if you pull your fucking Bagman shit,” he said, a plead and a threat, throat tight and hot, “don’t bother coming back.”

“I won’t leave,” Hangman replied, instant. Looked back at Rooster steadily, as still and somber as he’d ever been. “I’ll give them hell,” he said, a promise. He looked like he was rolling words around in his mouth, but he swallowed them, and squeezed Rooster where he had been holding him back. They released each other simultaneously and took big steps back, both needing to give their alphas a wide berth.

Rooster stood there another minute to watch Hangman leave, jealousy and guilt burning hot through him at the knowledge that it should be him flying with Maverick, that was the way their story was supposed to go. But he’d fucked it all up.

Wrong wrong wrong pounded through him. He needed to find Maverick. It was almost time.

He was sweating profusely, felt damp and sticky in his flight suit. His head was pounding, and his neck ached in the spot where their bond mark should be. The mark that Maverick had promised would be his when they both finished the mission. But now it was just Maverick going; Rooster left behind and praying to God that Maverick would come back.

The flight deck was a scene of organized chaos that he used to crave and be exhilarated by, but now it was stirring him deeper into madness. Maverick. He needed Maverick. He saw Phoenix and Bob getting into their cockpit, thought he maybe saw Hangman in the distance, and he needed to be getting into his own jet, but in that moment he didn’t care. He picked up speed and started jogging around the tarmac, felt dizzy, tried to grab onto Maverick’s presence inside of himself but felt the bond slipping through his fingers like water.

There were calls on the loudspeaker, and it was almost time, but he had to find Maverick.

Rooster finally spotted him, just barely saw him out of the corner of his eye, the compact frame of the omega bent low while he inspected his jet. Maverick was running his hand on the body of the aircraft, and he looked untouchable—the aviator from his stories, not someone that Rooster really knew, or had been allowed to ever have.

“Mav!” Rooster called, panting as he jogged closer. Maverick never looked up, far away and single-minded in his motions. His hair was wet and slicked back, like he’d dunked his head under the sink. “Maverick,” Rooster tried again, but still nothing.

“Sir, Captain Mitchell,” he said, voice cracking, unsure. He slowed to a stop and waited for Maverick to look up at him, to see. He felt wrong-footed and like nobody at all, suddenly. He couldn’t help it, and a whine rose up in the back of his throat. ‘Look at me’, he wanted to beg, and Maverick did.

Maverick looked up at him with a tight expression and a glaze to his eyes, like he wasn’t really seeing. He was pale and it was more than just his hair that was damp, there was a wet ring around his collar and drips all over his suit.

“Bradley,” Maverick said, tried to give him a smile that would only half come out.

Wrong wrong wrong, Bradley felt. Knew.

He lurched forward to Maverick, took him by the vest and crowded him in tight under the relative shelter of a wing. Not nearly enough privacy, a reckless impulse, but what the hell did it matter now? Cyclone had already caught them, and he’d been thoroughly spanked. There wasn’t a Navy regulation in the world that could have kept him off of Maverick under the circumstances.

Maverick clutched him back hard, and Rooster dipped his head until they were face to face, breath to breath.

“Mav,” he said, feeling strangled and scared, “Mav, I’m sorry. I fucked it up.”

Maverick squeezed his eyes shut tight and tucked his face hard into Rooster’s neck, wet hair tickling his cheek. “I’m a little glad that you’re not,” Maverick admitted, lips moving against the soft skin of Rooster’s neck, where his claim would be.

Those soft-spoken words punched into Rooster right where he was most vulnerable, in years of insecurities, and his breath froze in his throat while Maverick kept speaking, “It’s easier, now that I know you’re safe. One less life to worry about,” he said, sounded a little dazed again, distant.

Rooster swallowed hard, breathed deep and tried not to let his feelings get hurt. “What about your life? How—how the fuck am I just supposed to sit here and watch you leave?” he croaked out, angry and impotent. An alpha sending his omega off to war.

“It’ll be okay,” Maverick promised, quick and easy, and empty too. “You’ve got this.”

Even with Maverick pressed as close as he could get, the anxiety was bubbling over inside of him. He wasn’t going on the mission. He wasn’t Maverick’s wingman. He didn’t have this, and if Maverick didn’t come back, he wouldn’t have anything at all.

“Bite me,” Rooster pleaded suddenly, desperate. “Finish the claim, Mav, please. So I know you’re okay, so I can feel you while you’re gone,” he begged, and they weren’t the right words. It wasn’t the whole truth, the depth of his feelings and need for forever, wasn’t the reality of his heart that beat Maverick and always had.

Maverick’s face was tucked into the right spot already, he could just bite, seal it forever. But he shook his head in denial instead.

“After the mission, okay? We’ll talk, after everything—about everything,” Maverick said, placating and still sounding wrong.

“Mav,” Rooster breathed, anguished. He rubbed his hands up and down Maverick’s arms, trying to soothe himself or them both. Wanted to ask what was wrong, but the question felt stupid here, on the edge of danger. Everything was wrong.

Maverick sighed hard and hitching, held his breath entirely before he surged further into Rooster, and ground his cheek deep into his neck and up into his jawline. Marking him like pack, like they did for Rooster’s whole life until right up until they didn’t. Something uncurled deep in Rooster’s belly, and he breathed in deep, startled by the intensity of the Mav scent that was blooming up from where the omega was marking. Maverick’s hair was still wet, blockers must have been diluted or washed away, and it was filling Rooster’s senses. He hadn’t been able to scent Maverick this deeply in weeks, and it was soothing, the antidote to his warring alpha.

“God, Mav, you smell,” Rooster started to say, but he couldn’t finish. He lost his words as he chased that scent, squeezing Maverick tight as he tried to duck down and breathe in heavily. But Maverick stiffened all over and eased back, had that terrible lost look on his face before he met Rooster’s eyes with a careful smile.

Rooster opened his mouth, to plead or profess, he didn’t know, but the loudspeakers cut him off and they both paused to listen to the call, “Pilots, report to your aircrafts,” ringing out loud overhead.

Maverick was slipping away, and Rooster swallowed around hot fear in his throat. He lurched forward, and tucked his face hard into Maverick’s neck before the omega could pull back again. He nudged Maverick’s collar down with his nose, and there was no modesty patch today, just a naked bond mark that he took gratefully into his mouth and bit. The omega scent filled the space between them, hot and trapped in their close proximity. Rooster whined, anxious and desperate, as he took in the scent of Mav, and home, and himself, an acidic tinge of sick, and this deep deep perfume of—

But Maverick pulled back, arching away until Rooster’s mouth disconnected and left a fat string of saliva stretching out between them before it broke. “Bradley,” Maverick started, and then paused, “I—” and the intercom cut back in, final call for pilots. Maverick’s lips kept moving but Rooster couldn’t hear whatever was coming out. He gestured to his ear, but Maverick just shook his head, didn’t try to repeat himself. For a minute they just stood there, taking each other in, anxiety ripe between them and that strange look on Maverick’s face.

Rooster’s eyes tracked down to his claim, and there was a fresh bruise blossoming on the mark that was still wet and shiny with his own saliva. He reached out and wiped that sweet secret skin with the sleeve of his flight suit, rubbed hard and intently at the mark. Maverick turned into his hand when it lingered there, and pressed a kiss onto the tanned skin of Rooster’s wrist.

“Mav,” he blurted out, sudden, not even sure what he wanted to say, just trying to extend this moment in time as long as he could, “I just want to say—” and it was the loudspeaker again, deafening, and they had to go, it was time.

But a tidal wave of awfulness was rising up inside of Rooster’s body, and he wanted to grab Maverick, and take him home, get back in Maverick’s sheets that maybe still smelled like them, where the omega belonged. Say fuck you to the Navy and uranium and everyone else’s problems.

“When I get back,” Maverick promised, and he was stepping back and separating himself, the mask of a military man’s readiness slipping down across his features. Hondo was approaching, caging Maverick in and edging Rooster out and away.

The sick feeling startled back even harder when Maverick started to climb into the cockpit, and the intensity of the misery inside of himself was ramped up tenfold. Wrong wrong wrong beat away inside of him, and his head throbbed achingly. He couldn’t let him go. Wrong wrong wrong.

“Maverick!” Rooster called out, trying to get closer to his omega’s jet, but he was being shepherded away by the flight crew. “Pete!” he cried, and it ripped from the alpha cords deep in his throat.

But there was a flurry of activity, sound deafening, and Maverick never turned or looked up. Maybe wouldn’t have even if he’d heard him.

Rooster wanted to reach up and pull his hair out, wanted to shake out of his own skin, he felt tight and hot and beyond distressed. He was being led to his own jet, Dagger Spare reporting for duty, but his feet were treading heavy and reluctant across the tarmac. Some part of him, or every part of him, was screaming at being separated from Maverick. At sending him on this mission without his alpha on his wing, where he should have been.

There wasn’t time to dwell or rage, and he mindlessly put one foot in front of the other, climbed the ladder to his cockpit, and started strapping himself in. He could see Maverick’s jet but not Maverick himself, and the canopy was still open, with Hondo up on the ladder and huddled in close. Blocking Rooster’s view. He breathed shakily, falling to muscle memory as he carried out his pre-flight routine.

Tried to turn his mind off, silence the screaming.

Rooster’s canopy descended and sealed him inside.

His anxiety exploded the second that it did, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He didn’t have his oxygen mask on yet, and it felt like he couldn’t breathe, and he was tearing apart.

“Dagger One, up and ready on catapult one,” Maverick’s voice came through the comm, and maybe if Rooster was about to fly after him into the danger, it would have been calming to hear that familiar voice, but instead his insides clenched even harder at the sound.

The other daggers chimed in with their status, but it was all static in his ears.

“Dagger Spare, copy?” Warlock chimed in, a status request from the war room.

“Dagger Spare, standing by,” scraped out of Rooster’s throat, felt like glass on the way out.

Wrong wrong wrong

He tried to focus, chest tight, and took steadying breaths through his nose.

And there it was.

Trapped in the cockpit, isolated from the overwhelming scents of the aircraft carrier, suddenly it was all he could smell. Maverick, and more.

Rooster’s pupils blew and he crushed the sleeve of his flight suit to his nose, still damp from where he’d swiped it on Maverick’s neck, and he took deep frantic breaths. Maverick and more, the rich earthy essence of a developing pup deep in his scent.

Notes:

Sorry for the delay!!! My real life took several detours. The next chapter is already half-written as I post this one, so it won't take as long. I guess I need to change that tag AGAIN.

Thank you for all of the great comments. They feed me.

Chapter 23

A pup. Fuck.

It was deep in Maverick’s scent, the them that he had been scenting on Maverick without thinking twice.

They hadn’t used protection, not once, but he somehow didn’t think—they hadn’t used condoms back when he presented, either, but nothing came of it then, and he hadn’t been with an omega since, and he just thought—Rooster shook his head, dazed, didn’t know what the fuck he had thought. Had thought about it a lot, in his wildest dreams, but never like this, in the midst of hell.

Mindlessly, he started tearing at the straps of his harness, and he jerked his head around to face Maverick’s jet. But he could only stare helplessly at the afterburner’s of the F-18 as it launched. His Maverick, his omega, with a pup in his belly flying off to where Rooster hadn’t been allowed to follow.

He grappled with his headset, crushed it to his mouth like a lifeline.

“Dagger Spare, requesting Dagger One—Maverick, requesting private comm channel,” he pleaded, and heard the static that meant he’d been disconnected from the channel. His comm wasn’t going through, and he was seeing furious alpha red.

“Dagger Spare,” Warlock’s voice answered, grave, “Operation has commenced, no private channels between pilots are authorized at this time.”

“Requesting private channel with Admiral Simpson then,” Rooster spat, impatient, didn’t have time for this. Maverick needed to come back. The mission needed to be scrapped, they needed to get Maverick home. There was no scenario where a pregnant omega could be sent on a mission like this. No fucking way.

“Request denied, open comm only,” Warlock answered, and Rooster caught his scream at the back of his throat. He was sweating, and the alpha rage was tearing at him, and he’d spent so long holding it back, the instincts inside of himself. There was no holding back now, not now, not like this.

“The mission needs to be aborted, put god damn Cyclone on the line, he’s right there, and this is life or death,” he hissed, and he was fixing his oxygen mask on. Barely knew what he was doing, but something deep inside was taking the helm.

He could hear distantly the progress of the Daggers as they descended below radar, assumed attack formation. He was running out of time to stop the mission before it was too late.

“Request denied,” Warlock came back again, after a beat of silence. Rooster was slipping, sliding on the ice of his own control.

“Did you know?” he asked suddenly, over the pretense of begging through a proxy when he knew Cyclone was right in the room. They didn’t have time for games. “Did you know, when you picked him?” stole out of Rooster’s chest, wrenched out of his cords that were thick and alpha, mouth crowded and tongue heavy. “Did he know?” he asked, anguished.

There was no answer, but he didn’t need one. In his gut, he knew.

“Picture clean, decision is yours,” came from the AWACS aircraft, Comanche, advising the mission and chiming in on the comm.

Rooster heard Maverick’s answer immediately, and it shattered the last of his self-control. “Dagger attack,” Maverick said, and it was too late. There was no stopping the mission, no bringing back Maverick before it had started, and there was no stopping Rooster.

His alpha had slid into the pilot’s seat, had taken hold of the stick.

He didn’t half know what he was doing, but his alpha had him, and he was running on primal motivation. Maverick was on the mission, pregnant, and Rooster wasn’t going to wait for the worst to happen while he sat back on the carrier. Now, Maverick was the mission.

“Dagger Spare, stand down,” Warlock commanded, and Rooster didn’t know why until he shuddered back into himself, saw that he’d engaged his jet.

“I’m going,” Rooster said, and the words were out of his mouth before he knew that they were true, had no reason to believe that they were. He wasn’t in a position to launch, needed Cyclone’s command, and he wasn’t going to get it. His jet was on standby, and the Catapult Officer wouldn’t launch without authorization. It wasn’t possible, but he was going after Maverick. He knew it. “Dagger Spare, requesting to launch additional air support.”

“Stand down, Dagger Spare, disobeying direct orders and engaging in this mission without authorization is going to be a court martial,” Warlock said, but he knew that it was a promise from Cyclone’s own mouth.

“He’s marked,” Rooster spits out suddenly, and the truth comes out of him stolen and deep. He hadn’t meant to say that, to out them on the open channel. He wasn’t in control, and his alpha would use whatever weapons available and damn the consequences. He was speaking directly to Cyclone, laid bare. Torpedoing his own career, the career that he had lost Maverick over. He would give it away for Maverick now.

“Technically, sir,” he hissed, out of his mind, “that means something here.”

It was archaic, and it wasn’t right. But legally, Maverick’s body—his pup, wasn’t his, or the Navy’s. They were Rooster’s. Maverick was bonded, owned, since Rooster was sixteen years old and presenting, and making decisions that he had no right to. But the choice had been made, and sending an alpha’s pregnant omega into a combat mission was a violation of a law higher than the Navy’s.

“You had no right to send him, no right,” Rooster kept on, pure alpha and ramrod stiff in the cockpit. He was going. He felt the total confidence of his designation, the surety of his own dominance, alpha cords deep and clear over the comm, “So we can talk about a court martial when I get back.”

The comm was silent, but he could see the flight crew keyed into their headsets and getting into place.

“Ready Catapult One,” Warlock’s, Cyclone’s assent came through, and Rooster had known that it would, had already moved his jet into position, and the crew were readying him. He needed to launch, needed to get Maverick, didn’t know how, but his instincts were screaming.

“Dagger Spare, up and ready on Catapult One,” he said, breathing calm and steady, body braced for the launch.

His comm was quiet, but he saw the signals thrown between the flight crew, and his belly swooped hard at the powerful launch of the catapult. Muscle memory took over as he became airborne, comfortable in the cockpit in a way that he hadn’t been since arriving at Top Gun, since maybe ever.

He was behind, the Daggers having launched well-ahead of him, but it was his time to be fearless behind the stick. The pounding sensation in his chest of wrong was easing the faster he went, the harder he pushed the aircraft, the closer he came to catching up with Maverick. His, in promise and in pup.

The chorus of ‘don’t think, just do’ rattled through him, and he was doing it. He had sunk back in his mind and away from his hesitation and let the alpha fully take over, and he was running on instinct and gut.

There was no fear of losing control or letting loose. The ties holding back his alpha were cut free. There was no consequence greater than the one he was facing. Nothing to fear more than losing Maverick, the man he’d loved and pined and cried for— the man who was carrying his pup. He’d never wanted anything more, had never been so close to having and losing everything. He’d bred Maverick all those years ago back when he was sixteen, had been balls deep and mindless in the omega and prayed to god it would catch. Had cupped at Maverick’s tight belly under his hand and come hard and desperate at the idea of it swollen, of Maverick’s body growing pup thick. Visible, tangible, irrevocable proof that Maverick was his; that they were each other’s, not just bound by a pack created by his dad that Maverick couldn’t shake.

The idea that he was Bradley’s; didn’t just still remain loyal to a ghost.

“Dagger set and proceeding to target, two minutes and thirty seconds in three, two, one—mark,” Maverick was saying over comm, other Daggers chiming in, and Rooster didn’t panic, didn’t feel too late to help. He increased his speed, faster and more confidently than he’d ever flown before. He was off his perch.

His jet flew low and powerful, close to the water, but he felt calm. He was after Maverick, his omega, and his alpha was locked into the chase.

“First SAM sighting overhead,” Maverick said, and Rooster gritted his teeth. Sped up, pushed more. He was coming.

“Dagger, we’re picking up two bandits,” AWACS said, and Rooster kept going. Faster, faster. Maybe he’d lost his fucking mind, was going to arrive late and get blown to hell by the bandits by the time he caught up, but it didn’t matter. If he could help, if his presence could keep the sun out of Maverick’s eyes or just be a friendly aircraft in the sky, it was worth the launch, worth the hit to his career. He was Maverick’s, Maverick his, and he would have followed him into worse.

Rooster didn’t set his time when he entered the canyon, it didn’t matter. He was racing Maverick, not the clock. He opened the Dagger channel and found that the static was gone. He was back in, and recklessly he announced his presence, “Dagger Spare, mark.”

Maverick’s reply was immediate, wrenched out of him and awful, “Dagger Spare? Rooster?”

“Here for additional support, Dagger One,” Rooster replied, steady, no apology or explanation. He pulled back his cords, but only just.

“God damn, Bradshaw, I told you I had him!” Hangman, Dagger Two, cut in, laughing in Texas twang like he couldn’t believe it. Rooster knew better than to fall into the trap of engaging him today.

The silence between himself and Maverick on the comm felt heavy as he navigated the canyon, took the tight turns at speeds that he’d never flown in practice. He imagined all of the words that were going unsaid between them, pages of arguments and pleads that were on the tips of both of their tongues.

‘How could you go?’ was caught and thick in his throat, but he didn’t dare. ‘Did you know?’ was a close second, but he felt it in his heart, in his leaden gut, that Maverick had known. He could feel the disquiet on Maverick on the tarmac, the desperation. He’d felt wrong, and now he knew why. It hit him in the heart, in his vulnerability, to think about Maverick scenting him roughly before climbing into the cockpit with their pup in his belly. Saying goodbye.

Rooster could only breathe heavily and shutter the questions, the demands, deep inside. Had to put his own impulse to spiral and know on the backburner, and not do anything that would pull focus on the flight of their lives. Had to be the alpha that Maverick needed now, and not the selfish person, the kid, that he’d let himself be in the past. Had to protect, be Maverick’s security.

He'd taken Maverick for his own when he had been a teenager, stolen a grown man from his own life and independence, and he had to prove that he was more than that now. That he was worthy of being Maverick’s alpha and pack. That he could be someone Maverick could trust with his life and child, and ignore all of the reasons that Rooster had ever given him not to.

The silence was interrupted by the AWACS Comanche, “Tomahawk impact in 3, 2…Impact! Enemy runway is destroyed.”

Rooster’s skin burned with the danger now, the longing to see Maverick. They were deep in enemy territory, SAMs all overhead, and now the enemy knew that they were there. He was still behind, still couldn’t see the other Daggers.

“Those bandits are going to move now to defend the target, we have to get there before they do. Increase speed,” Maverick commanded, and Rooster didn’t hesitate, immediately moved to accelerate.

“Way ahead of you, pops,” Hangman chimed back, and Rooster gritted his teeth.

He didn’t need to close his eyes to imagine Maverick flying beside him. He pictured himself on Maverick’s wings, matching his speed, taking the tight turns together. It felt real, felt like he was flying beside Maverick, even though he was behind and flying in the other man’s wake. He could picture himself as the wingman that he was supposed to be.

Rooster was chasing Maverick, like he was still a pup, like he always had been.

Didn’t know what he was going to do when he caught him, other than take in the sight of Maverick unharmed and believe it in his heart when he could see it with his own eyes.

“Thirty seconds to target, Bob—check your laser,” Maverick said, and Rooster knew where he was now. He’d studied this course, flown the route in his stimulator. He knew these turns, could see it in his mind’s eye where Maverick was relative to his own position. He was getting close, catching up despite the odds. “Get me eyes on that target, Bob!” Maverick urged, and Rooster licked his lips, leaned into the stick, flew like there weren’t missiles and enemies overhead and canyon walls all around.

“Stand by, I—I’ve got it, captured!” Bob shouted.

“Target acquired, bombs away,” Maverick said, cool as he’d ever been behind the stick. The pilot of a generation, and his. Behind his anxiety and his terror, Rooster felt pride, had spent a lifetime being in awe of just knowing Maverick, and now got to love and have him too. If they could just get home he thought, desperate, pushed his speed harder. Had to navigate under a narrow bridge, fitting his jet just so through the unforgiving corridor.

“We’ve got impact, direct hit, direct hit!” Bob exclaimed, but they weren’t even halfway done.

“Dagger Two, status,” Maverick called, taking no time to revel. Not acknowledging Rooster, flying desperately behind.

“Dagger Two, looking good and feeling good, Mav,” Hangman replied, smooth, “I’m right on your tail, popping in three, two—”

“Hangman, slow down!” Payback cut in, frantic, “You’re too far ahead!”

“I—I’m flying like my ass depends on it,” Hangman gritted back, “Why are you not on my tail? Where’s my laser,” he cried, joke all wrung out of his tone.

“Laser not in range, we do not have the target!” Fanboy yelled back, and the comm was descending into chaos.

“Get your shot, Dagger Two! There’s no going back, we’re not out of this yet. Here it comes!” Maverick urged, and there was new stress in his voice as he rounded coffin corner. Rooster kept pushing the throttle, needed speed, he had to get there.

“I’m dropping blind,” Hangman said, didn’t sound like himself, and Rooster knew he was going to miss before he did.

“Miss, miss!” Fanboy shouted, and Rooster felt his heart in his throat. He was pulling hard up, ascending up the side of the mountain for the pop-up strike.

“Dagger One, defending,” Maverick said, and Rooster was pure alpha at the stick, but it was still him, he was fully himself. “Dagger Spare, move in for strike!” Maverick commanded, and Rooster was powerless but to obey. “You’ve got this, Bradley!”

“Smoke in the air, smoke in the air!” someone was shouting through the comm, but Rooster was unhearing.

“Almost there, Mav, almost there,” he shouted, in Maverick’s thrall and moving in for strike.

He was inverting, and diving down down down before he righted himself. He could see the target. Didn’t have a WSO, a laser, any support at all—but he didn’t need it. His mind was quiet and his heart was steady, this might have been the mission but it wasn’t his, it was just another obstacle to getting to Maverick—his pack, his family.

The comm was screaming, ‘defending, smoke in the air, radar warnings, breaking right’, but none of them Maverick. The only voice that mattered, and Rooster needed to hear him.

The target was in his sights, he had tone, and it was his. “Talk to me, Mav,” he hissed, thought about his omega, their new life, and he dropped his bomb. Popped up for the steep climb up the canyon, didn’t need to turn his head to know that the earth was shattering behind him. Felt the hit in his bones.

“Dagger One, defending!” Maverick shouted, and as his vision dimmed on the climb, Rooster could see the bombs overhead. The clouds above were smokey and dark, and he felt in his gut that he was ascending to his death, but Maverick was there. His sight and consciousness was tunneling out under the force of the Gs, fighting off G-LOC with every ounce of energy in him, his body forcing itself to stay alive to see Maverick. “I’m out of counter measures,” Maverick announced, voice tight, and it seized Rooster’s heart, pulled him out of his stupor, and his vision was going alpha red but focusing back in. “Maverick,” he gritted, forcing air into his lungs to speak under the force of gravity.

“Get out of there, Mav!” Phoenix shouted, “Smoke in the air!”

“Daggers, return to carrier, you have bandits headed for you,” Warlock’s voice sounded through the comm, dim and far away to Rooster’s ears.

“Not without Rooster!” Maverick shouted, and Rooster wanted to scream, but couldn’t force the sound through his collapsing lungs. He was close. He was close.

“Get out of here Dagger One, I’ve got Rooster!” Hangman shouted, and Rooster heard him for the first time, the pilot had been silent on the comm since his fuckup. “Dagger Two, defending,” he said, and as he popped over the canyon and into the chaos, Rooster could see Hangman’s flares in the air.

And Maverick, dodging SAMs, no flares left to defend himself. Hadn’t made any moves to leave, was still stubbornly waiting for Rooster to emerge from the canyon.

The missiles descended on him, and there was nothing that Rooster could do but react.

“Get back to the boat, Maverick!” he shouted, deploying his flares, smoke in the air all around them as he fought to get distance from the SAMs. “Dagger Spare, defending. Hangman, cover Maverick, don’t leave him!”

He kept trying to make space, to get away, but it was defend defend defend, no space to escape, missiles everywhere. He couldn’t get any distance, the missiles were bearing down on him. Bandits incoming. Fucked.

He couldn’t see Maverick’s jet but he knew he was close. Knew that Maverick wouldn’t leave him, but he was low on flares himself, and didn’t see an escape.

“Maverick, come on, we’ve got to go, you don’t even have any god damn flares!” Hangman shouted, and Rooster knew they were losing him, heard the fear thick in Hangman’s voice.

“Don’t need them,” Maverick said, unshakable. Wouldn’t leave Rooster even if it cost him everything, and it might. “Smoke in the air, on your right, Rooster!”

Rooster jerked his stick, moved to defend, and fuck, god damnit he was out of missiles. “I’m out, shit!”

The missile was bearing down on him, and he turned his head to look. Saw Maverick behind him, and his gut seized ice cold with terror. Knew in his heart, to his bones, his core, what Maverick was about to do. Knew that Maverick was lining himself up, defenseless, about to take the missile for him, and it set every molecule of his body on edge—electric.

Rooster moved without thought, his hand on the stick, and he was pitching his jet up hard and unstoppable, felt every inch of his body seize with absolute clarity, and then pitched it back level—Maverick’s Cobra, Maverick’s move. Maverick’s sacrifice play.

It felt like the world ground to a still halt as he felt the impact hard in his aircraft.

The explosion happened in a moment or a lifetime, and he squeezed tight down into himself, into the bond, into Maverick. Let himself soak in his omega, in his home, as his aircraft was disintegrating around him, as he proved to himself that he was the alpha that Maverick—that their pup deserved.

“Bradley, NO,” Maverick cried, and Rooster carried his voice with him into the darkness.

Notes:

Happy ending guaranteed!!....??

This one was rough to write. Looking forward to the next one more. We're getting close to the end.

Thank you for all of your comments, they make it fun to write :)

Chapter 24

Notes:

Updated tags that might trigger people. Happy ending guaranteed.

Eject, eject, EJECT

Eject!

Darkness, and then.

Cold. Everywhere and nowhere, numbness thick and diffuse throughout his body. Rooster blinked, senses coming back online as he felt the forgiving powder underneath him. Snow.

It was white—the world around him, and the noise in his ears.

He had made it out of the jet. It felt surreal, and he didn’t move to get up. Couldn’t bring himself to jostle his aching body, new injuries presenting themselves with each subtle shift. He was facedown in the snow, could feel the pull of his parachute catching in the wind behind him. It was time to get up, but everything still didn’t feel real, and, and—Maverick.

Rooster did sit up then, felt the thick stiffness in his joints as he moved to a sitting position, frozen earth sapping the heat away from his ass even through his flight suit.

Maverick.

He pulled his helmet off and clipped it to his side, and scanned the sky. No jets—friendly or otherwise. He was groggy, thoughts slipping, probably a little concussed. No way of knowing how much time had passed since he’d gone down. Maybe Maverick was back on the boat. Please, god, let Maverick be back on the boat.

Like a drunk looking for the bottle, Rooster felt shaky as he searched down into himself, tried to find Maverick through their half-assed bond. He’d had him on the jet, before. But he wasn’t thinking clearly, thoughts muddled to begin with, and he couldn’t dip below his own surface to go after Maverick. Couldn’t feel him.

He breathed shakily, and tried to calm, feel that peace he’d felt in the jet when he outmaneuvered Mav and caught the missile. He’d done the right thing. Even in the loneliness, the ache of feeling closed off from Maverick now, he’d been right, been good, and he grabbed onto that thought in his clouded mind. He’d kept Maverick and the baby safe. Done what he was supposed to do, been the alpha that he’d tried to tell Maverick a long time ago that he could be.

Rooster sat on the foreign ground and hitched his knees up, laid his elbows on them. It was windy, his face was cold, and his sweat was freezing in his hair. He was going to die here.

He took a deep breath in through his nose, sinuses warming the air before it could hit and shock his lungs, and he quieted his thoughts. The moisture of his breath was collecting and chilling in his mustache and he scrubbed a hand over his face, through his icy hair. Tried to focus, sort through hazy memories of survival training. Didn’t think it would matter, much. It was only a matter of time.

And it was okay.

Maverick made it onto the boat, he decided.

The pounding in his head was bleeding away as took deep even breaths, but he shuttered his mind, pulled his defenses tight. Didn’t try to reach out to Maverick again, didn’t want to find him. If Maverick felt him probing, if Rooster called attention to himself—Maverick might do something crazy. Might do something Maverick. And Rooster didn’t want that, he knew with certainty. He wanted Maverick on the boat.

That’s what this had all been about.

He didn’t let himself think about all of the other things that he wanted—Maverick’s claim on his throat, the omega in his arms, and a pup, their pup, between them.

Maybe he would think about those things later, at the end, but he steeled himself now. Didn’t want to let himself be weak, scared, in case he tried feeling for the bond again.

He was thinking through a fog, the cold was settling into his bones, and he wanted to lay back against the snow. The parachute was still catching the arctic wind, and he unclipped himself from it. Needed to bundle it up, pack it away, make his way out of the open. But he felt slow, and it didn’t quite feel like anything mattered here.

Rooster had left his life up in the sky, and now he was running out the clock.

Enemy or exposure, the end felt nearby and inevitable.

The wind whipped furiously, threw freezing ice into his eyes and Rooster startled. He’d been slipping, hadn’t even noticed, but he was leaned back and propped up on his elbows now, body splayed. He squinted, snow everywhere and blinding him with its white reflection. The sun was inching down in the sky, but it was still too bright to see, and he reached for his helmet again for the UV protection of his visor. He at least wanted to see, but what he was looking for, he didn’t know.

Rooster’s stiff fingers fumbled his helmet when the roar of machinery, a concussive chop of rotary blades, cut through the quiet landscape. He was flat on his ass and caught unaware, concussed and already belly up in defeat. His heart lurched and he felt fear, total terror, but he didn’t move. Stayed there, weighted and heavy.

He watched the trees part under the downwash of the rotors before he ever saw the helicopter, and then it was emerging, turning to him, guns ready.

Rooster panted hard, whined, clenched his gloved hands against the snow and closed his eyes. Wind scraped across his face again but he was away, somewhere warm, under those sheets back in Miramar that still smelled like mating, had his face deep in them and his only thoughts were Maverick, safe on the carrier—

His eyes were squeezed shut tight, but they flew open as an explosion ripped through the air, and Rooster scrambled to his feet, catapulted from his stupor. The helicopter was a fireball plummeting to earth, never had a chance to fire a shot, and the world shook as it crashed into the frozen ground.

Rooster heard the F-18 screaming past before he could catch it with his eyes, and his heart leapt to his throat.

“No, fuck,” he cried, throat tight. Maverick had appeared as though summoned, and there were SAMs everywhere, and he was supposed to be back on the god damn boat.

Rooster’s heart seized, and he wanted to take off running, but Maverick was airborne and there was nowhere for him to run to, but he took off at a jog anyway. Followed hopelessly in the direction where Maverick’s jet had flown before it disappeared beyond his sight line.

He was aching and sore from his ejection, but his feet pounded into the ground, helpless but to follow. He caught sight of the F-18 again and he ran harder, vision locked on the jet as it was gaining altitude, and then his heart stuttered in his chest as he watched an explosion from the cockpit as the canopy detached and Maverick ejected out, his parachute sailing up and deploying well above the trees.

The F-18 kept gliding for only seconds before a SAM made contact, and it was disintegrating in a fiery wreckage before it disappeared into the mountainside.

Rooster kept running, horrorstruck watching Maverick’s parachute descend close to a canyon wall. Prayed, cursed, begged that he didn’t hit. Kept going.

“Mav,” he panted, small and desperate, voice lost to the wind and snow.

He didn’t know how long he kept running, but the light was fading even more as he pounded through the tree cover. Thought about his tracks, but couldn’t help it, couldn’t cover them, had to keep going and hope that the wind and snowfall would disguise the traces that he was leaving behind as he raced through the forest.

Rooster knew what way that Maverick had been falling and kept forcing himself in that direction, edging closer to mountainous walls and trying not to think about Maverick falling into them. He hadn’t gained much altitude before ejecting, but he was fine. Maverick was fine, he chanted, he wasn’t on the god damn boat, but he was fine. Had to keep believing it, or there would be nothing left to do but lay back down in the snow to die.

His mind was still jumbled and he couldn’t hope to find Maverick and their half-bond inside of himself when he couldn’t stop moving, so he had nothing to go on but the last sight of a drifting parachute and prayer.

His alpha instincts were clawing at him to howl and scream Maverick’s name as he ran by, but he hung on to every ounce of military training to keep that dumb fuck idea from taking hold. He would find him. Had to find him, or he really would just start screaming.

Rooster ran and kept running until he caught it in the distance, a glimpse of yellow parachute silk, and then he pounded through the snow in earnest. Kept going until he saw Maverick, standing near his parachute and bent over with his hands on his knees. He was still, but he was upright, and relief coursed through his body with the anxious thud of his own heart.

“Mav!” he shouted, and Maverick looked up at him, and the omega staggered a little before he rose to straighten up. Rooster ran harder, “You alright?”

Maverick paused, unsteady, but answered back, “I’m alright—” and cut off sharply as Rooster made it, and moved in quick and close to the omega. Maverick jerked away, looking gray, flinching back like he thought he was about to be barreled into or shoved.

Rooster swallowed at the sight and something deep inside of him wanted to comfort and soothe, wanted to show submission before the scared omega. He tried to drop to his knees and demonstrate for Maverick how harmless he was, appeal to the other man’s instincts, but Maverick grabbed his vest and held him locked up and upright.

Maverick’s pupils were blown and huge, bigger than they should be even in the dimming light. He had blood trickling down his jaw, coming from a spot that was slick and matted in his dark hair. Rooster’s throat kicked into a rumble, anxious and miserable at the sight, but Maverick shook him by his survival vest when he tried to sink his fingers into the omega’s hair and inspect.

Rooster tried to give Maverick a hard look, tried to touch again, but Maverick’s lip curled back into a snarl.

“What are you doing here?” Maverick demanded, inanely, like he wasn’t the one who had ejected out of his fucking jet to meet him here on the forest floor.

Rooster reared back but could only move so far. Maverick looked pale and wan, but his arms were like iron in their hold, and Rooster choked incredulously, “What am I doing here? Are you kidding?”

“You,” Maverick gasped, shook him again although Rooster hadn’t moved an inch, just stared back and tried to wrap his head around the anger, “You think I went on this mission when I—I—you think that I went on this mission so that you would end up here, stuck down here, with me?” And Maverick shook him again, and they were less than a foot apart, Rooster’s head tilted down to catch Maverick in the furious stare that they were holding.

Maverick looked stricken, pale, bleeding. Rooster couldn’t hold anger, couldn’t get riled up back. He wanted a lot, but not this. Wanted to hold.

He’d accepted death on the wide open snow, and now he had heaven in his reach.

“When you, what, Mav? When you went on this mission carrying our god damn kid?” he asked, couldn’t help but voice what had been on his mind for every second since he scented it for the first time in his cockpit.

Maverick’s fingers went loose around him, and Rooster didn’t hesitate. Sunk straight to his knees in the snow and buried his face against Maverick’s stomach. He unclipped Maverick’s helmet and let it fall to the forest floor, silent on powdery impact, and ran his hands up Maverick’s strong thighs, felt them tremble under his fingertips. Caught the omega by his hips and stroked his thumbs over the solid bones there, rubbed his face mindlessly against the vulnerability of the omega’s lower belly. Maverick was flat there and strongly muscled, probably wouldn’t show for a long time, but it was the idea that there could be a swell—would be, given time.

He inhaled deeply, desperate for that deep pup scent, but Maverick’s flight suit was soiled with the black stench of fuel and fire.

“You knew, and you went,” Rooster croaked through his tight throat, putting it out there, but there was no question. Maverick was shaking in his arms, and Rooster pulled him in tight, crushed Maverick against the line of his body as he knelt before him in the snow.

“I had no choice,” Maverick explained, gravely but sincere, and he combed a gloved hand through Rooster’s curls that were stiff with frost. “I didn’t know, when I asked you to be my wingman,” and his words loosened something in Rooster’s chest, but he couldn’t relax his grip. “Cyclone said something to me after I tried to pick you. He thought I knew, and I didn’t correct him. Told me he smelled it on me, gave me a chance to back out, said it was my call because I didn’t have an alpha,” and Maverick swallowed hard above him, throat clicking. “Said that if I did, he’d have Hangman lead and since you were the spare, put you on his wing. He said he’d trust you decent enough if I wasn’t there—told me he smelled a crush on you, didn’t know what you’d do with me in the air,” and Rooster choked out a laugh, held in a cry. He sniffled, tearful snot chilling on his upper lip and caught embarrassingly in the bristling line of his mustache.

“It wasn’t a choice,” Maverick continued, steel in his voice, “I couldn’t choose some maybe, a maybe that I’m too old for, over the possibility of waiting around for you to never come home.”

Rooster’s breath rattled in his lungs while he listened, ribs sore when breathed in too deep. He nuzzled in deeper to Maverick’s belly, scenting, needy. The wilderness was quiet around them, snow catching the ambient forest noise and wind receded to a breeze in the tuck of the mountain.

“Mav—“ he tried, but Maverick cut him off, still speaking.

“I saw you go down, it took you a minute to crash after you took that SAM,” the omega said, haunted, legs trembling hard now.

“I ejected,” Rooster reassured immediately, over it now. Like he hadn’t been sure that he was going to die. Like he hadn’t been okay with it. “I don’t remember it, but, shit, obviously I did it. I’m okay, Mav.”

“You weren’t,” Maverick returned, stressed. “You weren’t ejecting, I had to grab you, the bond, had to beg you—you were a ghost in that cockpit,” he finished, stiff and exhausted, and his shaking legs went lax in Rooster’s tight hold. Maverick’s body weight hunched down hard and boneless, and Rooster pulled him up tight, supportive. He spread Maverick’s legs around the bulk of his body and lowered Maverick’s limp weight down to his lap. Maverick sunk into him heavy and tilted forward until his forehead touched down onto Rooster’s neck, finally letting himself be held.

Rooster wrapped his arms around Maverick, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed, but Maverick just relaxed deeper into his hold.

“I heard you,” he admitted, quiet, into the top of Maverick’s head. Could see the bloody wound now and it looked like the bleeding had stopped, “I heard—I didn’t know it was you, but I heard it. I ejected.”

“I know,” Maverick said, wet, into his neck because obviously.

Rooster thought for a second and laughed suddenly, levity slipping under his skin for a hysterical moment, “Are we both kicked out of the Navy right now?” He laughed again, thinking of telling Cyclone that they’d discuss a court martial when he got back. The joke was on Rooster now, and it wasn’t really funny, but.

Maverick snorted though, and it felt like a win, “Probably. I went back for you after they ordered me to get back to the carrier.”

Rooster grinned, and it was exciting, trading renegade stories with Mav, his omega, his old friend, and a million other things. “I told Cyclone on an open comm that I marked you.”

The silence was heavy between them for a second before they both broke down and chuckled, conspiratorial in the tight space between them. “No more flying for us, I guess, or maybe—commercial,” Rooster added, joking, hanging on to the lightness in the air.

“I have a plane I'm fixing up actually, out in the desert…” Maverick said, trailing off. It was a nice dream. When they didn’t look too closely at it.

“Yeah?” Rooster said, prolonging the moment. Imagined staying with Maverick somewhere. Just them, and baby. He longed, desperate. Maverick nodded against his neck, but the impossibility had settled over both of them, and Rooster couldn’t help but speak it.

“Is anyone coming for us, Mav?” he whispered, throaty, quiet.

“No,” Maverick answered, immediate. “Officially,” he continued, factually, lost, “Officially this mission will never have happened. To acknowledge otherwise would be an act of war. Something similar happened to my old man. I guess sometimes, you can’t get around your own fate.”

“But,” Maverick continued, gutted, “it was never supposed to be your fate. You—you didn’t have to be here.”

Rooster didn’t know if Maverick meant here on this mission, or in the Navy. If he was thinking of a broken promise to Rooster's own mom, of her son lost to flying and the Navy, just like his dad.

Him and Maverick, both doomed to walk the paths of their fathers that they’d lost a long time ago.

“Mav, wherever you go, I’m following,” Rooster said, quiet and absolute. And he meant the Navy, this mission, and the rest of their lives.

He sighed and held onto Maverick tighter, disbelieving that was here, but maybe he wasn’t. Maybe those guns got him, down on the snow, and this was what was waiting for him in heaven. But he knew that for Maverick, it was hell. He thought about Maverick going on that mission, sick and anxious looking on the tarmac, just to keep Rooster out of harm’s way. How hard it must have been to fight his instincts, stronger than Rooster’s even, instincts that would have wanted him to stay home and stay safe. Keep the pup safe. Thought guiltily of how Mav must have felt, to have made that sacrifice and then to have Rooster chase him off to battle anyway. To have to watch his jet get shot down, to have to make his own alpha eject when he realized that he wasn’t going to otherwise. He tugged Maverick in tight, world dimming around them. It felt so good to hold him, to comfort, and yet. He couldn’t wrestle his own instincts down tight, needed more.

“I want to scent it—Mav, can I?” he whispered, greedy into Maverick’s hair.

Maverick went stiff in his arms because they were talking about it, making it real.

“Rooster,” he said, and he sounded strangled, hurt, “I just ejected from an F-18. I’m not some young kid. I banged into a mountain on my way down. There might not—there’s probably, probably not a pup left for you to scent.”

All Rooster could feel was his heartbeat, thumping thick and caught in his own throat, and Maverick’s body. Smaller than his, supposed to be safe in the lock of his arms, but wound up and tense—scared.

He breathed out through his nose. Felt young, wanted Maverick’s comfort, but knew that he needed to give it here instead.

“There is,” he said back, spilling out confidence from he didn’t know where, “I can kind of scent it on you from here,” Rooster added, lied.

It was a lie, but the truth was that they were trapped in enemy territory, and deep in his gut he knew that they still might not ever make it home. What would it hurt to believe? If he was going to die tomorrow, then he wanted to die believing that they had this, and he wanted Maverick to believe it too.

“Let me check, let me scent you there, Mav, please,” Rooster begged, not above it.

He didn’t know if Maverick could hear the lie, didn’t know if it mattered. If there was no next week or tomorrow, then today they had a pup. That was the only truth in the cold wilderness.

Maverick nodded, and hope rose up ugly in Rooster’s chest when he felt the omega’s wet mouth on his neck, pressing in quick and short for a kiss. But Maverick pulled back and didn’t bite, and Rooster didn’t push. Felt like he was getting away with enough right now, asking to scent out here, exposed. Maverick didn’t slide off of Rooster’s lap like he expected, just stayed sitting there with his thighs pulled up over Rooster’s hips.

They were against a canyon wall, sheltered from the wind in a tight clump of trees, with a mountainous overhang above. He could see a little alcove, a shallow cave just behind them. There was an emergency blanket folded up tight in their survival vests, and he leaned back from Maverick only far enough to pull his out of a deep pocket, and then Maverick’s too. He moved carefully, didn’t want to startle the omega into changing his mind and getting up. Rooster was desperate to scent, would have done anything.

He was afraid to put any distance between them, and he crept an arm around Maverick’s back and tugged them chest to chest. Maverick tightened his legs around his hips, and Rooster wondered worriedly, but didn’t dare speak it, at how hard Maverick had hit his head on the landing because he was pliant; a version of the omega that he’d never seen.

Rooster scooted them into the little cave, laid his emergency blanket down on the frozen ground but saved Maverick’s for coverage later, and carefully pushed Maverick’s parachute overtop of it close against the cave wall. He tucked the makeshift pallet in as close as he could get to the shelter that the mountain cave was offering, and it was a tight burrow for them to duck into. He pushed and nudged in small increments, Maverick holding onto him and letting himself be moved. It was concerning and thrilling in equal measure, and he worked as fast as he thought that he could get away with.

With the parachute doubled over and on top of the insulting blanket, the ground was warmer, and he crawled on top of the covering with Maverick still clinging to him. He leaned down until Maverick’s back was against the parachute silk, and he peeled the omega off of himself. Maverick went down lax, agreeable, and laid there with his legs still hitched up on either side of Rooster’s hips. The scenting wasn’t just for himself, Rooster knew. Maverick wanted to know—wanted him to check, too. Wanted to believe.

“Mav?” Rooster asked, soft in their little shelter. “Do you feel—do you feel hurt, down there?”

Maverick was quiet a beat, and the sun had mostly gone down, but Rooster could see his expression pulled tight. He looked beautiful, and raw in his fear as he answered, “No,” he said, quiet too, “But I didn’t even know I was… so, I don’t know if I’d know now, if I wasn’t.”

Rooster didn’t know how to reassure him without trying on another lie, and Maverick didn’t say anything else either. Instead, he leaned forward and started working down the zipper of Maverick’s flight suit. As he peeled away the fabric, he could smell Maverick start to soak into the air between them, released from the heavy material. He stayed between the omega’s legs but dipped his head down, pressed his nose to the fabric of Maverick’s undershirt where it met his neck. He smelled like Maverick, but the anxiety and fear was thick on his scent. Rooster couldn’t— couldn’t find that pup scent he’d found out on the carrier. He pressed a kiss into Maverick’s mark, opened his mouth and sucked a fresh bruise into the sensitive skin, felt Maverick’s fingers in his hair. They both stayed quiet, respectful of the moment and worried.

He kept his breathing easy, covered Maverick with his bigger form as he exposed him, pressed tight to guard Maverick from the elements even in their shelter that was quickly warming.

Rooster nosed across Maverick’s body, tucked in close to his armpit and wedged his nose deep into the cotton cloth. Scared scared scared was coming off of him, the omega distress scent thick and unpleasant to Rooster’s alpha nose. It was meant to trigger a response in his own body, and it was— his own alpha pheromones were starting to pump out protectively. Designed to overpower Maverick’s scent with his own, to make the omega less detectable and keep him from danger.

Rooster didn’t want to smell himself though, didn’t need to. Needed to smell Maverick. Needed to see, for both of them.

In the back of his mind the thought pounded on that Maverick was probably right. Probably that ejection—but he cut off this line of thought, didn’t want Maverick smelling the hopelessness on him.

He lifted his head and dragged his face across Maverick’s chest, nuzzled into the soft swell of his tit. The fear was ebbing from his scent as Rooster paid him careful ministrations, but still all he could smell was Maverick. Rooster emptied his mind, stayed peaceful in their darkening space. He mouthed hungrily at Maverick’s puffy nipple through the thin fabric, took the swell into his mouth and sucked until there was a wet spot on his shirt and the nipple was pebbled up under the translucency.

Maverick tightened his legs, drew Rooster in deeper with his hold, and the scent of omega arousal was creeping up in tendrils from between his spread thighs.

But Rooster needed—he drew his mouth away from Maverick’s breast, kept kissing down. The zipper drew down low enough that he could pull up Maverick’s undershirt and expose his belly, try and uncover the secrets inside. Maverick had an underlayer on his legs on top of his briefs, and they’d ridden up to his bellybutton, hiding the lower abdomen underneath. Rooster’s breathing hitched as he hooked careful fingers underneath the band and he shimmied the garments down until they were pulled down to just above Maverick’s dick. The thatch of soft hair above the root of his penis was exposed, thinning out into a sweet trail leading to his lower belly. The hair there was fine and silky, but dark like Maverick was everywhere else.

Rooster ducked down to kiss Maverick low, pressed his lips in hot and hard right into that downy hair. He felt Maverick’s dick thicken under his chin, but neither of them acknowledged it, they both panted softly and tried not to disturb the peace of the quiet.

Rooster kissed upwards until his nose was pressed tight to the skin below Maverick’s bellybutton, lips pressed into the tender area where the omega’s waistband had left indents across his skin.

“Bradley?” Maverick asked, breaking the silence like the question had been stolen out of him.

He nuzzled in hard and scented, tried to take in all that Maverick was and could—should be.

Rooster’s head still felt fuzzy at the periphery. He knew he was probably concussed. But he squeezed his eyes tight and tried to focus, sorted through the notes of scent in his mind and knew he was making Maverick anxious without an answer. He opened his mouth to say something, lie, whatever Maverick needed— when the scent caught in the back of his throat.

He didn’t know how he didn’t smell it right away, and maybe he had, maybe he just wasn’t good at noticing it, the subtleties. His first failure as a parent, and he hoped it was the first of many more.

It was there, rich and whole, and somewhere primal and instinctive it smelled like healthy. A noise startled out of his throat and he grabbed Maverick tight at the hips, hitched his knees up onto his shoulders and nuzzled into his belly hard and grateful.

“It’s there,” Rooster said, honest and true. Tears slipped out of his closed eyes and smeared into the skin of Maverick’s belly, catching in the dusting of black hair and in his own mustache too.

“It is?” Maverick said, voice quiet and uncertain.

“Yeah,” Rooster answered around the catch of his heart in his throat. He was peppering kisses all along Maverick’s skin, open mouthed and licking, marking Maverick’s pup scent with his own answering alpha.

“I didn’t—” Maverick started, and Rooster reared up, let Maverick’s legs slide down. He surged forward and caught Maverick’s startled mouth in a kiss, licking in smoothly and teasing Maverick’s tongue back out against his own.

But Maverick pushed against his chest, broke their contact. “Rooster,” he said, serious, and Rooster tried to kiss him again but was held back. “I’m too—”

But Rooster cut him off again, slapped a hand over his mouth and reached down with a hand to cup protectively over the phantom swell where their pup would be.

“Look, you crazy son of a bitch, we’re in—the fucking woods somewhere, I don’t know, and I don’t know how the fuck we’re getting home either. So don’t talk to me about how you’re too old right now, okay? Shit, you’ve got a future fucking aviator in there, just survived pulling ten Gs up a canyon and an ejection after that. So don’t talk to me about too old, Mav. Just don’t,” he hissed, wild and crazy and in love. Maverick probably had at least ten years of fertility left after this, fuck, maybe when they got home he’d just keep him full of come, keep knocking him up until mother nature stopped them because fuck too old. But he was wise enough not to say all of that out loud.

“And,” he barreled on because it was the end of the god damn world out here, “I need you to bite me. Mav, you have to. Please.”

Maverick went still and quiet then, and Rooster flattened his hand out on his low belly. Rubbed at the skin under there, lost on thoughts of how it would feel big and heavy in his hand someday. Braced for the rejection that he felt gathering under Maverick’s skin.

“Rooster,” Maverick said, and he jerked his head to the side, tears falling hard from his eyes now, chilling his scarred cheeks in the paths they took down his face. “When we get back, I will.”

“Mav,” Rooster breathed, put pressure with his hand on that sacred belly, “There might not be a when we get back,” he said, for the first time, admitting it out loud.

“There could be for you, and I don’t want, if something happened to me, for you to be tied to me. Tied to someone who’s not there. I don’t want that for you,” Maverick said, painfully honest in a way that scorched Rooster with shame, thinking about Maverick and his lonely bond.

Guilt crashed into him, and he felt flattened under the intensity of his own regret, could feel himself get choked on his own rebuttal.

He had taken a lot from Maverick, in his selfish younger years, in his whole selfish life. And if Maverick felt this strongly, then—he couldn’t take that too, this choice.

He stayed quiet and shamed, and Maverick did too, but put a hand overtop Rooster’s own and soothed it into his belly. Over the beginnings of their pup. It was still and warm enough in their small den in the forest. There was danger everywhere else, but for this moment it felt surreal and safe, between the mountain wall and parachute silk.

Rooster opened his mouth and couldn’t reel in his own words faster than they came, heart spilling, “Mav,” he said, heart pouring out of him, “Do you think that if you die out here without claiming me, that I won’t still be yours? Don’t you know—you have to know—that I’ll be yours for the rest of my life.”

Rooster tucked his face down hard against Maverick’s neck, took the omega’s mark back in his mouth and sucked on it before he could say anything else. Before anything else selfish or stupid could come out of him. Before he could lay himself at Maverick’s feet and beg to be claimed, beg to belong.

Maverick pushed him back with a hand that still felt weaker than it was supposed to, Rooster’s heart clenching at the fragility of his wrung-out omega. Proof of the mortality of Maverick, who had always refused to die. Rooster eased back and sat on his heels, inching back still further when Maverick kept pushing. It tied a knot in his belly, rejection pooling down where he was vulnerable, and he had to bite down the urge to lie again, to tell Maverick it was okay, he could bond him when he was ready. Anything to keep the omega from pushing him away when they needed each other the most.

But Maverick only pushed him back enough to shrug the rest of his own flight suit off, boots coming off too and thudding heavy next to them in the illusory coziness of their insulated hiding spot. Rooster could hear him kicking it off his legs, but it was too dark now to see details—to inventory Maverick for every bump and scratch. The scent of Maverick’s blood was already in the air, but it didn’t smell any stronger when he undressed, and Rooster grabbed onto that reassurance like a lifeline. Fought the urge to press his nose into the valley between Maverick’s legs and check for a blood scent there where he most feared it most, despite the reassuring smell of healthy pup.

Rooster could see Maverick’s form tucking his flight suit against the stone wall, creating a barrier between them and the cold mountain. He sat on his heels, patient, trying to give Maverick what he needed. He wanted to reach out and touch, feel for the naked skin, but Maverick was adjusting his flight suit, nesting Rooster thought and didn’t dare say. Not to Pete Fucking Mitchell, not if he didn’t want him to pull that flight suit right back on. He waited, fighting all of his urges, until Maverick crawled forward to lay belly down onto the parachute silk. Watched as Maverick reached back and pushed his thermal pants down and his briefs too; could see Maverick struggling to work efficiently enough to get both down below the swell of his round ass, but he didn’t dare reach forward and help. Knew that he wasn’t invited, yet. But he was already thickening inside of his own suit, cock raising up uncomfortably into the material that was too restrictive for the heavy swell of his arousal.

Maverick had the material down around his thighs finally and he turned his head, speaking to Rooster over his shoulder, “Rooster,” he said, soft and steady, “Come keep me safe.”

Rooster’s head jerked up, cock fattening up fully in a second. “What?” he said, struck dumb.

“Please,” Maverick said, careful, tucking up into himself and pulling his knees closer to his chest and going down to his elbows, tucking his head into the crook of his own arm. He was low and tight and making himself small, down the rabbit hole of his own instinct to be guard himself up small, protect his belly, and seek alpha comfort. “I need you—”

But he didn’t have to say more because Rooster got it suddenly, knew what Maverick wanted in the moment, what he needed. He shuffled forward and unzipped his flight suit down low, pushed his thermal pants and underwear down far enough to reach in and pull his dick and balls out over the material. He was already leaking precum and he shivered as a chill caught him, an unwanted reminder that they really weren’t safe, weren’t tucked away in their private den. He didn’t want Maverick feeling like that too, didn’t want him startled out of following what his omega urges were telling him to do.

They were both pumping out hormones now and their arousal was heady, and now that he was attuned to it, there was the intoxicating proof of pup in the air.

Rooster crawled forward on his knees, not stopping until the back of Maverick’s thighs hit the front of his own, and then he ducked down tight and draped himself over the omega. He was bigger than Maverick, had been since a growth spurt so long ago in his teens, but it felt like he grew impossibly bigger in that moment. He couldn’t imagine that Maverick, larger than life, had always felt this small. But he was tucked down low and Rooster’s body enveloped Maverick’s completely. He draped his arms over both of Maverick’s and huddled the omega in tight under him, brought his big body down and around and closed Maverick into his hold entirely. He heard Maverick whine, but it didn’t sound scared; to Rooster’s ears it felt cathartic, like a sound that Mav had been holding in all day.

“Mav,” Rooster whispered, wanted to duck down to kiss him, but he was too big and Maverick tucked too small. Without pulling back and away, there was no part of Maverick that his mouth could reach except the top of his blood sticky hair, and he knew better than to come off of the omega like this. Knew from the anxiety receding in his scent that this was exactly where Maverick wanted him.

Instead, he tilted his hips; rode his hardness against Maverick’s ass and ducked down even lower so that he slipped right there, thick head bumping up against Maverick’s pussy. He wanted, so bad. It wasn’t rut, and Maverick couldn’t heat with a pup in his belly, but there was some need—an insatiable drive and desperation.

Rooster felt his own anxiety rise up in the wake of all of the stress that he’d been chasing away, and suddenly he needed to be inside; needed to drive in and be there heavy right to the root, but he didn’t know if he was a welcome intrusion when Maverick already felt so unraveled—like he needed Rooster to hold him together.

For once, Maverick was allowing Rooster to be something for him, finally acting a little less than selfless. Taking, just a little, from Rooster who had always been desperate to be allowed to give.

Letting Rooster be the alpha he’d wanted to be since they were caught between a rut and heat under the stars in South Dakota, when Rooster had given Maverick his virginity and stolen a bond in return.

Maverick was arching back and chasing the tip of his dick as it caught, so close to pushing thickly inside. Rooster panted, scared to move. Maybe hormones, or maybe fear, but Maverick wasn’t dripping with slick.

Rooster nudged his hips right against Maverick’s pussy, felt it openly snugly against the pressure but he held still and bracketed Maverick in place when he tried to fuck back against the press of his dick. “Mav,” he tried, wanted to nose down Maverick’s body and lick inside of him, or fuck his fingers in and test the stretch. But Maverick snarled under him when he made to move back, wouldn’t let him retreat or ease off.

“I need you,” Maverick stopped him, begging, demanding, something in between. “Nothing—nothing else,” he groaned, tucked down into himself harder, arched his hips up into the press.

“Let me just,” Rooster said, haltingly, just wanted to get a slick hand around himself, spit on Maverick’s hole, something. But Maverick cried out when he made to pull away, and fucked back until the head of Rooster’s dick popped past that tight ring, so snug, tighter and more friction than he’d ever felt around his dick before.

“God, Mav,” Rooster groaned, trying to be responsible, make good alpha decisions.

“I saw you go down,” Maverick choked out, fucking down in increments, making Rooster’s eyes roll back in his head. “I saw you go down, you didn’t eject,” he babbled, body wrapped halfway down his shaft and deadly tight. The air in the den was thick with omega arousal and terror, scents warring and powerful in the air.

“Mav, I’m here, I’m okay,” he promised, ignoring what tomorrow would bring. He was worried he would pop his knot right there, halfway in Maverick’s tight cunt. Didn’t know if he should knot outside of him anyway and avoid the danger of being trapped inside and waiting for it to go down, or if it was what Maverick needed the most.

Rooster couldn’t be good anymore, gave in and sunk deep deep until he couldn’t press inside anymore, until this thighs were pressed deathly tight into Maverick’s ass and his balls rested snug against the omega's.

It was pure heat, and sinfully tight on every millimeter of his erection, and he wanted so bad to chase his pleasure and fuck in, but Maverick let out a choking sound underneath him.

And suddenly Rooster knew what to do, could just do and get out of his own head thinking and stop getting caught on the wrong choices. He felt the alpha instinct and he rode it.

He pulled back, lifted off of Maverick, who was huddled in tight and miserable on his belly and didn’t listen when he cried out in complaint.

Rooster shifted his hips back until he could feel some of his shaft exposed to the air and he spit into his palm, rubbed it down on himself and the too-tight ring of Maverick’s hole. Lubed himself up where he’d gone in dry and too much, just wet it enough to pull out without hurting Maverick more. He had to put a hand on Maverick’s ass to wedge himself out, and his dick slapped back and sticky on his thigh. He felt Maverick shaking under him, like when he’d first found him in the forest. He rolled Maverick over onto his back, and the omega went pliant, shivery, and Rooster crowded in between his legs. Spread them up and over his hips and leaned in tight to Maverick, and tried to meet him in a kiss.

But Maverick stopped him, grabbed the dog tags around his neck and pulled Rooster in close to his face but didn’t let him make the connection.

“I want it,” Maverick said, desperate, flayed open and raw, “You. Our pup. I want it. I want to go home. I want to go home with you.”

Rooster’s stomach clenched hard at the secret heart of Maverick laid out in front of him; a book he’d always wanted to read. He wanted too, wanted more anything, wanted to give it to Maverick as if it was his to give.

“Me too,” he returned, greedy, wanted to hear it all. Wanted to give it all, too, prayed that he could. Felt his gut clench in desperation to give Maverick exactly what he wanted. To provide, protect. His alpha was sick and needy with the desire to lay everything at Maverick’s feet. Not his alpha, him.

“Our pup,” Rooster murmured, kissed down Maverick’s neck. Crushed his lips around the bond and bit, but not hard enough to hurt. Just wanted the mark mottled up and well-loved.

He kissed down further, on Maverick’s naked breast. Hunched in close to the omega and trapped heat between them, he felt the chill on his back but knew Maverick was warm underneath him. Imagined that breast swelling heavy for their child and whined, nuzzled into that tight skin. They would get out. They would get back to safety. This wasn’t going to be it. He swore, pressed promises into Maverick’s skin, still hunched over him and protecting him from the cold.

He kissed past, down the line of his abdomen and into that secret belly where their child lay, developing. There weren’t enough kisses in the world, no end to the swell of emotion in his chest.

Maverick arched his back and bucked his belly into Rooster’s face anyway, and he obliged, worshipping Maverick, the pup.

Rooster left his hand there, splayed wide, large palm covering most of the span of Maverick’s waist. He wanted to shake with cold, chill whipping at his dick that was cooling in the air, but he held strong. Kept moving his mouth down, his own facial hair dragging against the masculine curls that were soft and tight above Maverick’s dick.

He kissed down Maverick’s shaft, moved his lips on that soft skin. But he kept kissing, kissed past his dick, reverently nuzzled into his balls before cupping them with his free hand, moving them up and away, exposing the tight hole underneath.

Rooster found Maverick’s pussy with his mouth and licked in, fucking his tongue inside in apology. He let saliva pool in his mouth and licked in sloppily, wetting Maverick, making him soft and pliable inside. Got him ready, like he was supposed to. Kept licking until Maverick was falling apart all around him, and soft all over his tongue.

He pulled back and got level again with Maverick’s head, Hutchins over him, and it was dark now, secretive even between them. But Maverick’s hand slid into his hair and he breathed out, “Bradley,” and sounded like himself, not wound up and gone on fear.

“I’m going to fuck you,” Rooster said, sure. “I want to come in you, fill you up with pups, have a whole fucking family, just for us, Mav,” he said, his voice shaking, ringing true. He wanted wanted wanted. They were going to get out.

Maverick surged up and grabbed his dick, guided it towards his own pussy. Rooster panted hard and willing, felt his dickhead slip against a wet heat and pushed in. Maverick’s body parted, just as tight hot, but slick now, fuckable. He drove in, and they both groaned, breathed heavily between their interlocked bodies.

Rooster fucked in tentatively, and Maverick met him with an equal roll of his hips. He drove in, fucking hard, locking in deep, and grinding as far as his dick could go.

His knot was already on the verge of catching after a few strokes, but he felt fear in his belly. This wasn’t a den, they weren’t safe, and it wasn’t going to be okay if they needed to tear apart and run for their lives.

Rooster’s hips stuttered to a stop, and he worked his jaw, tried not to come. But Maverick kept fucking back onto him, wedged a hand between their bodies and started stroking his own cock hard and tight.

“Mav,” he tried, eyes rolling back into his head. He was going to come, had no stamina when he was this keyed up, had almost died today, and wanted nothing more than to come in Maverick’s pussy.

“Mav, Mav,” Rooster begged again, threw his weight forward and tried to pin the omega against the ground. “We can’t—I can’t knot. Can't here,” he said, trying to be good, make good decisions for both of them. They both needed to get suited back up and wrap under Maverick’s emergency blanket.

Maverick stuttered to a complete stop, and in the dim light, Rooster could see Maverick staring up at him, unreadable.

“Mav—” he tried again, but quick as lightning and strong, Maverick surged up and leveraged his weight and control, and rolled Rooster until he was on his back. Still wedged tight in Maverick’s heat.

His jaw fell open as Maverick rode him, fucking down hard onto his cock. Maverick had a hand braced on either side of his shoulder, and Rooster felt helpless, about to blow. Mav had flipped him and they’d turned around inside of the den, he could see out now, the stars glimmering above them in the inky black sky. Rooster closed his eyes, tried not to come, couldn’t last. He’d been close before, but Maverick working him like this—

“Mav,” he cried, and his dick was throbbing a the base, and he needed, was going to pop his knot, but they couldn’t do it here, it wasn’t safe. “Mav, come on, let’s---”

But Maverick came down on him with all of his weight and took Rooster deep, as deep as he could go, and Rooster moaned. He lost, knot inflating deep inside and locking them together. Maverick was gasping above him, in control, but then he surged. Got his teeth on Rooster's skin where his shoulder met his neck and bit in hard, drawing blood. Mated him, gave Rooster a messy mark to match his own.

Rooster cried out and squeezed Maverick's hips in his hands, tight. Felt Mav Mav Mav flooding his system and taking possession of his mind, his heart. Came again, pulsing hot come deep into the omega who had finally claimed him back, made him his own.

He stared unseeing at the night sky, Maverick in his arms and on his dick and inside of his soul.

Notes:

I loved writing this, I hope you love reading this

This fic should be over in 2-3 chapters. Could be over next chapter. But we'll see. But the end is in sight.

Chriandra told me what should happen this chapter and she was right 👀

Thank you guys for all of your comments. I love them and they make me want to keep writing!!!!

Chapter 25

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING: See end note. Content is already tagged, but intense in this chapter. Long/dark chapter ahead.

Jesus christ, Rooster thought, his eyes wide open and gone.

His hands clenched on Maverick’s hips, felt the firm give of the man’s sinew and flesh in his grip, holding him down hard on his own lap where his knot was buried deep. Maverick’s mouth was still locked on his neck, and pinpricks of heat were racing down his skin like bolts of lightning, radiating out from his fresh bite. The essence of Maverick was oozing from that connection point and down into his body, mind.

He felt the bond crashing over him in waves, rolls of sensation working their way across his body.

Bonded.

A chamber in his mind was filling with heat, comfort, and belonging; rising up high and full where he hadn’t known how half-empty he’d been. But it didn’t stop, and the swell kept bubbling over past the limits of Rooster’s own mind.

“Mav,” he gasped, his first word as a man reborn. Rooster whined through clench teeth as his jaw started chattering, and he swallowed reflexively at the saliva pooling in his mouth. His body tightened and shook in small trembles, down his thighs that were supporting Maverick’s weight, to his dick that was tied and knotted full. He couldn’t feel his surroundings, not the surface of their makeshift bed or the chill in the air licking at his skin; could only feel the omega who had claimed him, who was melting into his soul from the neck in, seeping into him tight and deep.

Rooster felt helpless underneath him, completely in Maverick’s thrall.

That small place in his mind that Maverick had occupied unnoticed for so long had suddenly burst and bulged open at the seams. There was nowhere left inside of him that wasn’t pounding with the omega’s name, his heartbeat. He couldn’t think, laid there stupid, slack jawed and breathing like a guppy on dry land.

Rooster felt his thoughts and neural pathways shifting from a two-lane highway to a freeway in his mind. It was overwhelming, and he was still coming, still knotted, dick pulsing weakly and far away, but suddenly he felt Maverick. He could feel him coming too, didn’t need the cooling semen on his belly to know. He felt an orgasm rippling up and down his spine but couldn’t trace its beginning or end, the sensation echoing until there was no knowing its origin. It was chaotic and overwhelming, and he started trembling in earnest. He‘d had no idea. No clue what a bond meant. He heard noise in the cave and it was him, the violent clacking together of his teeth as he shook.

Far away or maybe close, Maverick’s mouth opened wetly on his neck and released him. The touch felt foggy and distant to his rattled mind, but Rooster thought maybe Maverick was soothing over his new mark with a kiss. He couldn’t be sure who was kissing or being kissed, his brittle mind parsing over the sensory information from both ends.

“Kid,” Maverick said, and he heard that, that commanding tone, as it broke through the white noise that was thick in his ears. “You’re okay,” he promised, and Rooster must have been holding his breath because he suddenly sucked air into his lungs, hadn’t known he was suffocating until he wasn’t, and he kept pulling air in greedily as Maverick ran his hands through his hair.

He was drowning in sensation and urges, couldn’t separate his own from Maverick’s or Maverick’s from his own, didn’t know where he was starting or ending in the twine of their souls.

Rooster didn’t know he was moving until he was, his big hands coming up pawlike to cup Maverick at the back of his head and lower back. He held his omega close to him, tight, as he twisted and flipped their positions. He kept his hips snug against Maverick’s ass, didn’t let the knot pull or jostle inside of Maverick as they moved. When he got Maverick on his back beneath him, he punched his hips in even deeper, secured their tie as he bore his weight down onto him. Rooster tucked him up fully under his body, sick with confusion and unsettling fear. His thoughts felt slippery, but he knew protect, knew to keep Maverick safe while his own instincts were warring with the sudden invasion, the expansion of his mind.

He didn’t know if he said Maverick’s name or just begged for him silently in his own mind, but Maverick shifted under him anyway, guided Rooster’s head to the well-worn bond mark on his own neck.

Driven by instinct or Maverick’s wordless instruction, he took the mark into his mouth and suckled, tried to gentle and quiet the whine that he hadn’t known had been building in his own throat.

It shouldn’t have been so lopsided. Idyllic bonds were mutual and battled together as a pair, but Maverick had over a decade’s experience reconciling the sensations, while Rooster was flayed open to wade through the flood alone at his most vulnerable

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Maverick said, hoarse and far away to Rooster’s staticky ears. Like a long-range missile, it took a moment to deliver the blow to his heart.

Rooster’s throat worked as tears swam up and drowned his eyes, but he couldn’t pull his sticky thoughts together into words. He kept suckling, dick throbbing between his legs and inside of Maverick. He could feel through the rippling of their bond that it wasn’t a rejection, but he was aching and confused, couldn’t catch a line of thought and hold onto it.

Maverick’s hands soothed down his back and his strong legs cradled him between his hips, pressed tight around Rooster. He felt Maverick trying to comfort him, inside and out. His knot was going down and he felt himself softening, starting to slip, but he pushed harder into the wet slide of Maverick. He was too flaccid to thrust but he was desperate not to slip out from the safety of Maverick, didn’t want to leave the haven of his body and the wet mess of their mating. Didn’t want to lose any point of contact—wanted to hide inside of his omega as deep as he could get and hide Maverick inside of himself in turn.

The chill was setting in where the cold air of the licked all along his spine, and it was too much, an extra sensation that he had no processing power for. Maverick started easing away and out from under him, and he tried to chase after him, follow with his hips, but Maverick planted a strong hand on his sternum. It was too dark in their seclusion to see, no body language for him to read, but he felt the prickling along their bond. He tried to chase the feelings and impressions as they spread between them like wildfire, but it was an infinite feedback loop between their psyches.

“Bradley,” Maverick said, his voice aiming for careful and controlled, a stark contrast to how wild Rooster’s own thoughts felt. “We have to get dressed, we shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have gotten you into this right now, it was—I wanted,” he paused and pushed harder at his chest until Rooster’s cock slid out, soft and free and slapping sticky against own thigh, already drawing up tight and smaller in the cold.

“I was supposed to wait until we were home, but,” Maverick drew in a shaky breath and shifted against the parachute underneath, didn’t finish the thought. But.

They would never get home, probably.

Rooster was torn between two worlds. They were in the wilderness, in the cold, in the cave, but his mind had taken off and waded into the waters of their shared souls. He couldn’t focus and his good sense was gone.

He breathed heavily as Maverick kept shifting underneath him, getting dressed maybe, and the scent of alpha, omega, and mating permeated the small space. Rooster whined for Maverick and wanted to pull him back under again, but he couldn’t move. His body felt paralyzed as his mind wandered.

Seconds or minutes trickled by in his haze, and he startled when gloved hands grabbed him and moved him, malleable in his daze, to sit bare-assed on their paltry nest. He was damp and cold where their come and slick had made a mess of his groin and thighs.

Maverick must have gotten himself suited back up while he drifted, and he started the work of dressing Rooster now too. He let Maverick move his body like an articulated doll while he redressed him, and he felt punch-drunk from the bond’s impact. Maverick had fussed with his clothes like this when he was a little boy and they had come full circle to do it again while he was a man now, Maverick’s man, and freshly fucked. And he could only sit and watch stupidly, unhelpful.

For once he wasn’t thinking, but in the afterburner of the bond he suddenly couldn’t do, either.

Maverick urged and tugged him back into his clothes but hesitated at Rooster’s cock. He was soaked there, and Maverick wiped at the mess with the sleeve of his own flight suit, smeared the evidence of their coupling across his arm as he tried to dry him off.

“Christ, sweetheart,” Maverick said, and Rooster felt the hysteria that he wasn’t voicing, the anxiety that he was trying to keep out of his tone. “Can’t ride you hard and put you away wet.”

It was light, teasing, and Rooster wanted to joke back. Wanted to comfort Maverick, not need to be dressed like a god damn child again, wanted to fuck him some more and hold him close and enjoy being bonded, but his thoughts were syrup-thick and slow.

He was moved around and manipulated until he was fully dressed but for his gloves, and the awareness of his fingers was coming back and they hurt, the stiffness like needles under his skin. Maverick took them in his hands and massaged each digit, put them to his warm mouth and breathed heat back into them before slipping back on his gloves. Concern and anxiety bounced between them, and Rooster felt his alpha coming back online from where that instinct had sunk deep beneath the swell. He pressed Maverick back down into the ground and flattened himself on top of him, caged him in with his heavy limbs.

Safe in your den, something deep in him whispered. They were safe. Maverick, the pup, they were safe.

Stars of sensation were going off behind Rooster’s eyes and he squeezed them shut tight, buried his face back into the safe space of Maverick’s bond. He nosed down the starched collar of the flight suit until he could take the scarred skin back into his mouth, taking comfort in the feel of it in his mouth, like a newborn on a tit. Every suck sent warm bursts between them in the bond, the white static rush of their connection starting to quiet to a dull roar. Maverick was boxed in underneath his body and he pulled his legs up and around Rooster’s hips like he had when they mated, but there were layers of clothes between them now.

Rooster mindlessly ground his hips into Maverick’s, into the safe cradle of his groin. His dick thickened back up between them, but he stilled when Maverick tightened his legs around him haltingly, pulled him into a settled stop and held him close.

Safe, the instinct whispered, the mating scent of their den settling him. The anxiety and terror of the mission, the danger, was slipping away and he was crashing down, down, down under the weight of the day.

Maverick was saying something in a low voice, but his words were a lullaby beyond Rooster’s understanding. He fell asleep with his plump cock between them and Maverick’s mark in his mouth.

He would have stayed like that forever.

 

But he woke up cold.

Rooster was face first in the parachute silk, the beginnings of ice in his mustache from the moisture of morning and his own open-mouthed breath. He stretched his stiff hands out and found nothing but emptiness until he hit the rough wall of the cave. His senses told him safe, in their den, his and Maverick’s—the nest of their mating.

But Maverick wasn’t there.

He jolted up, right into the unforgiving rock above him, but he barely felt the blow. There wasn’t room to stand, and he stumbled out into the snow, panting, fresh adrenaline coursing through him. His mind buzzed like a hornet’s nest, the anxiety of waking up to a missing mate more painful than fresh stings.

There was nothing but white snow and trees as far as his sight stretched—no Maverick.

Rooster’s blood pounded loud in his ears, and he wasn’t cold anymore, felt hot with a fresh surge of stress and the responding alpha hormones.

He couldn’t think, still, just a blur of intense emotions racing through his head where rational thought should have been. Maverick had been here, safe, in their den where he was supposed to be. Where omegas belonged, with their alphas. He had a painful flash of Maverick last night, begging him to come keep him safe, and now he was gone, and Rooster was a failure. Bad alpha, he knew, he’d let Maverick down, and something horrible was rising up in his chest.

He felt disjointed, and the tremors were back—he was shaking apart. A bad alpha who had lost his mate, their pup. He didn’t have the mental faculties to reach into their bond to find Maverick, but his meltdown was involuntarily pouring out into the link between them.

Rooster took heavy steps out into the snow, whipped his head around erratically as he searched for any sign of his omega.

“Maverick!” he called out, cry choking up hoarse out of his tight throat. His mouth was all teeth, no dexterity in his tongue. He felt feral, like the alphas you heard about sometimes in a whispered hush, the ones who dropped off from humanity and lost their shit. The more steps he took away from their den, their haven, the higher his terror rose until it was clawing through his chest, up his back. There were tracks in the snow, but strategy and survival training had slid away somewhere out of the reaches of his mind. The smell of cold was in his nose where there should have been mate, and he was lost.

Fear pulsed an erratic beat through their bond.

“Maverick,” he begged to no one, foolish, but there was no answering call but the wind.

Keep me safe, Maverick had said. But he was bad. He’d been a bad alpha.

Rooster dropped into a crouch, held himself up with one hand while he kneeled, too strung out to know what to do next.

Keep me safe, the plea pounded through him again, twisted dark into his heart because he hadn’t answered it. He ducked his head to his chest, tried to think, make sense of the sensations and urges pounding through him but he couldn’t. He was unmoored, had been since the bite, and now his only hope for a tether was gone too. He was drowning on dry land, lost in his own sensations.

Rooster heard the crunch of powder under heavy boots before he felt him, felt his mate. He jerked his head up, and the air punched out of his chest in relief when he saw him, saw Maverick jogging back to him. It was relief, and something else, something insidious.

“Bradley,” Maverick called, approaching. There was a tight look on his face, and Rooster could feel him suddenly, the worry that Maverick was sending to him deep inside. He scanned him quickly, and Maverick didn’t look different than when he’d seen him in the daylight last, still had dried blood painted down the side of his face. He looked okay. Not perfect, not taken care of like he deserved. Safe?

Not hardly.

Rooster stood up and covered the ground between himself and Maverick in a few heavy strides, didn’t leave any room between them when he wrapped his big arms around the omega, tight, drew him into his iron hold and crushed him to his chest. He was aching, didn’t know how bad until Maverick was in his hold and he could put his face down into his hair, breathe him in like he’d been suffocating. He held onto Maverick, his scent, like a life preserver.

“You were gone,” Rooster croaked, and he didn’t sound right even to his own ears. It was the first time he’d spoken more than Maverick’s name since the bite, but he didn’t sound like himself, didn’t feel like himself either. Maverick stiffened in his hold and tried to make space between them, but he couldn’t, couldn’t give, couldn’t make room. He needed something intangible. Safe?

Maverick got his forearms up between them, tried to lock them and push away from Rooster’s chest, but he couldn’t get any leverage. Rooster wouldn’t let him.

He could feel Maverick now, from the press of his body to the link between them, and he could feel the omega’s anxiety rising high in their close press. Not safe, he decided. He tightened his hold.

“You were out cold. I was looking for our ticket out,” Maverick explained, stiff in his arms. “I was barely gone an hour,” he said, like it was supposed to help. Rooster shook his head, cotton in his ears, it didn’t help. It didn’t. Not safe. Bad alpha.

Maybe he said it out loud, he didn’t know, but Maverick seemed to have heard him.

“Hey, hey,” Maverick soothed, craned his face up to look at him, but by the face he made when he got a good look at Rooster, he must not have liked what he saw. “Jesus, Bradley, your pupils,” he said, fought the hold until he had an arm free and used it to cup his hand on the line of Rooster’s jaw, turning his head this way and that for inspection.

“Did you hit your head? You,” he swallowed, and Rooster turned his cheek into Maverick’s hand and ground into it, scent marking and seeking comfort in tandem. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. “You don’t look okay,” Maverick finished, and waited a beat, like he was expecting Rooster to say something. Swallowed hard when he didn’t.

“I have a plan,” Maverick said when he gave up on Rooster to fill his side of the conversation. “There’s a jet, an F-14. I’d hoped it was there because it was in the briefing, and I got close enough to see it myself. It looks good, and we’re not far from the base—"

“No,” Rooster hissed, and gripped Maverick to himself even tighter.

“Rooster,” Maverick tried, but he cut him off again.

“No,” he repeated, firm, and didn’t loosen his hold. He turned with Maverick tucked tight to his chest and started the stilted walk back to their den. Their safety.

“Hey,” Maverick, authority seeping into his tone as he shrugged his shoulders in Rooster’s hold, tried to shake him off. He was turning to dead, obstinate weight in his arms, but it wasn’t slowing Rooster down. “Where the hell do you think we’re going, Rooster?”

“Den,” Rooster answered, and Maverick really started to struggle.

Maverick was all elbows between them, built smaller than him but solid, and he put up enough resistance to buy himself some slack in Rooster’s hold, and he pushed Rooster back hard when he got it.

“Den?” Maverick spat, breathless as he held him off with all of his strength. Rooster’s hands flexed where he had Maverick by the elbows, but he didn’t tug him back in yet, unsettled by his omega fighting him like this. He didn’t understand, and it was too much confusion when he already felt lost at sea. “We don’t—we don’t have a den, Bradley, we’re in the god damn woods. We have to get home,” he said, looked up at Rooster uncertainly, trying to read him. “We have to get home,” he tried again, eyes trained on Rooster’s face like he was a science experiment. Like he was being measured and weighed.

It made his hackles rise, made his alpha instincts roll under his skin. Maverick wasn’t listening. Didn’t understand. He wasn’t safe. He needed to trust him, trust his alpha. He worked his throat, knew he needed to help Maverick, explain that he was going to keep him safe. Be a good alpha.

“Gonna keep you safe,” he managed, verbalizing it, had to pull all of his focus into working his tongue to form the words.

“Keep me—Bradley, we aren’t safe here,” Maverick said, concern written on his face and in his soul. He was looking up at him with his brow furrowed deep, and Rooster didn’t like that look directed at him. Maverick wasn’t supposed to look so worried. He was his mate. He was supposed to feel taken care of. He was supposed to trust him, and it made him want to snap at Maverick until he showed his throat and gave in.

“In our den,” he tried again, clenching his hands on Maverick’s biceps where he’d moved his unshakable grip. Maverick tried to shrug out from under his touch, and Rooster bared his teeth down at him, riding the wave of the instinct before it could strike him as a bad idea. All ability to dampen and discern were gone as he slid further down the primitive slope.

Maverick stiffened all over, muscles coiled. He didn’t submit, didn’t show his neck like he was supposed to.

“Keep us safe in the den? Bradley, we’re getting out of here. There’s—there’s nowhere that we’re safe here, kid. We’ll be shot, or taken prisoner, if we don’t die from exposure first,” he said, throwing reason at the unreasonable. Old anger bubbled to the surface under the new, agitation rising at being called kid when he was Maverick’s alpha.

“I can hunt. I’ll provide,” Rooster answered, and the look on Maverick’s face was shifting into something that he really didn’t like now. He could feel Maverick’s judgment. He didn’t understand. He had to make him understand. “We can live out here and I’ll keep you safe,” he said, getting better at words, confident now. “Like alphas and omegas used to,” he added, sure.

The feeling of terror was rising up again, and he could feel that it was Maverick’s now, the astringent fear radiating from his omega. They needed to get to the den already, and then he could make Maverick see, make him comfortable.

“Bradley, something is wrong with you. You’re sick, or hurt, this is—I don’t know what this is, but you’re not thinking straight. We need to go, and we’ll get back to the carrier, and get you help. Cyclone said—”

“Don’t say that name,” Rooster growled between his clenched teeth, split falling to the ground between them as his alpha was raging up to the surface. At Maverick trying to leave him, trying to go to another alpha. He tried to breathe, calm himself, but his grip was tightening on Maverick like a vice. He was moving without thinking again, dragging Maverick stiff and reluctant against him. Snow was starting to fall again, and it was whisper quiet but for their heavy breathing and the sound of Maverick’s boots scraping across the ground.

“Okay, okay Rooster,” Maverick said, shaky. “Okay, let’s go to the den.”

Rooster nodded, relieved, kept walking. It settled him a little, loosened the tightness in his chest. His mind kept buzzing though, hornets never calmed.

“Let me—let me catch my breath, I’ve got a stitch in my side,” Maverick said, and Rooster loosened his hold immediately. Maverick moved swiftly to take a step back and bent over, put his hands on his knees to take a deep breath. Rooster leaned down to check on him, concern for his omega outweighing every other instinct that had been battling inside of him.

Maverick tilted his head up to look at him, and Rooster knew with crystalline clarity what the omega was going to do before he did it. He could feel it suddenly, Maverick’s intent in their bond. Run.

Before Rooster could react, Maverick had snapped up and planted two hands on his chest, knocking him hard back on his ass and into the snow. He fell heavily, and the impact knocked the air out of his lungs. But not the fury, the outrage that was climbing up and into his throat as he watched Maverick turn away from him, his alpha, and take off in a dead run.

He stumbled to his feet and took off after Maverick, and it was a chase, he could feel that he was being led, and it was exactly what his wound-tight alpha didn’t need, to be stirred deeper into the hormone frenzy and further away from logic and thought.

Rooster’s feet pounded into the softly packed snow and it was like running through sand. He was bulky, not lithe like Maverick, but he had longer legs–the longer stride. He could see his omega sprinting up ahead, but he was closing the distance fast. Maverick had always been fast, but he was bigger.

His instincts were in control; Rooster wasn't in the driver's seat, wasn’t even in the car.

He could feel Maverick through the bond, and he was close. Almost there. Anxiety was throbbing through him, and he didn't know if he wanted to catch Mav to keep him safe or keep him in line, keep him where Rooster had put him, where he belonged. The urges were boiling to the surface inside of himself, and he was aching, aching mad or aching scared, he didn’t know, he was lost.

And he was close.

Maverick was running towards he didn’t know where, away from the den was all he knew. The omega never turned to look at him, maybe could feel Rooster tight on his back and didn’t want to lose any ground by shifting focus and turning his head to check. But it didn’t matter, Rooster’s feet were pounding under him and in the cold snow he was pouring sweat, visible breath billowing out from his open mouth. He was ready to grab, ready to bite ready to claim and take and bring his bitch back where he belonged, back to the den, safe, safe, safe

Rooster’s outstretched hand skimmed the coarse fabric of Maverick’s collar and caught on enough material to grab, and it was over. He gripped the material hard in his hand and jerked, and Maverick resisted, tried to throw his weight forward and out of his reach. But Rooster followed, didn’t break contact, got both of his big arms around Maverick and bore down on him with his body weight and their combined momentum, tackled Maverick face first down towards the snow.

There was white noise and screaming inside of his head, but he knew he had to get his omega under him, to keep him safe, to get him back, make him listen, make him submit

They fell together with Maverick trapped and cradled against his body, and Rooster took the impact of their landing onto his left shoulder, torn between the desire to protect and dominate, fight or fuck. They crashed down into the snow, and Rooster was rolling Maverick as soon as they hit, pushing down on him, wanting him on his belly, needing him to bare his neck.

But Maverick wasn’t submitting, felt stiff and hostile underneath him, and he thrust his elbow back to catch Rooster in the gut. The air punched out of Rooster with a grunt, but he kept moving, kept pushing Maverick down under him, sat onto his haunches right on the tops of Maverick’s thighs. Pinned him with his bulk, got his omega tucked down underneath him right where he belonged. His dick was fattening up between his legs, and he wanted to use it, wanted to mate Maverick again until he was fucked stupid and listening. He’d get him home, to the den, breed him full and keep him safe. Rooster ached, needed he didn’t know what, leaned forward to get his mouth around the omega’s neck but Maverick threw his head back hard and knocked his skull into Rooster’s unprotected nose.

White hot pain rattled through his face and it was searing, a slick gush of hot blood running down through his mustache and into his mouth, and he reared back, struck stupid. The taste of blood was thick and coppery on his lips when he licked them reflexively, stunned, a loud ringing in his ears.

He thought wildly that he could hear Maverick’s heartbeat where he was flattened into the ground underneath him, beating faster than a rabbit in a trap.

He didn’t—Maverick was—

Rooster blinked hard, shocked and thick and stupid with hormones, and it was Maverick under him, what was he doing, and he jerked, hurt and confused and trying desperately to fucking think. He shifted his weight and watched his own blood drip down onto Maverick’s back, and this was wrong, it was wrong, and he needed to—

But Maverick was squirming under him and he felt it in their bond, felt the distress, and the get off get off coursing through Maverick beneath him.

Maverick spoke it then too, and maybe he’d been saying it out loud to Rooster’s deaf ears the whole time, “Brad, Bradley, get off of me.”

And it was the wrong thing to say, made the red alpha rage snarl back up to the surface. Maverick wasn’t submitting, now he was the bad one, being a bad bitch.

“We have to get out of here, please,” Maverick tried, and made it worse, “Let me go, Bradley.”

He wouldn’t stop thrashing, and Rooster was done. Gone.

His mouth was full of blood that had been dripping down his throat, and he spit in a big arch, painting the snow right next to Maverick’s head. Flecks of red saliva sprayed the omega, dotting his cheek that wasn’t crushed down into the powder. Rooster wanted to smear it all over him, cover the omega in everything that came out of his own alpha body, make him smell owned right down to the last molecule, so anyone would know who he belonged to. Maverick’s eyes closed tight and he lurched away, but Rooster had him, too strong to be budged. He brought a hand up to Maverick and grabbed him by the back of his neck, and the omega snapped his teeth, impotent against the ground, but he didn’t turn to show his throat to Rooster, to his alpha.

“Don’t,” Maverick said, but Rooster was already doing.

He ducked his head low and pushed Maverick down hard by his scruff when he tried to rear back again, tried to headbutt him for the second time. He slid his palm up into Maverick’s dark hair and grabbed the short strands by the roots, kept him in place like that, and got his teeth around the back of Maverick’s neck to bite in hard and punishing.

Maverick cried out sharp and pained, and Rooster shook his head with his teeth still clamped down until he went silent under him, finally; still and submissive.

It wasn’t a mating bite, didn’t touch on their bond. It was correction, a primal alpha trick.

He needed Maverick to listen, to obey, so he could keep them safe.

“Be good,” Rooster commanded, voice gravel thick and rumbling from his alpha cords.

Maverick went limp, and he felt—Rooster couldn’t feel him, felt too much all at once, didn’t know where his own anxiety, his own fear, was ending and Maverick’s was beginning. A storm of bad emotions was growing between them and he needed to get his omega somewhere safe. They couldn’t be out in the open like this. He needed to mark him, needed to tuck him back into their den where he could have Maverick, show him what a good alpha he could be. How well he could provide and protect.

“Bradley,” Maverick finally said, hushed and tongue thick now too, syrupy sweet from his own biological response to the hold. He wasn’t an aviator out here in the snow, he was Rooster’s bitch. He was soft underneath him now, placid, and Rooster wanted to mark him up again and hide him away somewhere secret so that Maverick would always be safe and his. His belly clenched tight with fresh fear, stirred up by Maverick’s attempted escape.

“Don’t leave,” Rooster begged suddenly, the words pulled out from somewhere deep and desperate in his heart. He felt sick and confused and angry still, but he didn’t know why, lost in a sick cocktail of hormones and an overwhelming bond that was hitting him in all of the wrong circumstances. “Don’t leave me again,” he added, harsh through his cords, dizzy looking at Maverick in the blinding white snow, all of that tan skin and dark hair and his own and Maverick’s blood painted over him. Maverick’s neck was oozing where he’d been bitten and the sight twisted hot guilt and alpha righteousness in his gut.

“We can’t stay here,” Maverick stressed, and it made Rooster tense all over again. Made him want to snap his teeth back on Maverick’s neck until he listened, until he could understand.

Rooster pulled his weight back and onto his own heels, a test, but Maverick didn’t move. He stayed where he’d been commanded and flattened down into the snow, and Rooster felt satisfied, pleased with his omega. He grabbed him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back and Maverick came easy, chin jutted in the air and his eyes closed tight. Maverick’s arm had been curled around his belly where he’d laid on it in the snow, and he didn’t relax his arm as Rooster situated him flat on his back. Kept his arm snug and protective around himself.

Rooster looked him up and down and felt his own anxiety ratcheting up at the sight of Maverick laying there so still, wrong, and holding himself. The distant drumbeat of wrong wrong wrong was pounding him again and it only made him more agitated, more distraught as he tried and failed to make sense of what he was seeing and feeling and doing as he drowned in sensation.

He couldn’t stand it anymore and he shook his head against the swell of stimulation, stumbled back and away from Maverick until he had enough distance to push himself up to his feet. Maverick stayed where he’s been put, an omega under control, and it was what he’d wanted, what his alpha demanded, but it was all wrong. He felt sick and stressed, needed to get them back to somewhere safe and familiar. There was nowhere like that out here, but their den was closest.

Maverick still had his eyes closed tight and was breathing heavily. He jerked in surprise when Rooster bent down and grabbed him under his arms, hoisted him up and over his shoulders so that Maverick was held tight across his back. Maverick stiffened up all over and tried to push away from him, but Rooster snapped at him reflexively. Didn’t know that he was doing it until his teeth were closing hard next to the meat of Maverick’s thigh where it was slung around his neck. Maverick’s muscles went slack all at once, forcefully subdued, but Rooster’s own gut was twisting in on itself restlessly. Elated or stressed, there was no discerning the difference.

Maverick felt like no weight at all in the fireman’s carry; there was no burden, only the relief of holding him close and contained to Rooster’s own body.

They both stayed silent on the jog back to their den, their safety. He was panting heavily and open-mouthed as he ran, and Maverick was limp on his shoulders like the ghost of Rooster’s own hand was still on the scruff of his neck. Maverick’s muscles were lax and his arm was dangling and stretched down to Rooster’s abdomen, curled fingers grazing against Rooster’s belly as he pounded across the snow.

Rooster felt lighter, better, the closer they got back to the den. This was right, good.

Everything was going to be okay.

He ducked low under the overhanging rock and dropped down onto his knees on the makeshift nest, bowing his neck low and reverent so he could slide Maverick down off of his back and gently to their nest. Maverick was still, frozen where he was placed, eyes squeezed shut.

Rooster fussed over him, nudging the omega’s body until he was in what looked like a more comfortable sprawl, didn’t know he was shaking until he stretched a trembling hand out to bury in Maverick’s hair. He stroked down Maverick’s hair, got no response, and fretfully slid his hand down to Maverick’s neck and gripped him there again, shook him a little. He needed—Maverick should be, he—he didn’t know, it was supposed to be good here, in their den, but Maverick wasn’t looking at him, and Rooster kept pleading in his head, kept trying to fix it.

Maverick’s face was half red and icy where he’d been forced down into the snow, and Rooster soothed anxious fingers down his skin, tried to brush off the frost, but he couldn’t worry the abrasions away. There was no undoing what he did, but Rooster still tried, fragile and desperate to be good. But no tenderness was bringing Maverick back to the surface, and it dialed up his desperation to a ten.

Maverick flinched this time when Rooster slid a hand underneath him and gripped him by the neck again, and Rooster drew back his hand sharply at omega’s disapproval. His glove came back stained dark with blood from his own corrective bite, and it sent him down, down the rabbit hole of desperation.

“Mav,” he breathed, and surged forward, flattened himself protectively across Maverick.

Maverick didn’t say a word, didn’t react, just breathed heavily underneath him.

Rooster felt frantic, suddenly. Felt like a fuckup in a thousand ways, thick and dumb and inadequate. He was fucking up, had fucked up, didn’t know how to fix it. He had to be good.

“You’re okay,” he tried, an offering to Maverick, panting the affirmation into Maverick’s hairline, lips tight to his temple.

Maverick came alive suddenly, spell broken, and fisted the front of Rooster’s flight suit in his hand. “Bradley,” he said, tense, like it was costing him a lot to fight the stupor that Rooster, his alpha, had put him in. “We have to go, we’re going to die out here.”

“Shut up,” Rooster snapped back through his cords. He wasn’t meaning to use them but there was no turning it off, no pilot in the box to reign him in. Maverick squeezed his eyes shut tight again and his jaw clenched as he closed his mouth involuntarily, pinned to the ground by his alpha’s command and sway. “Shut up,” he repeated, and couldn’t stop saying it after that.

“shut up shut up shut up,” he hissed, reedy and hoarse, and the awfulness of everything was rising to a crescendo in their den, where they should have been safe, and everything was supposed to be okay. But it was all wrong, instead.

The air reeked of unpleasantness and unhappy omega, and he was angry and impotent and Maverick didn’t understand, didn’t see how he was doing this for him, for them; how he would have done anything to be a good alpha for his mate.

Rooster was flat on top of Maverick, but it wasn’t close enough suddenly, and he jerked at the fastenings of Maverick’s flight suit.

He would show Maverick how good he could be, how good he could make him feel. He stripped him down roughly and his omega didn’t stop him and didn't help, either. But Rooster was desperate to touch and worship and keep Maverick happy, make him never want to leave their den, leave Rooster, again.

The more he touched the more the awfulness rose up between them like a forest fire that had been creeping to the dry brush, and it was raging now. He kept touching until every millimeter of Maverick was bare, and he was beautiful, his perfect mate. Strong legs and tight tummy, and a wretched look on his face that sliced into Rooster’s gut. Rooster looked away from that tight expression and petted his hands down Maverick’s body, taking a quick inventory of all the scratches and bruises all over his mate. He had to do better, had to be better, for Maverick.

It had been irrationally warm in their den before, for their mating, but it was icy now, and Maverick's skin was drawn tight in goosebumps under his hands. He flattened his body harder down into Maverick, wanted to blanket every inch and be his omega's protector, his warmth. He was desperate for Maverick’s acknowledgement and approval, but he was getting nothing, needed everything.

"Don't leave me, Mav," he begged, but it was through his cords that he spoke; a biological cry that Maverick never could have refused. "I'll be good," he promised, shaking from all of the bad that was overwhelming their bond, overwhelming Rooster. He was stretched thin, had been riding the line of sanity for years with half of a bond and no mate, no Maverick. It was more than he could take now, the fresh bond blossoming during the frenzy of their waking nightmare. He was splintering and shaking apart.

“Be good for you,” Rooster whispered, mouth chattering and still stained and bloody. His face hurt but he didn’t notice, really. Self-awareness was a distant concept now.

He unzipped his own suit but didn’t take it off, just wrestled it down until he could push it beneath his groin, make enough room to take out his dick and balls. The half-undone zipper dug into his skin where it was most sensitive, but it was only one pain in a million, a drop in the sea. Rooster was hard, had been since he’d gotten Maverick down under him in the snow. He pressed down into Maverick underneath him and contact with the omega’s skin hurt him, painful in its chill against his penis where he was hot and engorged. He kept grinding his dick down anyway, drooling precum onto Maverick and smearing against his skin. He was looking for a reaction, approval, anything.

But Maverick wasn’t responding, wasn’t reacting to his alpha like a good omega should. He was soft between them, the skin of his genitals drawn up tight with the cold. Rooster pulled at Maverick’s legs and drew them up and open around his hips. Maverick let him move his limbs like he was made of liquid, let Rooster pour the omega over himself. Maverick was completely flaccid, and with his legs apart Rooster could tell that he also wasn’t slick. Rooster leaned back and pushed Maverick’s legs up to his chest, folded him in half and he went willingly. He could see Maverick’s pussy like this, and it looked even smaller, tighter in the cold. His hole was red and sore looking from where he’d been fucked unprepared and too soon, too rough. Rooster had been bad then, but he’d be good now; make Maverick want to stay and never leave.

It was quiet but for Maverick’s hitched breathing, and the whine that was building in Rooster’s throat.

Rooster kept his hands on Maverick’s thighs where he was holding them up and apart, but he ducked his head down and nosed under Maverick’s balls. Maverick was cold and even his skin felt stiff with it down between his legs where he was usually supple and soft, usually melting into Rooster’s touch. It wasn’t right, nothing was right— it wasn’t like it was supposed to be. Rooster didn’t know how to fix it, didn’t know how to save them, how to make Maverick stay, how to keep him from leaving ever again. He ached in his chest when he thought about any of it, and he pushed the thoughts away, sunk deeper into his alpha, where it didn’t hurt so much and it wasn’t so overwhelming.

Maverick didn’t react but to sharply inhale when Rooster starting lapping at his hole, trying to push his fat tongue in. But Maverick’s walls were tight and unforgiving, and it was all pushing Rooster further into his frenzy. He licked and licked, big strokes with saliva running all down his face, plying Maverick’s pussy until it went soft and finally let him in. He tasted like Rooster inside, tasted like the semen that he had pumped deep when he tied Maverick with his fat knot. His eyes felt hot, burning, and there were tears running down his face and onto Maverick’s skin where he was licking in.

He kept licking hard into Maverick, desperate for slick, desperate to taste and scent his omega’s arousal, to know that he was being good. But Maverick wasn’t slicking, he was just lying there where Rooster had put him, like it didn’t matter that Rooster was face-first between his spread legs and desperate. Rooster mewled, miserable and crying still, squeezed his eyes tight and starting begging.

“Talk to me, Mav,” he pleaded, no alpha cords now, sounding almost like himself as he kept licking fretfully into Maverick. He kept fucking him with his tongue, hiding his face in the curve of Maverick’s chilled thighs while he chased after absolution in his omega’s pussy. He was making a mess of Maverick, had him spread open around his mouth finally but the still air smelled tense and anxious, like their shared distress.

Maverick groped down between his own legs and curled a hand around Rooster’s jaw, tried to pry him away from his spread open cunt. Tried to pull him back to reality. Rooster kept lapping at him, kept trying to make Maverick feel good, feel safe here with him. Trying to be good. But it wasn’t working, and Maverick kept tugging up at him by his jaw.

Rooster turned his cheek into Maverick’s hand and the roar in his head got quiet, and he could feel himself unwind, feel himself start to come back. Hot tears ran down his face and into Maverick’s hand, and his heart beat an anxious rhythm. He just needed Maverick to stay, to tell him he was good, that everything would be okay.

“Rooster,” Maverick began, abruptly intense and pure Captain Mitchell, and he was digging his fingers into the raised scars on Rooster’s bloody face. “That jet, we don’t know how long it’s going to be an option—”

But it was the wrong thing to say, brought Rooster’s scattered mind right back to the carrier, to the cockpit, the greatest hits of his fear and the possibility of losing Maverick. When that missile had been coming for him, and that was it, over, and, and— Rooster slipped, and everything was red, and he fell down deeper into the frenzy.

He’d been lost to hormones, lost to instinct and to Maverick before, years ago, sick with rut and presentation, and he was gone again now. Doomed to spiral over both of their marks.

“Shut up,” Rooster breathed, scorching through the alpha cords in his throat. He jerked his face away from Maverick’s touch and sat up, let Maverick’s legs splay open around him. Maverick's prick was still mostly soft against his leg, and his pussy was spit soaked and messy from Rooster’s mouth and tears but he wasn’t slick, wasn’t interested in what Rooster was trying to give him. Just kept talking about leaving, leaving him. His vision was red hot and he was inconsolably angry, and Maverick was looking up at him like he was a stranger, not the alpha that he’d bonded last night.

Rooster had seen that disappointed look on Maverick’s face in a thousand bad dreams, and he couldn’t stand to look at it anymore. He flipped Maverick over on his belly and Maverick caught himself stiffly, pillowed his head on his arms before his face could smack into the ground.

He sat back on his knees and looked down at Maverick, how the omega had his head tucked down low between his arms that were crossed and elbow-first on the ground. Covering his own head, like he was bracing for impact.

Rooster would show him. Make him stay, mark him up good, let Maverick and anyone else know that he was claimed. That he was Rooster’s. He closed his fist around his dick and his grip didn’t stay dry for long, he was leaking precum like a desperate teen, had as much to prove now as he had at that age. Still always trying to make himself worthy of the same man who had been driving him to insanity for years now, and there was no turning back.

His mind felt foggy thick, and he shock his head, tried to clear everything that was blurry inside.

“We’re not going anywhere,” he rasped, leaning forward to blanket himself over Maverick. He rubbed his dick anxiously into the cleft between Maverick’s legs, humped at him like a mindless animal. Last night, Maverick had been desperate, had cried for Rooster to own him, to keep him safe. But now he was rejecting all that Rooster had to offer, rejecting him, and it was too much to swallow.

He rutted his hips down into Maverick, sliding through the wet mess that he’d left between his legs. He hid his face in tight to Maverick’s neck, tucked tight between his bond mark and the broken skin of the punishing bite that he’d left earlier. Maverick smelled like home and misery and like the anxiety that was ratcheting up higher and higher inside of Rooster, worsening with every touch, every smell. Everything he tried to do to reassure and heal was twisting and reverberating back at him, unwelcome, throwing more daggers into his psyche.

Rooster’s nose started bleeding again into the press of Maverick’s neck and it was too much. Fearscent, his own bloody nose and Maverick’s neck, and the shared trauma—it all coalesced, and he broke.

He bit Maverick on the shoulder, just to hold him still. His mind was blank, and there was no bond, no mission, no danger—just a blistering white sun inside of him.

“Brad,” Maverick groaned, but didn’t fight. He stayed pliant and reached a hand back and tried to tangle it into Rooster’s sweat-soaked curls, but Rooster grabbed his hand and took it to the ground. He pinned Maverick down in case he tried to struggle, and titled his own hips back until he was slotted right up against Maverick’s pussy.

Maverick’s body was cold and terrible underneath him, but he was hot and snug around the tip of Rooster’s cock as he pushed in. It was tight and spit wet, and just this side of painful without Maverick’s natural lubricant. He fucked in deep anyway, lost and trying to find home.

It felt—it was where he was supposed to be, where he belonged. This was right. Right?

Everything was too much, and there was screaming in his head. He was crying, buried to the balls inside of Maverick, and it wasn’t enough, he wanted to get out, go home, wanted his mom, wanted his omega. But Maverick was right here, wasn’t he?

“Mav’rick,” he begged, but didn’t hear himself, only a ringing in his ears. He was far far away.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Maverick on the ground again. But they were at their pack house, and it was so many years ago, and it was also today. Maverick had just pulled his papers, had just broken his heart. And he’d gotten Maverick down to the ground and stripped him bare, threatened to fuck him raw in exchange for Rooster’s forgiveness.

But he looked down, and he really was fucking him. He could see the thick base of his dick where his knot would grow, and he was rhythmically pounding into Maverick’s hole. Hadn’t even known he was fucking him still, driving his dick inside, but he was, and he could see Maverick stretched wide and aching pink around him.

He’d been so mad at Maverick, that day, and for all those years. But now the debt of wrongdoing was all his.

They hadn’t fucked, then. Maybe if he had, Maverick would have stayed with him, never would have taken the secret of his bond mark and left him alone for all of those years. Rooster fucked into him harder now, wouldn’t make that mistake again. He rasped out an ugly sob, watched through wet eyes as Maverick tried to reach back for him with his other hand that wasn’t pinned.

Rooster didn’t let him grab for him, instead rocked his hips hard into Maverick and pushed him flat on the ground, spread his legs wide with his knees. He was crying, and he was close, and this wasn’t anything that he wanted and he was fucking it all up, he was losing his mind, and something was wrong with him, and they were going to die out here, and he breathed in great hiccupping breaths. He was fucking in hard now, crushing Maverick to the ground with every thrust, and he brought Maverick’s arm around behind his back and pulled it there, tight between their bodies. Felt the strain on Maverick’s joint from the stretch, and he was stuck like that, couldn’t run away from Rooster when he was trapped. He tried to grab for Maverick’s other arm but he was tense and tight and holding it under himself now, curled around his own belly like he’d had it in the snow. Rooster leaned back and pulled on Maverick’s arm, leveraged his own weight against him while he kept fucking in deep, just barely pulling out but grinding in hard and dirty as his knot started to catch. But Maverick resisted, wouldn’t let him have the other arm, and Rooster snapped at him, and his alpha cords started to grate in his throat.

Maverick squirmed under him, resisting finally, and it twisted Rooster’s gut like a hot knife where he was already wounded. He snapped his hips in hard and punishing and choking on a sob, mindlessly going for Maverick’s neck to bite down into him again. But Maverick whined, small and between gritted teeth, like he’d been holding it in and couldn’t anymore, and his hips stuttered.

“You’re hurting me,” Maverick said, muffled where Rooster had crushed him into the ground. “The—the pup, Bradley,” he panted, and his words rocked Rooster like an explosion. He was going down in his jet, just took a missile again.

In Rooster’s shock, he’d started coming, but he’d gone lax everywhere else. He let go of Maverick and pulled out, the omega gasping hotly where his face was pressed into the parachute silk. His knot hadn’t caught in Maverick, and it was growing now. He fell back onto his haunches and scrambled away from Maverick even as his dick spit thick white ropes onto himself, on his flight suit that was only half pushed down. He was numb, and it should have hurt not to have any pressure around his knot while he was coming, but sickness washed over him and he couldn’t feel anything anymore. He sat on his ass and panted, aching, stared in shock at Maverick on his belly with his legs still spread. His pussy was puffy between his legs, raw and bright red and painted in Rooster’s fresh come. He was covered in bruises, from the ejection and Rooster both, and blood was smeared across his back and still trickling down his neck. Maverick, his Maverick, looked wrecked, and Rooster had wrecked him.

Rooster leaned over and vomited bile into the snow, gut clenching tight as he wretched and ejaculated again, his cock drooling on itself while his mind was tearing apart.

He spat into the snow and heaved again, but there was nothing to come up. His gut was empty, but horror and pure self-loathing were rushing in to fill him up everywhere else. He could smell it now. The fear and desperation that had been rolling off of Maverick and filling their den—no, not their den, some fucking cave in the middle of god damn nowhere. Rooster gagged again, his stomach turning over and trying to reject rot that wasn’t there, that was just inside of himself, his soul.

Rooster could feel an answering misery, and he knew it was Maverick, and their bond—an echo of every ounce of pain that he had made Maverick feel. It was him, all of it, and he was already broken to pieces, but he kept shattering further apart. He’d tackled Maverick, Maverick, to the ground, with their pup in his belly. Had bitten him and shook, used his cords, taken him by the neck like every feral alpha nightmare in the book. Had driven him to the ground, had fucked him—

He had his forehead down against the cave wall as tidal waves overtook him, as rational thought was breathed back into his mind. He was barely lucid, still didn’t feel right, but he could feel just enough to know what a catastrophic fuckup he had been, always was.

How he’d failed, again. He wasn’t ready, still, he knew. Never would be.

After Maverick had trusted him, bonded him. He was horrorstruck.

Rooster shook and curled up tight into himself, tried to close out everything, but there was no running from himself and his own failure. He licked his lips, and they were coated thickly with snot and his own sick. The taste was on him and in him and he wanted to throw up again, but there was nothing left to give.

Something was wrong with him. Maverick had said he was sick, and he was right, and Rooster curled in tighter to himself and hung his head between his knees. His cock was still out and knotted up between his legs, but he couldn’t bring himself to tuck it into his pants or move at all. Didn’t deserve to get up.

Rooster could barely see through the tears but there was a pink tinge to the wet streaks on his penis. He thought of Maverick, of his tender hole, gagged again on nothing at the thought that he had torn him, and fuck.

Spots started dancing in his blurred vision and he was woozy, kept his head between his knees but squeezed his eyes shut.

He wanted to call out for Maverick, but the smell of sex and misery was so thick in his nose, and he knew that he had no right. He was a bad bad bad alpha, the worst.

And the pup, he hadn’t even thought about it—hadn’t been able to think at all, and still couldn’t. And he was scared for Maverick, and he squeezed his arms around himself tight because what if he lost it again.

The weight of his own failure crashed in on him, and he didn’t know how much time passed before he opened his eyes, but Maverick was gone when he did.

He was alone in the cave, and Mav had left him again. But he deserved it this time, and maybe he always did.

Notes:

CONTENT WARNING: Heavy Dub-Con between main characters

This chapter has taken SO LONG. I didn't know it would be so long before I got it out. Thank you everyone who has been waiting for your patience. This chapter took a turn from where we last had them. Rooster is in a BAD place, and this chapter is seen through his broken narrative... but there's always a way home. I hope you guys like it.

There will be a happy ending...but not yet. The ending is fully outlined, bear with me. Thank you everyone who kept me alive with comments. I've appreciated all of them.

Chapter 26

Notes:

Maverick POV

Maverick could hear Bradley vomiting behind him.

He was laying face-down, and Bradley had pulled out of him, pulled away, and there was no weight pinning him down anymore. No alpha command, either. He took steady breaths and waited to hear a new order, another demand from Bradley and his instincts that were out of control.

But there was no sound behind him but heaving, and a horrible whine.

Maverick sat up stiffly, moved against the deep ache between his legs where he had been stretched too far and too wide for a cock that he couldn’t get ready for. Couldn’t slick for. Not like this, not out of his mind with fear for them and for a Bradley who wouldn’t let them leave, a Bradley whom he’d promised to get home.

He moved past his hurt— the pain between his legs, the bites on his shoulder and neck, and the strain on his arm that Bradley had pulled too tight. He was hurting everywhere, but he had to keep moving. He worked his way back into his clothes methodically, laced back up his boots, tried not to make any sudden movements that would trigger Bradley to launch at him and flatten him back to the cave floor. He could hear Bradley behind him and the sounds that he was making, pure misery that spoke to something deep in his gut, a misery that their bond was begging him to answer. But a deeper instinct was driving Maverick too, something more ancient than a bond or an alpha’s cry; the compulsion to protect the life that had caught deep in his womb.

And he had to be smart, careful in the way that only omegas knew.

Maverick didn’t hesitate once he was dressed, didn’t look back to see what kind of awful sight Bradley was making in the cave behind him. He crawled carefully and smoothly out until parachute silk turned to snow and ice under his hands, and only when he’d cleared the mouth of the cave did he move to stand. He ducked beyond where he knew Bradley’s sightline would be, just off to the side, just enough to steal a minute that they didn’t have. To catch his breath, take stock, take inventory.

It was easy to catalogue his injuries because they were everywhere. Every inch of himself felt worse for the wear.

And the soreness inside of him was more when he was moving, just getting up like this. But he couldn’t dwell. He put his good arm up against the rock wall of the mountain and let himself be selfish, let himself have a break. He tucked his face into his arm, careful of the cut on his head, and just—stopped.

Didn’t cry, didn’t want to. He wasn’t going to cry.

He was going to get them home, end of discussion. It was in his power to do it, and even if it wasn’t, he was going to make it his power anyway.

Maverick held onto that thought and crushed down everything else. He pushed it all away and focused. He could do it. He would do it. There was nothing else but that thought. He knew that more important than believing it himself was not letting anything else, the pain, the uncertainty, any of it seep into Bradley from their bond.

It was only a bastard bond that Bradley had given him so many years ago, but he remembered that feeling, how he had been consumed. And he’d had Bradley there, half out of his mind with rut but still present, still fucking him and holding him and making him feel owned and safe. Maverick had been gone this morning when Bradley had woken up, and he’d felt the alpha’s terror in their bond, known he’d made a mistake even as he tried to run back to Bradley and the cave to correct it.

But it had been too late. He’d seen the craze in Bradley’s eyes and known the depth of how badly he had fucked up.

He’d known as soon as he’d bit him, as he felt Bradley and all of the ways that the kid was being inundated, drowning in his own mind. Remembered that feeling of being knocked loose. It had been selfish, stupid. He knew better. Knew to wait. He’d wanted—but it didn’t matter what he wanted, he didn’t have the luxury of regret.

Breathe, Maverick, breathe, he thought, shutting down hard on himself, not letting everything in his mind go down deep, where Bradley—where their bond was centered. He could feel Bradley down there, spiraling, if he let himself. He didn’t let himself. Clamped it, sectioned it off with an intangible barrier in his mind. He couldn’t let these thoughts, his own anxiety, creep back to Bradley.

He’d been careless, and greedy, and now—

Breathe, Mav, easy does it.

He knew better. He knew. He didn’t have the best working knowledge of alphas, or bonds. What had been the point, when he’d already been bonded all of these years. And had spent his life avoiding a mark all of the years before that. It had felt like there was nothing else to learn, and so he hadn’t. But he knew enough, remembered that livewire inside of himself when he’d felt Bradley in his head for the first time.

And he’d been warned. Cyclone’s words rattled in his mind, had been pounding on him since he’d made his way back to the cave this morning, only to find Bradley teetering on the edge of feral when he got back. He thought back on Cyclone’s warning and felt the truth of it now like he hadn’t then.

 

---

 

Maverick had followed Cyclone out of the briefing room, numb. He didn’t raise his eyes from the ground, kept his gaze trained low and submissive.

That had been a lesson in rank, designation, and subservience in front of the other pilots. A special performance by Cyclone, just to put him in his place. But he was too old and had too many years of service under his belt to rise to the challenge of an asshole alpha. Twenty years ago, he would have been spitting mad in the admiral’s face. But in this life, on the last limping leg of his career, he knew when to roll over and show his throat.

Cyclone opened the door to a small room, an office, and entered with full knowledge that Maverick had no choice but to follow him in. No witnesses and no easy escape. Over his career, Maverick had been in many rooms just like it, though the occupants had changed. He followed Cyclone inside and pulled blankness over himself like his only weapon, dragged a neutral look onto his face as the alpha pulled the door shut behind him and turned the lock.

There was a sick feeling in his gut that was intensifying in the presence of an alpha who wasn’t his, wasn’t Bradley, but he shoved that feeling down deep into that far away place where he kept his fears.

Cyclone rounded on him, put on a show of staying a couple of feet away, but Maverick knew a charade when he saw one. He kept his posture locked and tilted his head to the side, appeasing like he knew alphas always wanted.

“Sir?” he asked, tired and ready to get it over with.

“What were you trying to pull?” Cyclone demanded, maintaining a facsimile of calm. Maverick could see the rage simmering.

“I was picking my team, sir,” Maverick returned, didn’t fidget like he wanted to under the alpha’s scrutiny. He stayed still but unchallenging. Nothing to be won here. Just running out the clock, whatever got him out of the secluded space with the alpha the fastest.

“Cut the shit, you know that I mean Bradshaw. Did you think I didn’t smell it?” he said, and Maverick tensed all over but tried not to let it show. He’d given in with Bradley, at Top Gun, and here was the hammer coming down.

Cyclone stalked closer then, like he’d clearly been wanting to since they entered the office. He pressed in close enough that Maverick had to lift his chin high to look him in the eye, baring his throat, the alpha’s breath hot on his face. He’d put his modesty patch back on today after getting out of his empty bed in the early morning, out of the nest that smelled like comfort and them, and he was grateful now. He could see Cyclone looking and not trying for subtlety.

Maverick didn’t move back, knew better than to concede any ground. Give an inch, and an alpha would take the whole damn mile.

“Sir?” Maverick asked, because he was supposed to.

“Did you?” Cyclone repeated, and he was closer still, too close for Maverick to look him in the eye anymore. Cyclone’s mouth was almost pressed into his skin, and he could feel the movement of the alpha’s lips when he spoke. But Maverick didn't pull away. He knew where that would get him. He stayed still but for his heart beating frantically in his chest.

Maverick tried to think of what to say that would appease, something that the alpha would like. But his words caught in his throat when Cyclone dipped his head down low, right to his exposed neck, and scented him deeply. Maverick did move then, couldn’t help but flinch, but Cyclone stopped him with a hand on the back of his neck, digging his fingers in hard enough to scruff him without bruising. The admiral’s favorite trick.

“You know, it was one thing for you to spread your cunt for him on base. That didn’t surprise me. I’ve read your file, and I know your type. But to try and drag him on the mission with you and that pup in your belly? You must have been just trying to see what I’d do,” Cyclone murmured, quiet in his rage and oblivious to the earth dropping out from underneath Maverick’s feet.

Cyclone kept talking, but Maverick didn’t hear any of it, deafened by the pounding of his heart and the ringing in his ears. A pup. He felt himself start to sweat, prayed that Cyclone couldn’t smell anything else on him through his blockers, and tried not to react.

A pup. Bradley’s pup. Bradley’s.

Cyclone shook him by his scruff, and it made him go tense instead of relaxing him like it would have if there hadn’t been another alpha’s mark on his neck. He tried to breathe through it and play pretend, relax anyway, although he’d never felt in more danger than he did under this alpha’s hand.

“This is on you, Captain. If you want to back out, I’ll send Seresin as lead and put Bradshaw on his wing. But what I’m not doing is letting you bring Bradshaw along for your comfort, just to get one look at you in danger and go feral in a multi-million dollar aircraft,” Cyclone said, right in his face, only an inch away. He still hadn’t let go of his neck, just kept pressing in closer. “I’m not risking my mission or my pilots for you.”

In that moment, Maverick didn’t have to look down to know that the alpha was hard between his legs, and he knew better than to acknowledge it. Acknowledgement was an invitation, always, and as long as Cyclone didn’t try pushing his erection on him then he could pretend like it wasn’t there. But he could still smell it, they both could.

“I’m going, sir,” Maverick answered, somehow kept his voice steady with an aroused alpha’s hand on his neck. “If you’ll let me,” he added, careful not to lay it on too thick.

He wanted out. He didn’t think he could take another second of this, but he had to, and he would.

“Does Bradshaw even know?” Cyclone asked, and he was rubbing with his hand where he was still gripping the back of Maverick’s neck, digging in with his thumb against Maverick’s pulse. Maverick swallowed against the hold, and Cyclone tilted his hips just so, and Maverick felt where he was stiff now, where the alpha was just barely pressing his dick into his belly. He wanted to run, to try and call Bradley with the bond, but he knew better, was better than that. Knowing that he had a pup in his belly, the craving for protection from his alpha was so strong, like no instinct that he’d ever fought before. But he had to, and he would.

There weren’t any ejection handles for him here.

“No, sir,” Maverick answered, so steady, so still that he’d quit blinking.

“You’re not as reckless as I thought, then. The way that a pregnant omega makes an alpha feel,” Cyclone said, pausing as his hand tightened painfully on Maverick’s neck before he released him. A wave of sick relief poured over Maverick, but Cyclone wasn’t done yet. He still had his erection pressed into Maverick’s side, and he moved his hand to hover just a fraction away from contact above Maverick’s lower belly. “You have no idea what he might do,” he finished, his voice low and leading.

Maverick held his breath, still as a statue. If Cyclone touched him there, he didn’t know how he would react. Screw the mission, screw everything, he wasn’t going to be able to take it.

But Cyclone didn’t touch, just looked at Maverick carefully before he took two steps back and gave him room to breathe. Room to breathe, but he still didn’t, couldn’t, not like this. Danger, something was screaming, but he couldn’t react, and couldn’t let it get to Bradley. He was walking a tightrope without a harness, and he wasn’t safe, not here, not on the mission, and not when he got back.

He would never be safe like this, only half-bonded and under no one’s protection.

“A single, pregnant omega. No Ice here to be your bark and bite anymore. You’ll have to think about your options when you get back,” Cyclone said, and he leaned back against the desk in the small office. His hips were angled out and he was still hard in his uniform, but Maverick didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking.

“Yes,” Maverick agreed, nodding at him and groping behind himself for the door.

“Yes, what?” Cyclone demanded, and Maverick looked at him finally, right in his eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he said, unlocked the door and bolted out from the room and to the nearest head.

The door had barely closed behind him before he was puking his guts up into a trashcan. He felt so violated, so sick to his core. He didn’t know if it was Cyclone’s touch or the reality of what he was about to do, and the state that he was about to do it in.

Maverick finished throwing up and rinsed his mouth out in the sink, but he could smell the stink of Cyclone on him still, and he dipped his head low under the faucet. He let the water run through his hair and down over his neck until he was soaked and the collar of his flight suit was too, but he didn’t stink like rancid, foreign, alpha. He pulled off his modesty patch and crumpled it in his fist, let it drop to the floor. He needed, his omega needed, to feel owned and protected. Suddenly he needed Bradley’s mark exposed, needed that comfort. He could give himself that much.

He let the water run until he was shivering, and he could see on his own watch that it was time to go up to the deck. He felt sick and desperate, and at his core, at his most needy, he wanted Bradley, wanted the alpha’s comfort and touch.

Instead, there was only the mission.

 

---

 

Maverick had been rattled then, by Cyclone, by all of it, and he was rattled now. And it had made him weak, made him feel even more vulnerable here on the ground, a world away from safety. He’d been selfish and had craved Bradley in the most base, most weak omegan way. And he’d bonded Bradley, for himself, when he’d known it had been a bad idea. He’d felt so desperate, in a way that he tried to never let himself feel. Desperate to go home, and to have the protection of his alpha when he got back there. Desperate never to be alone in another little room with another alpha who felt entitled to everything. But he couldn’t—he had to be—

Breathe, he thought.

But he couldn’t stay like this, indulging in his own weakness and self-doubt. He couldn’t be selfish, it wasn’t about him. He was scared, and he wanted comfort, but he was more than just an omega. He was a man bound to promises that he’d made to ghosts a long time ago.

There wasn’t time, and he had to follow his own advice, had to take action here. He could feel Bradley through their bond, his misery, and it felt so sickly wrong inside of himself. Bradley was his responsibility, and his, and Maverick had put him here, in this spot. Now he had to bring him back.

Maverick straightened up and let it all fall away. He turned until he could see the opening of the cave, but he couldn’t see Bradley, the alpha huddled in deep. He made himself stand sure and steady, didn’t think about what he was about to do and all of the ways that it could go wrong and slip out of his control again.

He felt the tug in their bond, in his heart, and there was no universe where he made another choice. No reality where he didn’t go back, didn’t go get Bradley.

Win or lose, do or die, his only future was in that cave, waiting.

He wasn’t scared, he was sure. He was certain.

Maverick loosened the chokehold that he had on their bond, let that feeling come through. Certainty. Believe me, he pushed at Bradley. Trust me, listen to me, follow me, believe, believe, believe

If part of him wanted to be scared, he crushed it. The only fear he had was Bradley not listening to him, and if Bradley couldn’t listen to him, wouldn’t leave, wanted to push him back down to the floor of the cave and never let him back up? Then it didn’t matter, he didn’t have anything left to lose. Everything of Maverick’s in the universe would be in that cave, and they’d die here as they’d lived—together.

He had a lifetime of experience dealing with alphas meaner than Bradley and with a lot crueler agendas. Wanting to keep him safe, protect him at all costs? He could work with that.

Maverick was moving, one foot in front of the other. His body was screaming, and he pushed it away. ‘Come on, Mav,’ he thought, focusing on Bradley, on their pup, on a promise that he’d made to Carole a lifetime ago.

They’d been happy, for a second. In his selfish heart of hearts, beyond his promises and his responsibilities, he wanted that again.

He knelt down when he got to the opening of the cave and ran into the stench of Bradley like a physical wall.

The smell of fresh bile was sour and acidic, thick in the air of the cramped space, but it was Bradley himself and his scent that knocked Maverick back. Bradley’s scent was laden with his guilt, his agony—alpha misery having taken physical form in his pheromones and their odor. The wretched scent was speaking to Maverick’s omega in dual commands of comfort me and run away. But for Maverick, there was no more running away, he was done with running away. There was nothing left for him but to run with, run towards.

Maverick kept pressing in, and there was Bradley, and he was destroyed.

Bradley had that big body folded in on itself, smaller than Maverick had ever thought that he could be. He was shaking, whimpering, and Maverick would have known he was crying even without the scent of salt in the air.

It struck Maverick somewhere deep because in a second, like a flash, he was looking at Bradley from the first half of his life. The before Bradley. The Bradley whose shoes he had tied, bruises he had kissed, and whose fat crocodile tears he had made a part-time job of wiping away. In the eyes of that Bradley, he’d always felt invincible, unstoppable, and he’d acted that way too—his own self-worth bolstered by the child who had believed in him. That Bradley had owned his heart for a long time, and in some quiet way always would.

And then Bradley had presented, mated him, and owned the rest of him too. He’d become so much more, Maverick’s new beginning and end.

The new Bradley, the alpha, the man, the lover was who Maverick had fallen for—but he was still learning him, too.

But the broken kid in front of him, Maverick knew him like he knew how to fly a jet— intrinsically and without question. Bradley was flayed open raw and bare, and it was a Bradley that Maverick couldn’t help but protect.

Maverick crept in close like his instincts were begging him to do. That omega voice in his head was screaming at him to lay at Bradley’s feet, to submit and placate, but he knew better. Knew what Bradley needed.

Crouching in front of the kid, he could see that his flight suit was still undone. Bradley was exposed to the cold at his most intimate, hadn’t even tucked himself back in. He was hanging his head down low, and Maverick couldn’t see his face, but he needed to see him, had to look.

He pushed trust me into their bond, and reached his hand out to clasp around Bradley’s mark. It was raw and open, like everything else between them. Bradley flinched under his touch and tucked his head down further between his knees but didn’t move otherwise, still but for the tremors running wild through his body. Maverick still felt the compulsion at the back of his mind, Bradley's command with his alpha cords to shut up, but he made the words come up anyway.

“Come on,” Maverick whispered, didn’t want to spook or startle. Some instinct was telling him not to raise his voice, to play gentle when there was no way of knowing what would trigger Bradley again. It was like a careful seduction without sex as his intent. He needed Bradley to recognize their closeness even through his haze, their solitude here in the cave. He needed to project a level of comfort that he didn’t feel, had to lure the alpha into trusting an illusory safety with him, couldn’t break the stillness of their ceasefire.

The tremors were quieting under his touch, and Bradley still wouldn’t look at him.

But this was Bradley. He always knew how to make him feel better, and he kept following that instinct.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he murmured, squeezing Bradley’s neck, gentle. A request, not a demand. Nothing to make the alpha come out. He just wanted Bradley. He could work with Bradley.

A deep shudder rolled through Bradley, starting from his neck underneath Maverick’s touch and reverberating throughout his hunched form. It hurt to crouch like this, Maverick was aching and sore, but he had to stifle it. He was fine, he tried to project. He was as invincible as Bradley always thought, he kept thinking, kept wishing it was really true.

Maverick kept one hand on the mark but reached forward with his other and carefully, slowly, tilted Bradley’s head up by his chin. Bradley let himself come up easy and pliant, and Maverick knew that he could have asked for the heart in Bradley’s chest and he would have been given it.

Maverick held Bradley’s face there like that, open and facing him, and the alpha was a terrible sight to behold. His eyes were downcast and angry red, and he had mucus and blood frosted over in his mustache and around his nose that looked hurt and sore. He’d been crying his eyes out without tears to spare, both of them dehydrated, and his lips were cracked and dry. He looked gutted, and Maverick didn’t need their bond to know that it was the truth.

“Bradley,” he called, needed the alpha’s attention and focus.

Bradley looked up at him in an instant, like he’d been waiting for permission, like he’d been dying to do it, and his eyes darted all across Maverick’s face like he was a man starved.

Maverick knew he must have been a gruesome sight himself, and Bradley squeezed his eyes shut hard, a confirmation. It was painful for the alpha to look at him, and Maverick understood because he felt the same way. It was painful to see a hurt so enormous that he couldn’t soothe. Which was why they had to go, had to get the hell out of here while they could, and—

But he clamped down hard on that line of thought before the anxiety, the frenzy, could rise back up inside of himself. He had to project surety to Bradley. Couldn’t let the feedback of Maverick’s own terror ratchet Bradley’s back up. He’d made that mistake already, and they had both paid a high price.

Bradley was shutting down again before him, and Maverick couldn’t let him. He needed him. They needed each other.

Maverick followed his own impulse, leaned forward to press a kiss into Bradley’s temple. Bradley’s own mouth was pressed against Maverick’s neck at that angle, and he felt the wet touch of Bradley’s lips as he breathed heavily against his skin and started back up in a sob. The bite that Bradley had given him, mean and meant to hurt, was open and bleeding still and Maverick knew that Bradley was smelling the fresh blood of his mate in his nose.

Maverick kept his lips firm on Bradley, almost in his icy hairline, providing steady support.

Breathe, Mav, he thought, stayed cool.

He was always running. Always. He ran from his feelings, ran from the difficult decisions that he’d made for the both of them, for Bradley’s life. And he knew that he’d hurt Bradley every time he’d left him behind. Every time that he’d run when he should have stayed, should have chased instead.

Maverick closed his eyes tight and shifted into Bradley, tucking his own body in close. If Bradley wouldn’t go with him, then there was no running this time. It would be either the first or the last time that he stayed.

“Don’t,” Bradley said, miserable as he cried. He flinched away from Maverick’s touch, but Maverick pressed in deeper. No more running. He stayed tight to Bradley’s body and got a hand down between them, started to reach for Bradley’s dick where he still hadn’t tucked himself back into his clothes. At the first brush of his fingers, Bradley jerked his hips away like he’d been hit.

“Mav, don’t, I’m—I—“

He could feel Bradley’s anxiety, his fear, ramping up through their bond. He pushed his own confidence, his calm, back at Bradley.

Maverick licked his lips but pressed on, pressed through the absurdity of everything, and reached for Bradley again. When Bradley jerked his hips away, Maverick followed, grabbed Bradley by the dick and didn’t let him pull back. He couldn’t help but look down at Bradley, intimate and exposed, and he looked painfully cold, covered in fluids from both of them. It made something ramp up in Maverick’s chest that felt almost sick, some kind of anxiety, but he pressed it down, far away. He tucked Bradley back into his flight suit and started redoing the fastenings, trying to straighten him out.

Bradley was stiff as a board under his touch, wouldn’t so much as look at him, so still that Maverick knew he was holding his breath.

“What did I say about putting you away wet?” Maverick tried joking, and his voice cracked on his own attempt at levity. Humor fell flat in the cave that had gone from smelling like sweet security to wreaking of vomit and bloody sex.

“Don’t,” Bradley choked, looked like he might throw up again.

Maverick had finished zipping him up, and he dragged his eyes over Bradley. Made himself look at the alpha, at the cost of his own bad decisions. Years of them. He couldn’t fix any of it here, couldn’t fix either of them. They had to go, but he stilled his mind from lingering on the thought. He reached out with his gloved hand and touched Bradley’s lip where the frost was thickest and blood red, making him look feral still with his face such a wreck. He thought about Cyclone’s words, knew that Bradley was feral then, but he pressed in anyway, started trying to work the mess off of his alpha’s mouth.

If Bradley was a wild animal, Maverick would tame him.

Bradley flinched back again and tried to turn his head away from Maverick, and his shame was a physical force between them. Maverick pressed in anyway and swallowed every omega instinct, following Bradley as he pulled away. He followed him until Bradley backed up into the wall of the cave and had nowhere to run anymore, and then he followed him further still, spreading his legs around Bradley’s hips and sinking into his lap.

Bradley jerked his head around to look at him then, and his hands came up like he couldn’t help but to take purchase on Maverick, taking hold feather-light around his waist.

It hurt to spread his legs like that, and he felt the pain in his cunt where Bradley had fucked him, made him tender in all the wrong ways. But he didn’t wear his hurt on his face, and beyond sense, it felt good to have Bradley’s hands back on him even when he had been the one to make him sore. He looked down at Bradley, kept trying to work the mess off of his face, and Bradley looked back up at him with something like awe. His eyes were big and glossy, pupils still blown, and he stared up at Maverick like he was feeling god’s grace.

Maverick couldn’t imagine this through the lens of the undesignated, what someone who could never have another person’s soul inside of them would think. But Bradley was his, and they were bound, and everything else was just bodies, just wounds of the flesh.

He would have let Bradley fuck him again right there if he thought it would work, if he thought that Bradley would just come, and come with him then, too. If it was that easy. He’d laid there and let Bradley move him like he wanted, couldn’t get aroused even for the pleading of his alpha, but he hadn’t asked him to stop until the pressure on his belly started to make him scared in a way that he couldn’t swallow. But he would have stopped it sooner, wouldn’t have let it start, if he’d known that this was the result.

Maverick kept rubbing at Bradley’s face, trying to make him clean, but there was no getting clean here. He dropped his hand from Bradley’s mouth but didn’t move away. He dipped his head down instead, brought his lips to Bradley’s, and kissed him through the grime.

“Mav,” Bradley said pitifully against his lips, a wounded animal. But Maverick took advantage and licked into his mouth, between his teeth and to his tongue. And he tasted sick and bloody, but like Bradley too, and Maverick kept licking softly until he felt Bradley’s tongue touch him back.

Bradley moaned into his mouth, and Maverick felt his tears, felt them wet both of their faces.

He could feel Bradley and his warring mind, but he kept kissing him until he felt some quiet there too, until there wasn’t screaming between them.

It was Bradley who pulled away, and a strand of saliva stayed connected between them until they moved apart and it broke. Maverick looked down at him and all of his ruin and was thunderstruck by how young and lost Bradley looked underneath him. He reached out and petted a hand down Bradley’s neck, and cupped him there, his hand on the bond.

“Don’t, Mav, I don’t know—I don’t know what I’ll do,” Bradley confessed, closing his eyes and drawing back, scared. But he arched into Maverick’s touch too, desperate for soothing no matter his words even, especially, when he didn’t think he deserved it.

“You’re mine,” Maverick said, surprising himself. He hadn’t wanted to do anything to provoke Bradley’s alpha, but suddenly he knew that he needed to, needed every piece of Bradley on his side. And Bradley was those instincts, was the alpha, there was never any legitimacy to separating them. He didn’t know what their bond had done to Bradley, to those alpha urges, but they were still in service of Maverick, still bound to him.

He bent down and rubbed his cheek across Bradley’s, marking him, pressing his scent in deep and willingly.

“You’re mine, my alpha,” Maverick said, fire in his hands. Bradley gasped into his ears and tightened his hands on his hips, stroking Maverick’s sides with his thumbs, reverent. “Right? Tell me. Tell me, Bradley.”

“Yours,” Bradley answered him, choked.

“And you’ve always been mine. Right? When you were little? You used to follow me everywhere. I always knew—always knew that whenever I had to leave, you wanted to come with me. You never wanted me to leave,” Maverick whispered, and his eyes felt tight and stinging too. He had never talked to Bradley about it, not after that first bite. Never gave voice to his suspicions that he had lived with all of these years, all of the thoughts that had run through his mind late at night about Bradley, how he’d always been drawn to him. He was the adult, and he’d seen it, dismissed it as behavior that was normal for a kid with no dad. Never thought about the alpha, the omega of it all. But he’d never been able to stop thinking about it, since. About how possessive of him Bradley was, how he’d hated all of his girlfriends, hated when Maverick left.

And Maverick had always indulged him.

There wasn’t a girl he wouldn’t drop or a call he wouldn’t run to take; whatever Bradley asked, he would answer.

And that trip. He thought about it a lot. How he should have sent Bradley right back into that farmhouse when he came bounding out, big and happy and smelling just one shade different, just a little bit off. He could have—he should have—

But they were a thousand mistakes past that now, and it was a mistake that had taken them here, taken root in his belly, and Maverick was tired of remorse. The past was in the past, and in the here and now he wanted to live, wanted to live with Bradley, with their bond, with their pup. He heard Ice in his head and he swallowed against that fresh pain, but Ice had been right, and it was time to let go.

Bradley was shaking his head against him, grinding his cheek and chin against Maverick’s face, marking him too.

“Never wanted you to go, never,” Bradley agreed, and his hands tightened on Maverick’s hips.

Maverick felt a stutter of fear in his chest, his breath caught for a second that he’d gone too far, pushed Bradley’s instincts in the wrong direction. But Bradley’s hold relaxed back to a barely-there touch, remorse in his grip.

“You’d follow me anywhere,” Maverick whispered into his neck, and he rubbed his face into Bradley’s mark. It was raw and still open and smearing onto his face, but what was another drop of blood against the many.

“I would, Mav,” Bradley answered, but he was stiff, scared to move a muscle. Maverick had seen what Bradley looked like out of control now, but he couldn’t walk on eggshells. Time was their greatest enemy.

“And you’re going to follow me now,” Maverick said, confident and sure, in a voice that was braver than he felt. He had no choice to be brave, never did.

“I—I’m supposed to keep you safe, to be,” Bradley tried to say, but it all got caught and garbled through a fresh wave of tears. Anxiety was rolling off of him in waves and he was tensing up again, stiffening under Maverick’s weight in his lap. Bradley’s headache was so intense that Maverick could feel it himself, splitting right between his ears, and he wrapped his arm around Bradley’s head and tucked it into his own neck.

Maverick took in air when Bradley’s mouth pressed into his mark, a reflex to self-soothe. Bradley felt his hesitance, his fear that he couldn’t totally suppress, and tried to move back. But Maverick chased him and leaned into his touch, tilted his head and made himself vulnerable, welcomed him in. “There’s no supposed to right now. There’s nothing else you’re supposed to be doing. You’re doing it. You already did it. You saved me, Bradley. You came after me. You took that missile. I’m alive,” Maverick insisted, and he took Bradley’s hand and pressed it to his heart. It was beating fast, but it was there, and he pressed Bradley’s palm hard into his chest. “Do you feel that? That’s you. You did that. I’m right here and I’m safe, I’ll be safe.”

Bradley’s hand flexed against his chest and he breathed shakily into Maverick’s neck, unconvinced but not lost, not gone. Maverick moved his hand down to his belly, low, and pressed Bradley’s hand in under his own. He was newly pupped and there was no swell, no bump, but Maverick wished to god that there was. Wished that there was something tangible under their hands for Bradley to hold on to. His belly was flat as ever, but there was life inside of him either way, and he smelled Bradley’s scent change as he took it in.

“You feel this?” Maverick said, pleading. “We’re fine. You did that, that’s you.”

Bradley flexed his hand against Maverick’s belly, and Maverick felt possession there, in the bond. He was flying blind, didn’t know what instincts of Bradley’s to discourage or trigger, didn’t know where to push or how much. It was silent between them, and Maverick let the moment breathe, didn’t let his impatience settle between them. He was trying to soothe Bradley, but on some primitive level Bradley was soothing him, too, just by virtue of his proximity. Maverick felt his weight settle heavier on Bradley, and he felt a shadow of the same call of the wild that had preyed upon Bradley. It would be so easy, he knew, to just sit here and be; hunker down and pretend they were safe.

It was a dangerous thought, and he fought its drag. He couldn’t go under too.

“Come on, help me up,” Maverick tried, because he felt syrup thick suddenly, and he did need help. He was aching.

“You’re bleeding,” Bradley said, and didn’t help him, didn’t move.

“You’re bleeding,” Maverick countered, and leaned back in Bradley’s hold. The alpha let him, didn’t tighten his hands and try to keep him still. He tried to reward him, tried to send feelings of approval, good boy, through their bond. When he made room between them, Maverick took Bradley’s chin in his hand and tilted him up to look at him. Bradley came willingly, his big sad eyes meeting Maverick’s in the cave.

Maverick looked back at him steadily, tried not to let the pain in his body show on his face.

“I hurt you,” Bradley said, finally, wretched and terrible. He closed his eyes, tried to hide from Maverick as fat tears spilled over and down his cheeks, but there was no hiding here. Maverick dipped in and kissed under Bradley’s eyes, his mouth open and wet, catching the salt between them. Bradley’s breath hitched and he pulled Maverick in desperately but gentle in the same measure, holding his body like it was porcelain to be kept safe.

“No, Bradley,” Maverick said right into his cheek, let Bradley hold him close, needy and tender. “I hurt you. I hurt you,” he said, and he couldn’t stop himself even as Bradley shook his head in denial. “I hurt you. I—I pulled your papers, I didn’t talk to you, and I didn’t tell you about us, and our bond. I wanted to do right by you, and by your parents, but I was wrong.”

Maverick’s eyes were burning, and he knew that his tears were about to spill out, but he couldn’t let them. He had to be strong, had to seem sure and confident, had to get Bradley to follow him. He had to, had no choice. He couldn’t let himself cry here, but he felt the tension behind his ears and the hot spill onto his own cheeks.

“I kept thinking you weren’t ready, but I wasn’t ready, either,” Maverick said, and he worked his jaw and tried to will his calm back, his confidence. Bradley opened his eyes and looked at him, something steady in his expression that Maverick hadn’t seen since they landed, maybe ever. A rumble was building in his chest, an alpha sound for their mate, and Maverick felt his body relax where he hadn’t even known he’d been tense. He spilled into Bradley’s hold like melting butter, and his head felt heavy suddenly, but Bradley caught him with two hands and kissed his face like Maverick had done. Bradley kissed his tears and the side of his face that was raw from being rubbed into the ice, kept kissing down to his mouth, his chin.

“I’m sorry, Mav,” Bradley said, low and true, and Maverick shook his head roughly in Bradley’s strong hold.

“I can’t take any more apologies, and I don’t need them,” Maverick said. He was hurting and it was hard to keep hiding it. He hurt between his legs, his shoulders, his neck, and every spot that he’d hit crashing down to earth. He was hungry, and thirsty, knew that Bradley was too, and there was a pup in his belly and he wanted to go home. “You saved me,” he told Bradley, and it felt absurd to his ears because of the laundry list of injuries that he’d collected in the past day, but it was true. He’d been an old man living alone in the desert, and now there was them, and the promise of more.

Maverick didn’t say anything else, didn’t have to. He held still and fragile in Bradley’s hold as he felt the alpha moving underneath him, moving him this way and that until Bradley was rising to stand, Maverick in his arms like he weighed nothing. Bradley brought them together to the mouth of the cave and stood cleanly then, and they blinked at each other in the blinding snow.

Bradley held him like that for a long beat before he slid Maverick’s legs off of his hips and helped him to the ground. Maverick’s legs didn’t want to hold his weight and they buckled, but Bradley had never let go, and the alpha supported him like it was his honor. Maverick felt weak and aching on his feet, but he couldn’t let himself wallow. There was no time.

“You said,” Bradley started, and his grip was like iron, but Maverick could feel him trying to be good. “You said there was a jet.”

Maverick nodded, and he pushed away from Bradley and started trying to walk again but his knee gave way at the first step. His injuries were stacking up on him, and he didn’t have the reserves to pay the debt. But he was scared to let Bradley see him like this, scared to be dragged back to the cave. They were so close, and Bradley was being so good.

But Bradley didn’t drag him back. He pulled Maverick’s arm around his shoulder on the side that had given out, and he waited for Maverick’s direction. Maverick pointed him to where he had gone this morning, the direction where he’d found the base and the F-14.

“It’s south, beyond those trees. It’s close,” Maverick told him, and he didn’t know if it was even true. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been running this morning to get there, it felt like the day had aged him by centuries. There was no running now, he was limping and desperately sore and trying not to make Bradley think about why. But they would make it. He didn’t dwell on the possibility that the jet would be gone. It would be there.

It had to be.

They moved as quickly as they could, Bradley taking more than his share of Maverick’s weight, and Maverick let him. It was slow-moving, but they were getting there.

Gradually, he felt Bradley tensing up around him, holding him tighter and slowing down his pace. He could feel the alpha’s anxiety building, and he put pressure on Bradley’s mark with his arm that was draped across his neck.

“You’re doing good,” Maverick tried, but Bradley shook his head like a dog, like there was water in his ears.

“I want to go back,” Bradley admitted, and Maverick’s stomach dropped, but he swallowed his reaction. He cupped Bradley’s neck and tried to kept himself steady.

“We’re going back. We’re going home,” Maverick said, and he gritted his teeth against the pain that was building with every jostling step. It felt like he had broken some ribs, but his breathing was okay, and they would be okay, they just had to go, and he couldn’t let Bradley feel any of his fear.

“Home,” Bradley repeated, and they both knew that home wasn’t the back that he meant. He was being good, trying to be good for his omega, but those instincts weren’t going away. That crazy fucking voice was still there in his head and telling him to hunker down in that cave with Maverick, that they were safer there. But it was certain death.

“You’re getting us there,” Maverick told him, and he stayed steady and swallowed everything that he was feeling. He could feel Bradley’s distress growing with every sign of weakness that Maverick showed, but he needed Bradley to stay with him. “You told me you did therapy,” he tried, didn’t know if he was trying to keep his mind occupied or Bradley’s.

“I had to,” Bradley said, succinct, and Maverick could see that his eyes were darting all around, could see the alpha’s tension ramping up.

“What did they help you with?” Maverick asked, clenching his fingers on Bradley’s neck, soothing his mark, trying anything to keep Bradley with him.

A choked laugh bubbled up from deep in Bradley’s chest, and Maverick looked up at him expectantly.

“They helped me learn how to not lose my shit,” Bradley said, letting Maverick in on the joke.

“Oh,” Maverick said, and couldn’t stop himself. “Well, they did a good job.”

For a moment there was just the sound of ice beneath their boots, but then they were both cracking up, and Maverick was laughing through the pain of broken ribs. But Bradley straightened up quick, and when he did he pulled Maverick to him tighter than before, fingers digging in like claws into Maverick’s side.

“Mav, I really want to go back,” Bradley confessed, and he sounded weak and ten years old again, asking Maverick to stay, to call more, to come to all of his games, to live with them forever. A million requests he’d made of Maverick that he’d never been able to fill, and this request made one more. They couldn’t go back.

“What did they teach you? What are you supposed to do?” Maverick asked instead, and he walked faster than his legs wanted him to. Bradley didn’t say anything, and he didn’t increase his speed to match Maverick’s. He was slowing down, holding tighter, and Maverick couldn’t do it, he couldn’t, they were going home. “Talk to me, kid,” he begged, rubbing circles into Bradley’s mark and praying.

“They,” Bradley started, swallowed. “They told me to count—count something that I could see.”

“Okay, can we do that?” Maverick asked, and his arm was around Bradley’s shoulders but he was pulling the alpha along with him now. Taking more of his own weight back and dragging some of Bradley’s, too. They had to go. “Tell me how many trees you see,” he said, and he wanted to laugh, because there were a million god damn trees out here, but it wasn’t funny.

But Bradley listened, and started counting.

One.

They were getting closer. Maverick could see some of his tracks in the snow. They were close, and this would work. It had to.

Fifteen.

He thought his knee was going to buckle again, and it was the bad one that he’d landed on all wrong during his Darkstar ejection, but he didn’t dare go down, didn’t dare let Bradley see him hurt when he was already so close to slipping. Bradley wasn’t pulling him back but wasn’t helping either, and Maverick knew that the alpha was doing everything that he could to hold on.

Forty-two.

The base was close. They were near the tree-line that Maverick had crouched by and spotted the F-14. They were close. It was just down that hill.

Forty…two.

But Bradley was stuttering, stalling out, and Maverick knew that the alpha could see the base, and his instincts weren’t seeing hope and safety, they were seeing danger and making Bradley want to react in kind.

They were close, god damnit, they were so close. He got Bradley down the hill, almost dragging him behind him, and Bradley wasn’t even keeping up the pretense of counting anymore. He was breathing heavily in Maverick’s ear and holding onto him like a life-preserver. Like he was Maverick’s life preserver, and he was, Maverick needed him to save all three of their lives right now.

The base was emptier than it had been that morning, must have had evacuations underway, but Maverick didn’t know if that was a good or bad thing now. There was no confusion for them to get lost in, no being mistaken for men who belonged. But it didn’t matter what their odds were, they were going.

“Right there, see? We’re there,” Maverick said, and pointed to the F-14 and it was still there.

But Bradley didn’t even follow him with his eyes. Didn’t look, didn’t care. The hairs on Maverick’s neck started standing up, and he knew that Bradley was coiling up next to him.

But they couldn’t play this game, and he was done appeasing. He grabbed Bradley by the neck and shook him, scruffed him hard like he hadn’t since Bradley was a kid and had run out in the road without looking.

“No, god damnit, we are going, Bradley. We’re going. I told you that you were going to come home from this, and I am bringing you home from this. Come on, come on,” he said, and Bradley was nodding and dazed, and nonverbal again, but he didn’t tackle Maverick to the ground, and it was all the win that they were going to get.

He dropped his hold on Bradley’s neck and felt sick with relief when the alpha stayed placid and obedient. Maverick took his hand, and together they broke into a run.

Notes:

Bradley can't come to the phone right now, so finally we get to peek back in at Maverick.

I mentioned a while ago that we would see Maverick's meeting with Cyclone after he refused to let Bradley be wingman, and here it is. Sorry, Cyclone fans. He scruffed Maverick twice in public, so he had to be worse behind closed doors!

I know that the last chapter was so emotionally rough, but it was through Bradley's POV and he was not a very reliabale narrator. Hopefully Maverick's insight here helps. I hope you like the chapter, it was a beast to write. Back to Bradley's POV for the rest of the fic. :)

Comments are so appreciated!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of Bad Beginnings