Chapter 1
Notes:
This is a continuation of my secretly married hangster verse (ft. fem kink). This does function as a standalone, but as always, I recommend reading Parts 1-10 as it might help with some lore/context.
This was so much fun to write because I love watching those videos. TikTok is pretty much the one social media I allow myself-- just for browsing-- so I've seen a lot.
Also, this fic contains smut, but it’s only at the end of the “plus one” section. It’s clearly separated by a page break and in-text context, so if you're just here for the Hangster domestic fluff and TikTok-fueled prank chaos, feel free to stop reading before that part and still enjoy a complete story!
Beta'd by me, all mistakes are my own.
Chapter Text
Jake Seresin used to think nothing could humble him. He was wrong.
Four weeks into supervising his first full class of greenies post-promotion, and he’s already dramatically sprawled across the couch like he’s taken enemy fire, one hand over his eyes and the other dangling his phone at arm’s length.
“They’re so stupid , Bradley,” he moans, voice muffled against a throw pillow. “So loud . Why are they always screaming?”
Bradley, halfway through folding a towel, doesn’t even look up. “You sound like me a year ago.”
Jake groans louder.
And sure, he’s worked with rookies before. Been their example, their aspiration, their threat. But this—this full-time babysitting gig? This is penance. This is karma. This is Bradley “I told you so” Bradshaw leaning in the doorway with a knowing smirk and zero sympathy.
The only silver lining? The greenies introduced Jake to TikTok.
He held out for as long as he could. But after the third lunch break of hearing them argue over which audio to use for their squad video (“No, if you don’t get it in one take, you’re not him ”), Jake caved. He downloaded it “for research.”
Now, he’s in deep .
Bradley won’t download it. Jake’s tried. Multiple times.
“Please,” Jake whines, shoving his phone in Bradley’s face during dinner. “This guy sounds exactly like you. Listen—listen—wait, it’s the part where he says ‘That’s not what I said—’”
Bradley pushes the phone away. “If I wanted to watch other people be idiots, I’d go back to base.”
Jake sighs dramatically. “God, I’m married to such a boomer. ”
“I’m thirty-seven.”
“Exactly. Too old to understand modern culture.”
Bradley narrows his eyes. “You’re thirty-three.”
Jake grins. “Which is four entire years closer to being relatable.”
Bradley throws a napkin at his face. “You little shit.”
Jake giggles and presses play on the video, unbothered.
Bradley rolls his eyes.
Jake starts sending him videos anyway. Through text. All hours. A suspicious number of them feature grumpy boyfriends, cute animals, and cool new recipes Jake wants Bradley to make for him.
And then Jake finds those videos. The ones where couples pull harmless pranks on each other—pretending the TV remote is broken while secretly holding the real one behind their back, changing their partner’s contact name to “IRS” and sending ominous texts, or walking into the room wearing something absurdly ridiculous just to see if their partner comments on it. The kind where someone records themselves whispering, “Babe, don’t freak out… but I might’ve adopted a third cat,” just to catch the look of horrified betrayal.
Jake watches thirty in a row with the rapt attention of a scientist discovering fire. He grins to himself, wicked and delighted.
Bradley’s quiet. Their house is calm. Jake is bored and a little evil and madly in love.
Jake stares at his phone for a long minute..
He smiles to himself.
Game on.
ONE
It starts, like most dangerous things in Jake’s life, with a TikTok trend and a mild grudge.
Specifically: the power tools prank. His feed has become an endless stream of girlfriends revving drills into the air, watching their partners sprint from the other room in blind, hardware-induced panic. Jake watches each one with the unblinking intensity of a scientist collecting data.
And really, it’s not like he can’t use tools. He’s a pilot. He can rewire a HUD, run a systems check mid-air, land a jet on a floating slab of metal. But in their house, Bradley’s the one who handles shelves and mounting brackets and things with wall anchors. It makes him feel useful. It makes Jake feel taken care of. Jake has no problem admitting Bradley spoils him.
Unfortunately, it also means that three weeks have passed since Jake mentioned—politely, with full batting lashes—that he wanted to hang up the new collage of their cats, Fleetwood and Pickles in the upstairs hallway.
Three weeks. No nails in the wall. No cat glamour shots in matching seasonal bowties. Just a stack of untouched frames and a passive-aggressive pout growing stronger by the day.
So today, while Bradley lounges downstairs watching The Princess Bride for the millionth time, Jake tiptoes up the stairs, toolkit in hand.
He doesn’t touch the wall. Doesn’t even line anything up.
He just takes the drill out of the toolkit and pulses it into the air. Bzzzt .
From downstairs, the TV pauses.
Jake grins.
Bzzzt .
“Baby?” Bradley calls. “What are you—wait. Wait!”
Bzzzzzzzt .
Heavy footsteps. Fast.
Bradley takes the stairs two at a time. He rounds the corner looking half-exasperated, half-terrified. “Tell me you didn’t start without a level.”
Jake is standing near the frames leaned against the wall, one hand on his hip, the other loosely cradling the drill like it’s a glass of wine. “You were taking too long,” he says sweetly.
Bradley closes his eyes for a long, pointed beat.
Then, very quietly: “Give me that.”
Jake hands the drill over with both palms like he’s offering a royal scepter.
Bradley sets the drill down, rubs his face like he’s reconsidering several life choices, then crouches by the frames. Opens the toolkit. Unrolls the level. Holds it against the wall and mutters, “Little menace,” under his breath.
Jake sits cross-legged on the floor like he’s front row at a concert. “Can I play music?”
“No.”
“Can I hand you nails?”
“Just don’t hand me the cats.”
Jake hums, rocking side to side. “You’re so sexy when you’re grumpy and competent.”
Bradley doesn’t answer, but his ears flush faintly pink.
And fifteen minutes later, as the last frame clicks into place, Jake stands beside him with his arms folded, beaming.
“See?” he says. “Now we’re both happy.”
Bradley gives him a long look, then taps the drill into Jake’s chest. “You pull something like that again, you’re hanging the next one yourself.”
Jake kisses his cheek. “Noted. No promises.”
Fleetwood and Pickles now stare out from the hallway in symmetrical glory, silently judging them both.
Jake calls it a win.
TWO
The second prank strikes Jake mid-morning while he’s brushing his teeth and doom-scrolling TikTok with one hand—foam in his mouth, mischief in his eyes.
The “ taking his card ” trend. It’s simple. It’s silent. It’s exactly the kind of chaos Jake lives for.
He hasn’t bought new lingerie since Bradley’s birthday and Bradley’s been slacking on his end of the domestic worship agreement anyway—too much paperwork, not enough praise kink. Jake decides it’s time to remind him who runs this house.
Bradley’s downstairs at the kitchen table, on the phone with Mav, pen tapping against a notepad. “Yeah, you can do Alaska in the winter,” he’s saying. “But I’m just saying Ice might actually like to relax on your anniversary.”
Jake comes down the stairs in jeans that cling just right and a shirt that’s suspiciously nice for errands. Bradley glances up and gives him a smile—warm and distracted.
Jake walks over and extends one hand, palm up.
Bradley, without even thinking, reaches out and clasps it gently, thumb brushing across Jake’s knuckles like they’re about to slow dance in the kitchen.
Jake tilts his head and sighs like Bradley’s being difficult , then gently shakes his head and pulls his hand back. Extends it again. Same motion: gimme.
Bradley frowns. What? he mouths silently, still on the phone.
Jake just walks around behind him, pulls out his chair slightly, and reaches straight into his pocket.
Bradley stiffens. “Jake—”
Jake pulls out his wallet, slides the debit card free, gives Bradley a kiss on the cheek, and brightly greets, “Hi Mav!” before turning on his heel and heading for the front door.
Bradley twists in his chair, confused. “Wait—wait, where are you going?”
Jake pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Shopping.”
“We have shared finances , you know?!” Bradley calls after him, exasperated.
“I know , ” Jake says sweetly, already halfway out the door. “Thanks, baby!”
The door clicks shut.
There’s a pause. Then, from the phone: “ Shopping for what? ”
Bradley sighs. “God only knows.”
THREE
The third prank takes a little more effort.
Jake doesn’t usually cook. He can —he just doesn’t. That’s always been Bradley’s lane. Bradley, who wakes up early and makes pancakes with cat-shaped stencils just to make Jake smile. Bradley, who packs Jake’s lunch for base with handwritten notes tucked inside. Bradley, who does...well, everything, really. Jake’s spoiled, remember.
Jake’s stirring that realization into his morning coffee when he sees the “ over-salted food ” trend on his feed.
He watches a girl spoon an absurd amount of salt into her boyfriend’s soup, cover it carefully with broth, and offer it up like she’s asking for validation. The boyfriend’s eyes widen instantly , but he chews and swallows and says “delicious” with the pained devotion of a man clinging to a sinking ship.
Jake grins. “Oh, we’re doing that.”
He doesn’t have much reason to cook—but TikTok gives him one.
“Hey, babe?” he asks sweetly that afternoon, leaning on the counter while Bradley rinses blueberries for the cats. “I found this TikTok recipe for pastina I really wanna try. You know. For science . ”
Bradley turns around slowly. “You wanna cook?”
Jake nods, bottom lip slightly out. “I do that… Sometimes. Lemme be domestic.”
Bradley stares at him like he’s checking for a concussion, then sighs and presses a kiss to Jake’s forehead. “Sure, princess. Knock yourself out.”
Jake does try the recipe. It actually looks good—pastina with bone broth, parmesan, a little butter. Real comfort food. And once the real stuff’s done and tasting fine, he prepares the prank spoon like a chef on a mission: a shit ton of salt layered beneath a perfect shell of pastina. Hidden evil.
Jake brings the spoon to Bradley’s lips, practically glowing with faux innocence. “Can you taste it for me?” he asks. “Tell me if it’s good?”
Bradley, relaxed at the counter and completely unsuspecting, leans forward and takes the bite.
He chews.
And instantly stiffens.
His eyes flicker, and for one alarming moment Jake thinks he might spit it out. But instead, Bradley swallows slowly, with the quiet resolve of a man choosing to suffer in silence.
“It’s great,” he says hoarsely. “Delicious. So proud of you.”
Jake bites the inside of his cheek. “Do you think it needs more salt?”
Bradley flinches. “No! Sorry. No. It’s... perfect. Really.”
Jake’s shoulders shake with suppressed laughter, but before he can say anything else, Bradley clears his throat and pushes himself up from the counter.
“You know what?” he says. “I’ll take a whole bowl.”
Jake blinks. “Really?”
“Yeah,” Bradley nods, managing a smile. “You cooked. I want to enjoy it. Thank you, sweetheart.”
Something warm flickers under Jake’s ribs. He hadn’t expected that part.
So he serves them both the actual, non-deadly batch—the one that’s warm and creamy and smells like comfort—and joins Bradley at the table.
They eat in silence for a moment. Jake watches as Bradley takes a bite, pauses, chews thoughtfully, and then blinks down at his bowl like he’s going crazy.
He nods slowly to himself. Like he’s thinking, huh. Maybe it was just a clump of salt.
Then he takes another bite.
Jake smiles into his spoon, victorious and in love.
He might be evil—but he’s Bradley’s evil.
FOUR
The fourth prank hits Jake while he’s half-watching TikTok and half-listening to Pickles snore softly from the windowsill.
The “ I’m sleeping on the couch ” prank. Women pulling fake dramatic exits, pillows in hand, while their confused, panicked boyfriends spiral in the background. Jake watches four of them in a row, kicking his feet like a teenager, and thinks, Yes. It’s time.
That night, they’re getting ready for bed. Pickles is making biscuits on the comforter. Fleetwood is curled into a dignified loaf at the foot of the bed. Bradley is brushing his teeth, wearing a threadbare Navy t-shirt that Jake has definitely stolen at least forty times.
Everything is warm. Safe. Perfect.
So obviously, Jake needs to ruin it.
He waits until Bradley shuts off the bathroom light and climbs into bed. Waits until he settles with a content sigh and reaches for Jake without looking, hand patting the covers blindly until it finds Jake’s thigh.
Then Jake stands up.
Grabs his pillow.
“I’m gonna go sleep on the couch,” he announces.
Bradley immediately sits bolt upright. “Wait—what? What happened?”
Jake shrugs. “Nothing. Just gonna go sleep downstairs.”
Bradley blinks at him, bleary and confused. “Jake, baby. What did I do? ”
“Nothing,” Jake says airily, walking toward the bedroom door like he’s just remembered he left something in the oven. “Just feel like a change of scenery.”
Bradley scrambles out of bed. “And you’d choose the couch over the guest room?”
Jake turns slowly. “Yeah. Couch feels... right.”
Bradley stares at him like he’s malfunctioning. “Is this because I finished the leftovers? Because I told you I thought you were done—”
“It’s not about that,” Jake says, trying not to laugh. “It’s just—couch night.”
He starts down the stairs, pillow tucked smugly under his arm.
And then he hears it— thump.
Footsteps. Fast.
He turns just as Bradley comes down after him, pillow in hand, face set with the stubbornness of a man who refuses to be left behind. “Then I guess we’re both sleeping on the couch.”
Jake stops on the last step, blinking. “Wait. Seriously?”
Bradley glares. “If you’re upset enough to leave our bed, I’m not letting you sulk alone on our sofa like some sad rom-com side character.”
Jake opens his mouth—then closes it.
And then, because he’s a menace with a gooey center, he drops his pillow on the couch, flops down with a sigh, and pats the cushion beside him. “There’s room.”
Bradley settles beside him a second later, still mildly suspicious.
Pickles appears on the backrest like a silent chaperone. Fleetwood trots down the stairs a minute later with queenly disdain.
Jake leans into Bradley’s side, grinning against his shoulder. “You really followed me.”
Bradley mutters, “Like I’d let you sleep without me, idiot. ”
They sit there for a moment in the dark, surrounded by cats and questionable choices, trying to find a position that works. The couch creaks under the shifting weight of two fully grown men, and Pickles perches above them like a silent judge while Fleetwood claims the only throw blanket with imperial authority.
Jake wiggles. Shifts. Adjusts again.
Then: “This isn’t really comfy.”
Bradley sighs. “ No shit. ”
Jake pouts into his arm. “Okay, fine. We can go back to our bed.”
Bradley doesn’t respond verbally.
He just stands.
Scoops Jake up over his shoulder like he weighs nothing.
Grabs both their pillows with his free hand.
And starts back up the stairs, muttering under his breath, “ That’s what I thought. ”
Jake doesn’t fight it. Just grins to himself, dangling upside-down and thoroughly pleased.
Victory never felt so deservedly inconvenient.
FIVE
The fifth prank is psychological warfare dressed up in dinner date clothes.
Jake sees the “I can’t pay for dinner” trend on TikTok and nearly chokes on his coffee laughing. It’s too easy. The dramatics. The guilt. The emotional bait. And most importantly— Bradley will be completely thrown. He’s just earnest enough, just protective enough, just logical enough to walk straight into the trap.
So Jake waits.
Friday rolls around and they head out to a new seafood place near the bay, windows down, Jake’s sunglasses perched on his head like a crown. He’s looking particularly smug tonight—button-down tight across his chest, hair artfully tousled. Bradley notices, obviously. Jake catches him staring more than once at red lights.
It’s the perfect night. Which means it’s the perfect time to ruin it a little.
As they pull into the restaurant parking lot, Bradley puts the Bronco in park with one hand, reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt.
Jake strikes.
He makes a show of patting his pockets. Jacket. Back pocket. Frontal. A tiny gasp.
“Oh no,” he says, voice small.
Bradley immediately pauses. “What?”
Jake furrows his brow like he’s working out a math problem. “I forgot my wallet.”
Bradley blinks at him, confused. “Okay… and?”
Jake exhales, like this is difficult for him. “I wanted to pay for dinner tonight. I was gonna treat you.”
Bradley looks at him like he’s growing a second head. “You what ?”
Jake leans back dramatically in his seat. “I wanted to do something nice , Bradley. I made this whole plan. I was gonna pay. And now I can’t.” He puts a hand to his chest like he’s been wronged by fate itself. “I just wanted one romantic gesture.”
Bradley gapes. “Jake. When was the last time you paid for anything when we go out? That’s not a thing you do.”
Jake flinches theatrically. “Wow. Okay. Maybe I wanted to start. Maybe I was trying to be sweet.”
Bradley scrambles. “No, no, babe—I didn’t mean it like that. I just—I’m always the one driving, and paying, and calling in the reservations and—shit, I’m sorry. You are sweet. You’re very sweet. It’s okay.”
Jake stares out the window like he’s in a sad music video. “It just meant something to me.”
Bradley reaches across the console, grabbing his hand. “Hey. Baby. It’s fine. You can pay next time, okay? It still means something. I swear. Or you can even hold onto my wallet and hand the server my card like it’s yours. Basically the same.”
Jake turns back slowly, lashes fluttering just slightly. “You mean it?”
“Of course I do. You're amazing. I’m lucky. Don’t be sad.”
There’s a pause.
Jake leans over and kisses him, soft and lingering. “Okay,” he says, finally smiling. “Thanks.”
They get out of the truck. Walk a few feet. And then Bradley, brow furrowed, mumbles mostly to himself:
“ Wait… we have a joint fucking bank account. ”
Jake smirks so hard it nearly breaks his face.
PLUS ONE
The sixth one is the one Jake has to prepare for.
Because this one? This one needs visual evidence.
Jake’s scrolling through his feed, one airpod in, feet in Bradley’s lap, when he sees the trend: women introducing their husbands on camera as their “current” husbands just to see how they react. Every guy short-circuits in real time. One even grabs his wife’s hand and goes “ You trying to have me replaced? ” with deadpan horror.
Jake gasps and thinks: Oh this is perfect.
He figures it only works if Bradley’s fully unsuspecting. Which means going big. Real setup. Real camera. Real “this is my first TikTok” energy.
“Babe?” Jake says sweetly that night. “Can we make a video together?”
Bradley glances up from his book. “Absolutely not.”
Jake pouts. “Come on. It’s my first one. I want to introduce us. To my followers.”
“You don’t have any followers.”
“ Yet. ”
Bradley sighs. “Do I have to talk?”
“No,” Jake lies. “Just stand next to me and look pretty.”
That, apparently, Bradley can tolerate.
So they set up the phone on the fireplace mantle. Living room lights are dimmed. Fleetwood lounges majestically in the armchair. Pickles lurks under the coffee table. Bradley stands beside Jake, barefoot, arms crossed but expression fond in that you exhaust me and I love you kind of way.
Jake claps his hands. “Okay, we’re recording. Ready?”
Bradley mutters something about regretting his life choices.
Jake grins at the camera. “Hi everyone! I’m Jake. This is my first TikTok. I thought I’d introduce my little family—”
Points to Fleetwood. “This is Fleetwood, she’s in charge.”
Crouches to motion at Pickles. “That’s Pickles. He’s just happy to be alive.”
Then he stands and smiles brightly, gesturing to Bradley beside him.
“And this is my current husband, Bradley. We’re both naval aviators and—”
Bradley’s head snaps around. “Wait. Current ?”
Jake doesn’t even blink. “Yeah?”
Bradley frowns. “What do you mean current ? Why’d you say it like that?”
Jake widens his eyes, all faux innocence. “I’m just being accurate. You are currently my husband.”
Bradley’s staring now. “Is there some previous husband I should know about? Or are you auditioning future ones on this TikTok account?”
Jake shrugs, smug. “I mean, technically you are my current husband.”
“No,” Bradley says firmly. “Absolutely not. I am your husband. Point blank. Period. End of story.”
Jake opens his mouth, ready to double down, but Bradley is done .
“No fucking way,” he mutters, lunging. Before Jake can move, Bradley throws him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Bradley!” Jake squeals. “ My phone is still recording! ”
“Well,” Bradley grunts, heading toward the stairs, “you should’ve thought of that before you called me your ‘current’ anything.”
Jake’s legs kick uselessly behind him. “This is so going viral.”
Fleetwood blinks slowly at the camera. Pickles yawns.
Jake’s final words before Bradley disappears up the stairs with him: “Someone in the comments better call me a victim of war crimes.”
SMUT BELOW
Bradley carries his current husband up the stairs like it’s a goddamn mission objective.
“Current,” he mutters under his breath. Like the word itself is a slur. Like Jake didn’t just say it in their living room, on camera, in front of their children like it was normal.
He kicks the bedroom door open and tosses Jake onto the bed—not hard, but not gentle either. Jake bounces, lets out a soft “oomph,” and blinks up at him with the wide-eyed, teeth-biting grin of a man who knows he poked the bear and is delighted by the results.
Bradley looms at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, breathing steady, and stares him down.
Jake props himself up on his elbows, all golden hair and flushed cheeks and a mouth that already looks like it’s asking to be kissed or silenced.
Bradley tilts his head, voice low and even. “What should I do with you?”
Jake blinks, lips parting. A soundless little inhale.
Bradley steps closer, watching Jake's pupils dilate, loving the way that mischief is melting under anticipation.
“Should I make you remember,” he continues, “just how permanent this marriage is?”
Jake swallows. His tongue darts out like he’s about to say something, but Bradley’s already climbing onto the bed, already crowding over him, already pushing Jake back with nothing but his presence.
“Maybe,” Bradley murmurs, reaching down to drag a lazy hand over Jake’s thigh, “I should spank you.”
Jake lets out a breath like it’s been knocked out of him.
Bradley leans in close, their mouths a breath apart. “Since you clearly need a little help remembering who your husband is.”
Jake nods, fast and eager.
Bradley smirks. “Thought so.”
Bradley doesn’t waste time.
He manhandles Jake into position, tugging him across his lap until Jake’s chest hits the bed and his hips are perfectly draped over Bradley’s thigh. Jake squirms, already panting like he’s halfway gone, even though Bradley hasn’t laid a hand on him yet.
Bradley hooks two fingers in the waistband of Jake’s sweats and briefs and yanks them down just far enough that they bunch under the curve of his ass, framing it like a goddamn invitation.
Jake lets out a shaky moan.
Bradley smooths a hand over the bare skin, watching Jake tremble.
“How many should you get, sweetheart?” he muses aloud.
Jake, eager as ever, starts to answer—“I think—”
“That was rhetorical,” Bradley snaps, voice sharp like the crack of leather. He tightens his grip around Jake’s waist. “Daddy’ll decide.”
Jake shudders.
“Fifteen,” Bradley says. “Because your current husband is so considerate.”
Jake groans at the reminder, and Bradley chuckles darkly.
“You remember the rules?” he asks, leaning down, lips brushing Jake’s ear.
“Yes, Daddy,” Jake whispers.
“Tell me.”
Jake swallows. “Count each one and say… thank you, Daddy.”
“Good girl,” Bradley murmurs. Then he raises his hand.
The first smack lands loud and precise, just on the swell of Jake’s ass.
Jake jolts with a soft gasp. “One. Thank you, Daddy.”
Another. “Two. Thank you, Daddy.”
Bradley keeps going—measured, even, letting each one sink in. Jake’s voice starts to hitch by the sixth, his thighs twitching, his hips shifting against Bradley’s leg.
By the eighth, Bradley can feel it—Jake grinding, slow and helpless, his cock hard and rubbing against Bradley’s thigh with every little moan.
The ninth is sharper, a full palm, and Jake chokes on the number.
Before Jake can say thank you, Bradley fists a hand in his hair and yanks his head back just enough to make Jake arch.
“You think I can’t feel you?” he growls. “Stop rubbing your pathetic little clit on me. You’re being punished. ”
Jake moans outright, shivering.
“Y-yes, Daddy.”
“Say it,” Bradley demands.
“I’m sorry,” Jake gasps. “I’ll be good. Thank you, Daddy.”
Bradley hums. “You’d better be.”
And then he brings his hand down again, harder this time, because current husband or not—Jake belongs to him.
The thirteenth lands with a sharp crack, and Jake's voice breaks on the count. "Th-thirteen. Thank you, Daddy."
Bradley smooths his palm over the reddened skin, feeling the heat radiating from Jake's ass. "Two more, sweetheart. You're doing so good for me."
The fourteenth makes Jake sob outright, his whole body shaking. "Fourteen. Thank you, Daddy."
Bradley raises his hand one last time, bringing it down firm and final. Jake cries out, his back arching.
"Fifteen," Jake gasps, voice wrecked. "Thank you, Daddy."
"Good girl," Bradley murmurs, rubbing gentle circles over Jake's burning skin. "Such a good girl for me."
He carefully pulls Jake up from his lap, watching as tears streak down his flushed cheeks. Jake's breathing is ragged, his cock hard and leaking against his stomach. Bradley reaches for the hem of Jake's shirt, pulling it over his head before sliding his sweats and briefs the rest of the way down his legs.
"Come here," Bradley says softly, guiding Jake to straddle his lap.
Jake settles against him, completely bare while Bradley remains fully clothed, and the contrast makes Jake's pupils blow wide. A fresh tear spills over, and Bradley catches it with his thumb, brushing it away tenderly.
"Oh sweet girl," he coos, voice soft and adoring. "You look so pretty when you cry for me."
Jake whimpers, his hips shifting against Bradley's clothed erection. Bradley cups his face with both hands, thumbs stroking over his cheekbones.
"My beautiful wife," Bradley whispers before capturing Jake's lips in a deep, possessive kiss.
Jake melts into him, pliant and needy, his hands fisting in Bradley's shirt. They kiss until Jake is breathless and grinding helplessly against him, desperate little sounds caught between their mouths.
Bradley breaks away, pressing one last kiss to Jake's swollen lips. "On your knees for me, sweetheart."
Jake slides off his lap immediately, settling between Bradley's spread thighs. His eyes are bright with tears and want, focused entirely on Bradley as he waits for permission.
Bradley works his shorts down just enough to free his aching cock, and Jake's breath hitches at the sight.
"Go ahead, baby," Bradley says, threading his fingers through Jake's hair. "Show Daddy how sorry you are."
Jake takes him into his mouth like it's his goddamn life purpose—eager and desperate and so fucking perfect that Bradley has to grip the edge of the bed to keep from losing it immediately. Jake works him with single-minded devotion, tongue swirling and lips stretched obscenely around Bradley's cock, tears still wet on his cheeks as he takes him deeper.
Bradley lets himself enjoy it, threading his fingers through Jake's hair and watching his beautiful mouth work. Jake's moans vibrate around him, and the sight of him—naked and debauched and completely devoted—nearly undoes Bradley entirely.
When he can't take another second without coming down Jake's throat, Bradley pulls him off with a sharp tug to his hair.
"Get on the bed," he orders, voice rough. "Hands and knees."
Jake scrambles to comply, positioning himself in the center of the bed with his red ass on display. Bradley climbs up behind him, still mostly clothed and spreads Jake's cheeks with his thumbs.
Jake winces at the touch on his sore ass.
Bradley spits directly onto Jake's hole, watching it flutter at the contact,
"No lube tonight," Bradley says, working the spit in with one finger. "Bad girls don't get to be comfortable."
Jake whimpers but pushes back against the intrusion, always so eager for whatever Bradley gives him. Bradley works him open methodically—adding more spit when needed, stretching him just enough that it won't truly hurt him, but keeping it rough enough that Jake feels every inch of the stretch.
Bradley grabs the hem of his shirt and yanks it up, tucking the fabric under his chin so he has a clear view of Jake's hole stretched around nothing, clenching and fluttering in anticipation.
"Look at that pretty pussy," Bradley growls, gripping his cock and lining up. "So fucking desperate for me."
He lets one last glob of spit fall from his mouth onto his cock and pushes in slowly, watching every inch disappear into Jake's body. Jake's hole stretches beautifully around him, taking him so perfectly that Bradley has to grit his teeth to keep from losing control immediately.
"Fuck," Bradley hisses, bottoming out. "So tight for me, baby girl."
Jake whimpers, his whole body trembling as he adjusts to the stretch. Bradley gives him a moment—not out of mercy, but because he wants to savor the sight of Jake split open on his cock, wants to burn this image into his memory.
Then he starts moving.
Bradley fucks him hard and relentless, each thrust deliberate and claiming. Jake cries out with every snap of Bradley's hips, his voice breaking on desperate little sobs, but his hands stay planted firmly on the mattress. Never once does he reach to touch himself, even though he’s hard and leaking beneath him.
"Oh, you're such a good girl," Bradley praises roughly, his voice strained with effort. "Not touching that pretty clit of yours. So fucking obedient for Daddy."
Jake whines at the praise, pushing back to meet Bradley's thrusts even as tears stream down his face.
Bradley reaches around Jake's waist and hauls him up, pulling him back until Jake's chest is flush against Bradley's back. The new angle has Jake sobbing outright, his head falling back against Bradley's shoulder.
"That's it," Bradley growls in his ear, one arm wrapped tight around Jake's chest to hold him in place. "Let Daddy take care of you."
His other hand wraps around Jake's cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts. Jake keens, his whole body going taut.
"Please," Jake gasps. "Please, Daddy, I need—"
"I know what you need," Bradley cuts him off, his grip tightening around Jake's length. "Daddy's gonna take such good care of his girl. Gonna make you come all over my hand while I fuck this tight little pussy."
Jake's breath hitches, his hips jerking between Bradley's hand and his cock.
"You've been so good," Bradley continues, his voice rough and commanding. "Took your spanking so well. Let Daddy fuck you just how he wanted. You deserve to come, sweetheart."
He can feel Jake trembling, right on the edge.
"Come for me," Bradley orders. "Come on Daddy's cock like the good girl you are."
Jake shatters with a broken cry, his whole body convulsing as he spills over Bradley's fist. His hole clenches rhythmically around Bradley's cock, and the sensation is so perfect that Bradley can't hold back anymore.
"Fuck, yes," Bradley snarls, his thrusts becoming erratic. "Gonna fill you up, baby. Gonna come so deep inside this perfect pussy."
He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan, flooding Jake's hole with his release. Jake whimpers softly as Bradley pulses inside him, still trembling from his own orgasm.
Bradley holds him close, both of them breathing hard, Jake's weight warm and pliant against his chest.
"Such a good girl," Bradley murmurs, pressing a kiss to Jake's temple. "My perfect wife."
Jake hums, loose and dreamy, as Bradley slowly pulls out of him, careful not to jostle or overstimulate. Jake lets out a tiny whimper at the loss, but doesn’t resist as Bradley gently eases him down onto the mattress. He lays Jake on his stomach, brushes the sweat-mussed hair off his face, and then collapses beside him with a grunt.
They’re quiet for a few seconds. Just breathing. Coming down.
Then Jake starts giggling.
It’s quiet at first—soft and breathy—but then it turns into a full-body snicker, his shoulders shaking against the mattress.
Bradley turns his head, brows furrowing. “What?”
Jake bites his lip, clearly trying—and failing—to stop.
“I shoulda known this would be the one that got you,” Jake mumbles into the pillow.
Bradley squints. “The what ?”
Jake rolls onto his side, grinning through the exhaustion. “The TikTok trend.”
Bradley blinks. “The what now?”
Jake waves a floppy hand. “The current husband thing. Where girls call their partner their ‘current’ husband on camera to piss them off or see how they react. It’s a thing. A trend on TikTok. I’ve been pranking you with different ones all week.”
Bradley stares at him. Silent. Processing.
Then: “You mean the power tools... the wallet stunts… I knew something was up with the fucking salt spoon —”
Jake is laughing full out now, snorting into the sheets.
“Oh my god, ” Bradley mutters, one hand dragging down his face. “I married a TikTok menace.”
Jake gasps for air. “It’s been so good. You were getting so worked up, and I kept thinking, no way this is the one that snaps him, but oh no— ‘current husband’ did it.”
Bradley glances at him slowly.
And lunges.
Jake yelps as Bradley grabs him around the waist and flips him easily, straddling his thighs and pinning his wrists above his head with one hand.
“ You little shit, ” Bradley says, voice low with mock menace. “TikTok?”
Jake’s still laughing, breathless and delighted. “I regret nothing— ”
Bradley starts tickling.
Jake screams.
“ Bradley—! ”
“Say it,” Bradley demands, fingers digging ruthlessly into Jake’s sides. “Say you’re sorry. ”
“I’m— not sorry! ” Jake gasps between shrieking giggles, twisting beneath him like he’s trying to escape the very concept of consequences.
Bradley leans down, smirking into the mess of Jake’s blonde hair. “Then I hope you enjoyed TikTok while it lasted,” he says, voice low and amused. “Because I’m deleting it off your phone tomorrow. ”
Jake wheezes, blinking up at him through watery laughter. “You wouldn’t—”
Bradley arches a brow.
Jake's face falls into scandalized betrayal. “ You would. ”
Bradley kisses his cheek. “Actions have consequences, sweetheart.”
And even though Jake’s still grinning, still glowing, still completely wrecked and pleased with himself, Bradley knows tomorrow morning is going to start with a wrestle match over his phone.
He also knows he’s going to let him keep the app.
Maybe.
Probably.
Eventually
The next morning, the kitchen smells like coffee and bacon and something suspiciously close to love.
Bradley's at the stove, shirtless, hair a mess, humming softly as he flips pancakes like some kind of domestic god who definitely threatened to delete Jake’s TikTok app just eight hours ago.
Jake, wrapped in Bradley’s hoodie and very little else, pads in on quiet feet.
He grabs his own phone off the fireplace, innocently taking a sip of coffee with one hand as he unlocks it with the other. The camera roll’s right where he left it—unedited, full of gold. He scrubs through the video from last night and finds the exact moment.
“This is my current husband, Bradley.”
The cut to Bradley’s confused, increasingly alarmed reaction is cinematic.
Jake edits it fast—just a quick trim, a little text overlay ( 'he took that personally' ) and a perfectly timed zoom on Bradley’s face when he says “What do you mean current ?”
Then, smiling like the devil himself, Jake hits post .
The video goes live on his TikTok with the caption:
when your “current” husband is also your permanent problem ❤️ #militaryhusbands #chaosmarried #mlm
He doesn’t stop there.
Jake pulls up the Dagger’s group chat and pastes the video:
Send to: Daggers 🗡️✈️
Jake: *video attachment*
Jake: this is your 'team leader’. you’re all welcome
He presses send and tosses his phone back on the counter just as Bradley turns around with a plate in each hand.
“You’re smiling,” Bradley says suspiciously.
Jake beams, sliding into his seat. “You’re cooking.”
Bradley narrows his eyes and sets a plate down in front of him. “You posted it. Didn’t you?”
Jake takes a very slow bite of bacon.
Bradley leans over, plucks Jake’s phone off the counter.
Three seconds later:
“ JACOB. ”
Jake snorts syrup.
Worth it.
Chapter 2
Notes:
This was an entirely unplanned extension to this fic, which given my statistics, is likely not what y'all were looking for, but it's what I wanted to write so here we are lol. There is also only implied smut here, no actual explicit content, so this is mostly a crack chapter.
Here are five more TikTok pranks but from Bradley's perspective and one time Bradley tries to get him back.
This is unbeta'd again bc I got too excited once I finished it and know Endless Summer is at its eleventh hour, so figured I'd just say fuck it. (Sorry Lute 🫶)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
One would think Jake had learned his lesson after the whole “current husband” fiasco.
Spoiler: he hadn’t.
If anything, the rapid following he gained after posting that video did the opposite of humbling him. It emboldened him. People loved it. The comments were gold:
“Protect this man at all costs.”
“Bradley looks like he aged ten years in thirty seconds.”
And Jake? Jake ate that shit up.
And then there were the thirsty comments. Entire threads of strangers simping over both of them. “Who’s the guy with the mustache?? 👀” and “the blonde one could ruin my life and I’d say thank you” and “these two are giving enemies to lovers energy, someone write it” (Jake screenshotted that one, obviously).
Mostly, Jake finds it funny. He’s not mad. He knows the deal—these are just people on the internet who don’t know them, don’t know the real story. And honestly? His husband is hot. Like, objectively, statistically unfair levels of hotness. Jake understands the impulse.
He only gets a tiny pang of annoyance when the Bradley thirst hits harder than his own. Just a flicker of hey, eyes over here, but then Bradley walks past him shirtless on the way to the shower and Jake remembers he’s the one who gets to touch. The one who gets the soft smiles, the lazy morning kisses, the everything.
So yeah. When Jake scrolls TikTok and stumbles across something new—something that screams married couple spice —he takes it as a sign from the algorithm.
Because honestly? Their life could always use a little more excitement.
And Jake is nothing if not a giver.
ONE
The salmon is almost done—skin-side down in the skillet, butter and oil crackling softly as the edges turn crisp. Behind him, the rice cooker hums. The pesto’s already made, sitting pretty in a ceramic bowl. Everything’s timed perfectly, like always. Bradley prides himself on that.
He’s mid-stir when Jake pipes up from the living room:
“Do you ever wish you were athletic?”
Bradley pauses, spoon hovering over the pan.
He blinks. “What?”
Jake, sprawled on the rug with Pickles batting at a feather toy, doesn’t even look up. “Do you ever wish you were athletic?”
Bradley turns to stare at him like he’s sprouted a second head. “Jake. I am athletic. We both are. We’re literal naval aviators. We have to be.”
“Yeah,” Jake says casually, eyes still on the cat. “But I mean, like… actually really athletic.”
Bradley frowns, glancing down at himself, then back at Jake. The fuck does that even mean? He turns the heat down, jaw tightening a little. “Explain.”
Jake just shrugs, still focused on Pickles. “You know. Like… super fit.”
Bradley feels a spark of indignation flare in his chest. He sets the spoon down with a little more force than necessary and wipes his hand on a towel, turning fully to face Jake.
“You think I’m not athletic?” His tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it. Because this? This is new. And slightly offensive.
Jake finally looks up at him, face the picture of innocence. “I mean… you’re in decent shape.”
Bradley’s eyebrows shoot up. Decent shape. Okay, sure.
He takes a slow breath, then lifts the hem of his T-shirt without breaking eye contact. Lets the kitchen light catch the sharp cut of his abs, the deep lines running into his hips. He even shifts his weight slightly, enough to make the muscle in his stomach flex like steel cables.
“I think,” Bradley says evenly, “I’m doing just fine.”
Jake goes completely still.
And then Bradley sees it—that flicker in his eyes, quick and dark and hot enough to burn. That lazy posture? Gone. There’s tension there now, subtle but unmistakable.
Bradley smirks before he can stop himself. Uh-huh, he thinks, dropping his shirt slowly, deliberately. “Something to add, sweetheart?” he asks lightly, turning back toward the stove as if he didn’t just notice his husband short-circuit.
Jake swallows. “Yeah,” he says, voice lower than before. “You are.”
The words curl around Bradley’s spine like heat. He flips the salmon, lips quirking as he pretends to focus on the pan. His pulse is doing something it really shouldn’t be doing during meal prep, and Jake’s stare? He can feel it—heavy and greedy and all over him.
Bradley shakes his head, grinning to himself as he plates the salmon like nothing happened. Whatever game Jake thinks he’s playing, Bradley’s just reminded both of them who the hell he is.
And by the look on Jake’s face when Bradley sets the plates on the table, dinner might not be the only thing getting devoured tonight.
TWO
Bradley scrubs a hand over his face as he powers down the last monitor in his office. It’s been a long day—teaching ground school, debriefing (telling off) two rookies who nearly gave him a stroke during a hop, and sitting through a strategy meeting that could’ve been an email. His shoulders ache, and all he wants is to get home to Jake. Jake, who had the day off. Jake, who probably spent it tormenting the cats and pretending to fold laundry while actually watching TikToks on the couch.
The thought makes him smile, soft and stupid, as he gathers his things. There’s a lightness that comes with knowing he’s heading home—to their house, their life, their normal, as rare as it is. He slings his bag over his shoulder and steps out into the fading evening light, making for the Bronco parked in its usual spot.
That’s when he hears it—the soft, distinct ping of his phone. Not just any ping. That ping.
Bradley grins like the absolute sap he is. Because that sound? That sound means Jake.
He digs his phone out of his pocket, already picturing something flirty or demanding— “bring me fries” —but the smile falters when he reads the text.
1 New Message — Jake Seresin💙
Jake: can u grab two concrete slabs from home depot on ur way home? thx babe 🫶
Bradley blinks. Reads it again. Two concrete slabs. Like… construction concrete? He stares at the screen for a good five seconds, waiting for a follow-up message. A winky face. A jk . Something. Nothing comes.
“…What the hell do you need with concrete?” he mutters to himself, baffled.
It’s not like Jake to ask for something that random—though, thinking about it, Jake’s full of surprises. The man owns three pairs of leather boots he’s never worn out of the house and once impulse-bought an antique mirror because it “looked like it had secrets.” So maybe concrete isn’t the weirdest thing on his list.
Bradley sighs, shakes his head, and tucks the phone away. It’s for Jake. That’s all that matters. If Jake wants two slabs of concrete, Bradley’s gonna get two slabs of concrete.
Which is how he finds himself twenty minutes later at Home Depot, standing in the landscaping section of the Outdoor Garden Center, staring down at a pallet of pre-cut concrete like it’s mocking him. He picks up two slabs—heavy as sin, but manageable—and carries them to checkout under the watchful eye of an older employee who gives him a look like, what is your life plan, son?
Bradley has no answer for that except: love makes you do stupid shit.
He loads the slabs into the Bronco, wipes his hands on his pants, and figures if he’s driving out this way anyway, he might as well make it worth his while. Which is why, fifteen minutes later, he’s cruising toward home with two concrete slabs in the trunk and a greasy In-N-Out bag riding shotgun.
For Jake, of course.
And maybe a little for him.
Bradley pulls into the driveway just as the sky starts to fade into soft purples and gold. He kills the engine, grabs his flight bag and the In-N-Out bag from the passenger seat, and heads inside, leaving the concrete slabs in the Bronco for now. One mystery at a time.
The door swings open to the sound of the TV low in the background and the sight of Jake unfolding himself from the couch like something out of a daydream. Loose grey sweats slung low on his hips, white T-shirt hanging soft over his chest, hair mussed in that I’ve been lounging and thinking about you kind of way. Bradley swallows a groan and steels himself, because apparently Jake Seresin gets hotter the longer you’ve been married.
“Hi, handsome,” Jake says, padding over to him barefoot. He kisses him, quick and sweet, before immediately zeroing in on the In-N-Out bag like a man possessed.
“Ooo, yummy. Thanks, baby—I was starving. Did you get me extra animal sauce—” Jake stops mid-sentence as his hand dives into the bag and comes up with not one, not two, but five little squeeze tubes of the stuff. His whole face lights up. “Aww, you know me so well.”
Bradley can’t help the grin that pulls at his mouth, that warm, stupid swell of pride in his chest. “Of course I do.”
Jake beams at him like Bradley personally hung the stars in the sky, and honestly? For that look, Bradley would’ve bought the entire condiment aisle.
He heads upstairs to swap his uniform for his own pair of sweats and a soft tee, scrubbing a hand over his jaw as he exhales the day’s weight. By the time he comes back down, Jake’s got the food spread out on the coffee table and Pickles crouched nearby like he’s about to commit a felony.
They eat together, shoulder to shoulder on the couch, Jake humming happily around his burger, barefoot toes curling against Bradley’s thigh. It’s domestic in a way that makes Bradley’s chest ache—the kind of simple, quiet happiness he still doesn’t take for granted.
After the last fry disappears and Bradley’s licking salt from his fingers, Jake leans back with a sigh. “So… did you get my text?”
Bradley wipes his hands on a napkin, frowning a little. “The weird one about concrete slabs? Yeah, I got it.”
Jake nods eagerly. “And?”
Bradley quirks a brow. “And… what?”
“Did you get them?”
Bradley exhales through his nose, equal parts confused and resigned. “Yes. They’re in the Bronco. What did you need them for?”
Jake grins, sharp and boyish, like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. “Go get them and I’ll show you.”
Bradley squints but goes—because of course he does. He hauls the slabs inside, setting them down carefully on the hardwood like they might explode. “Okay,” he says, catching his breath. “Where are these going? Because they’re not staying here and scratching up the floors.”
Jake waves a hand toward the living room. “Against the wall, over there. That way nobody stubs their toes.”
Bradley eyes him but carries the slabs over anyway, propping them neatly against the wall. “Alright, great,” he says dryly. “Now what?”
Jake lights up, kneeling down to slide one slab flat on the rug. He pats it proudly like it’s a prize on a game show. “TikTok said cats love these. They stay cool. Like a spa day.”
Bradley just stares. “…You made me stop at Home Depot for a cat cooling station?”
“As seen on the algorithm,” Jake says smugly.
Pickles sniffs the slab once, then flops dramatically onto the cool surface like this was the missing piece in his life. Jake gestures like see? SEE?
Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose. “Unbelievable.”
Fleetwood, slow and elegant, circles the second slab. Jake coaxes her closer, murmuring like they’re in a high-stakes negotiation. Bradley watches this whole performance—the husband he loves sitting cross-legged on the floor in sweats, grinning like an idiot over two chunks of concrete—and feels something soft twist in his chest.
Jake glances up at him, all bright-eyed and smug. “What? They love it. And you love me.”
Bradley scrubs a hand over his jaw, hiding his grin. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
THREE
The house is quiet in that golden-hour kind of way—soft light spilling across the floor, Fleetwood curled in the armchair like a queen, and the faint hum of the ceiling fan above. Bradley’s sunk deep into the couch, one ankle hooked over the other, a well-worn copy of The Martian open in his hands. He’s got a half-empty glass of water sweating on the coffee table and the kind of rare, unshaken peace that comes after a long day.
Jake’s somewhere in the back of the house—he heard the shower earlier, followed by drawers opening and closing, and then silence. Probably TikTok again. Bradley grins faintly to himself at the thought, shaking his head as he flips a page. Jake and his algorithm. It’s harmless, he tells himself. Weird, but harmless.
He’s mid-sentence, mind far away on Weir’s Mars, when it happens.
The footsteps are quick and light, too fast for Bradley to process before something solid and warm crashes into his lap.
“Jesus—Jake—” Bradley’s voice catches as his book flies out of his hands, hitting the rug with a soft thump. His arms come up automatically, steadying Jake by the hips before the guy can tip them both sideways.
Jake’s on his knees now, straddling him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, eyes blazing with some manic energy Bradley hasn’t seen since deployment. His hands are suddenly on Bradley’s cheeks, firm and hot and framing his face like Bradley’s oxygen.
“Think fast!” Jake blurts, wild-eyed, breathless. “I’m a random guy!”
Bradley stares for half a second—one stunned, brain-breaking beat where the words what the fuck does that mean ricochet through his skull.
And then Jake kisses him.
Bradley makes a low, startled sound in his throat but his body’s already moving, reacting, because this isn’t new—Jake in his lap, Jake’s mouth urgent and sweet, Jake’s fingers sliding into his hair like he’s starving for something Bradley’s more than willing to give. Bradley’s hands find Jake’s waist, broad palms sliding under the soft cotton of his T-shirt, anchoring him close, dragging him in until there’s no space between them. His heartbeat spikes like he’s back in a dogfight, pure adrenaline burning through his veins, because whatever the hell this is? He’ll take it.
Jake tastes like mint and mischief. His thighs tighten around Bradley’s hips. Bradley kisses him harder, swallowing the little sound Jake makes, the one that goes straight to his spine. His book might as well have fallen off the face of the earth because this —Jake warm and alive in his arms—is the only thing that matters.
And then Jake rips away.
He jerks back so fast Bradley actually blinks, lips still tingling, breathing hard like someone cut the power mid-flight.
Jake’s staring at him, blue eyes huge, hair mussed from Bradley’s grip, chest rising and falling like he just ran a mile. And then—then he points a finger at him, voice pitched high with outrage.
“That’s how you’re gonna act when a random guy comes up to you?!”
Bradley just… stares. He can feel his brain buffering like an old computer. “What?”
“A random guy, Bradley!” Jake throws his arms out in exasperation, still straddling him like this is a completely normal argument to have in this position. “You didn’t even hesitate! Just—boom! Mouth open!”
Bradley’s eyebrows climb so high they might take flight. “You’re not a random guy,” he says slowly, because apparently someone needs to state the obvious. “You’re my husband.”
Jake freezes. And then—god help him—Jake grins. Big and bright, all dimples and smugness, like Bradley just declared undying love in front of a live studio audience.
“Well,” Jake says, settling back on his haunches, looking entirely too pleased with himself, “fair enough, Bradshaw.”
Bradley blinks at him, fighting a laugh. “You’re insane.”
Jake leans down and kisses him once more—quick, sweet, like punctuation—before hopping off his lap in one fluid move and padding out of the room with the kind of casual ease only Jake can pull off after a stunt like that.
Bradley watches him go, dazed, lips still tingling, his pulse still doing ninety knots. He hears Jake mutter something about “perfect for the audio” as he disappears down the hall, and Bradley frowns faintly at that but shakes it off.
He sighs, picks up his book from the floor, and leans back into the couch.
Life with Jake Seresin. Never boring.
FOUR
The laundry’s warm against Bradley’s forearms as he pulls another bundle from the basket, settling deeper into the couch. A football game murmurs low on the TV, mostly for background noise, because his AirPods are in and Caroline’s voice is running full throttle in his ear.
“Bradley, I swear to God, this man is unhinged,” she’s saying, words clipping faster with every breath. “Do you know what he did? Do you know what he did? He tried to steal my car. While. I. Was. In. It.”
Bradley hums, the universal sound of I’m here for you but also folding your brother’s socks. “That’s wild, Care,” he says, shaking out one of Jake’s grey tees and smoothing it over his knee before folding it into a neat square.
Caroline has terrible taste in men. Always has. Always will. Bradley would feel bad if it weren’t such a cosmic certainty, like gravity or the sunrise. He loves her—he really does—but sometimes he thanks every higher power in existence that he and Jake found each other young. Caroline doesn’t need to say another word for Bradley to know: this guy is going to be a story they laugh about at Christmas. Again.
He hears footsteps before he sees them—barefoot, light, padding across hardwood. Bradley glances up, and just like that, every thought about Caroline and her latest disaster evaporates.
Jake’s in the doorway, casual as ever in navy sweatpants slung low on his hips and a faded T-shirt that Bradley would bet money used to belong to him. His hair is mussed, his smile easy, and Bradley feels his chest pull tight with that stupid, relentless ache. God, I love him, Bradley thinks, a little helpless, and tips his chin toward his AirPods, mouthing, Caroline, with a playful roll of his eyes.
Jake grins. Sharp around the edges. Mischief flickers there, bright and electric.
Bradley doesn’t notice it soon enough.
Because then Jake’s fingers curl behind the hem of his shirt. And in one smooth motion, he peels it up and off, baring golden skin and lean muscle—and Bradley’s brain short-circuits.
Because underneath?
A bralette. Deep green, mesh, hugging Jake’s chest in delicate bands of fabric that should be illegal in at least forty-eight states. The color makes his skin glow, makes his eyes burn. Bradley’s grip on the half-folded hoodie in his hands goes white-knuckle.
Caroline is still yapping in his ear about a car thief boyfriend, but Bradley couldn’t repeat a single word if his life depended on it.
Jake, smug bastard that he is, doesn’t even speak. Just hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, drags them down slowly, and steps out of them like they were an afterthought.
Bradley stops breathing.
Because now there’s mesh panties. Matching the bralette. High cut, clinging to strong thighs and framing Jake’s ass in a way that has Bradley gripping the laundry like it might save his soul. Which is laughable, because he’s going straight to hell for the thoughts rocketing through his head right now.
Jake shifts his weight, letting the waistband snap lightly against his hip, and then—then he turns. Bends just enough to grab the sweatpants off the floor. And Bradley sees everything. Every curve, every tease of green mesh over the swell of his ass. Perfect and smug and his.
Bradley’s mouth is dry. His heart’s a hammer against his ribs. Caroline is still talking —something about how surprised she is because their astrological charts were so compatible—but Bradley’s blood has roared so loud in his ears that all he hears is Jake Jake Jake.
Jake doesn’t look back. Just tosses the sweats on the laundry pile like a cherry on top, then saunters toward the stairs with hips that could kill a man and bare feet silent on the wood. A trail of clothing in his wake like breadcrumbs for a wolf.
Bradley forgets how to swallow. Forgetting everything except the fact that his husband just walked out of this room wearing next to nothing and expects him to sit here and do nothing about it.
No chance in hell.
He fumbles for his AirPods case, stammering, “Care, listen, I gotta—I think something’s burning—okay, yeah, love you, bye—” and ends the call before she can answer.
The laundry? Dead to him. The football game? White noise.
Bradley’s already up, muscles coiled, following Jake up the stairs like a man on a mission, heat licking down his spine with every step.
Because if Jake Seresin thinks he can pull a stunt like that and walk away ?
He’s about to find out exactly what happens when you start a war you can’t win.
FIVE
Bradley pushes the cart down the polished aisle, one hand wrapped around the handle, the other scrolling through the grocery list on his phone. The hum of fluorescent lights above, the faint chill of overworked AC—it’s all background noise. What’s front and center is Jake walking beside him, his free hand tucked in the pocket of his joggers, the other strapped into a black wrist splint that still makes Bradley’s gut twist every time he looks at it.
They don’t usually do this together. Grocery runs are a divide-and-conquer situation—efficient, quick. But Jake insisted this time, and Bradley couldn’t bring himself to say no. Not after the week they’ve had. Not after the news.
The Daggers got the call this morning. Special detachment. One week out. Bradley’s already buried in prep, his calendar blocked out, a dozen things to manage before boots hit the ground. And Jake? Jake’s grounded. Four weeks, minimum. A sprained wrist courtesy of a dumb bar trick with Mickey at the Hard Deck. One wrong twist, one loud pop, and now Jake’s benched, left on the sidelines while the squad ships out.
Bradley glances at him out of the corner of his eye. He’s walking close, closer than usual, eyes skimming the shelves without really seeing them. There’s a brightness to his expression—the kind Jake puts on like armor—but underneath, Bradley can feel it. That restless energy, that bitter little edge. It makes Bradley’s chest ache.
So yeah. If Jake wants to tag along for a grocery run, Bradley’s going to let him. Hell, he’s going to make it feel like a date if it kills him.
“You sure you don’t want a basket instead?” Jake drawls, nodding toward the half-empty cart as they roll past the butcher section.
Bradley snorts, steering toward the meat counter. “We’re cooking ribs for two extra people tomorrow. You think that fits in a basket?”
Jake hums like he’s considering it, lips quirking at the corner. “Fair point. Just saying, you look very domestic right now. Hot, though. Very ‘dad in the wild.’”
Bradley huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he stops in front of the glass case. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jake grins. “And you love me.”
Bradley doesn’t bother denying it. He just gestures to the display and catches the butcher’s attention, rattling off what he needs—thick-cut, plenty of meat on the bone, enough racks for their family dinner with Ice and Mav tomorrow. While the guy wraps everything up, Bradley feels Jake sidle closer, his uninjured hand brushing the small of his back in that absent, grounding way that always makes Bradley’s breath catch.
They move on to the next aisle—spices, sauces, all the fixings for the marinade. Bradley grabs extra smoked paprika, brown sugar, cayenne, tossing each into the cart with quiet precision. Jake, meanwhile, is busy scanning shelves for snacks like a kid at recess.
“You really want to load up on chips right before I deploy?” Bradley teases, dropping a jar of honey into the cart.
Jake glances at him, something flickering in his eyes—something softer than the grin he pastes on. “Maybe I want comfort food while my husband’s halfway across the ocean.”
Bradley’s hand tightens on the cart handle. He swallows hard, turning toward him fully. Jake’s looking at a bag of kettle chips like it holds the secrets of the universe, jaw set in that stubborn line Bradley knows too well. And God, it hits him all at once—how rare this is, how fragile. How much he hates the thought of leaving Jake behind with that splint on his wrist and that restless fire in his chest.
Bradley reaches out, fingers curling gently around Jake’s good wrist, just enough to pull him close. Jake glances up, startled, and Bradley kisses him right there in the middle of the aisle—slow and steady, soft enough that it doesn’t feel like goodbye but strong enough that Jake feels every ounce of what Bradley can’t say in public.
When he pulls back, Jake’s grin is wicked and satisfied. “Finally,” he murmurs, low enough for only Bradley to hear. “Was going through Bradley withdrawals.”
Bradley shakes his head, chuckling as he brushes his thumb over Jake’s knuckles before letting go. “Grab your comfort food, sweetheart,” he says, voice warm. “We’ll need snacks for tomorrow anyway.”
Jake smirks, tossing the bag into the cart. “And maybe some animal crackers.”
Bradley arches a brow. “For you or the cats?”
“Yes,” Jake says simply, and Bradley laughs as they head toward checkout—shoulders brushing with every step, Jake’s hand ghosting against his lower back like a promise.
They finish up quickly after that, Jake tossing a few more impulse buys into the cart while Bradley pretends not to notice. Checkout is easy—Jake leans on the counter, chatting with the cashier like they’ve known each other for years, while Bradley bags everything with the kind of efficiency that comes from years of doing it solo. By the time they roll the cart out into the warm evening air, the sky is streaked in orange and rose, and the scent of salt rides on the breeze from the water. Jake hums along to the playlist Bradley queued up, his voice low and lazy over the hum of the tires, windows cracked just enough to ruffle his hair. They don’t talk much—just the kind of quiet, easy chatter that feels like home. Bradley steals glances when he can, memorizing the way the sunset paints Jake’s skin gold, filing it away like something worth holding onto.
The Bronco crunches into the driveway just as the last smear of sunset burns out over the horizon. Bradley kills the engine and starts gathering his things—wallet, phone, receipt from the store—already running through the mental checklist for the night. The marinade first. Then the ribs. Everything has to sit at least twelve hours for tomorrow to taste like it should.
He glances to his right. Jake hasn’t moved. Still buckled in, phone angled in his splinted hand, thumb swiping lazily with the other. His hair is catching the last strips of daylight, his expression a little too focused to be casual. Probably scrolling, probably plotting something, but Bradley’s too tired and too in love to care right now.
“You coming?” Bradley asks, pushing open his door.
“In a sec,” Jake says, distracted, not looking up from his phone.
Bradley shakes his head with a small smile, heading to the back of the Bronco. No way in hell is he letting Jake carry groceries in that splint—not when the whole reason they’re here together is because Jake’s grounded and frustrated and Bradley will do anything, anything, to make this easier for him.
Besides, Bradley loves to spoil him even when he’s perfectly healthy. This isn’t new.
He pops the hatch and stares at the mountain of bags waiting for him. Not terrible, but enough to require two trips—three, if he were sane about it. Which he isn’t. Because if there’s one thing Bradley Bradshaw refuses to do, it’s take more than one trip.
He stands there for a second, mentally running the math like he’s planning a combat loadout. Hooks two heavy bags up his forearms. Loops three more through his fingers. Balances the bread and honey like he’s defusing a bomb. It’s a ridiculous juggling act, but he’s committed now. No turning back.
By the time he’s got everything stacked and swinging off him like some deranged grocery pack mule, his biceps are screaming, his shoulders aching, but victory tastes sweet. One trip. Just one.
He kicks the hatch closed and starts up the walkway, careful steps, head high with triumph—when Jake’s voice cuts through the warm evening air.
“Why aren’t you holding my hand right now?”
Bradley stops dead.
Turns.
Jake’s standing by the Bronco now, splinted wrist holding his phone cradled against his chest, his good hand hanging loose at his side. His face is a perfect picture of wounded dramatics, lips tilted in a pout that should be illegal. The kind of look that says how dare you deny me basic affection in my time of need.
Bradley glances down at his hands—every finger looped in plastic handles, bags perfectly balanced between both sides—and lets out a long, slow sigh through his nose.
For one beat, he considers saying something. Anything. But in the end, words feel pointless against whatever Jake Seresin is doing right now.
So Bradley just… does it.
He carefully shifts the bags, redistributing the weight until his right hand is hooked with all of them, muscles straining as the plastic digs into his skin. It’s ridiculous and he knows it, but he still frees his left hand—still reaches out silently.
Jake steps forward, grinning like he just won the lottery, and slides his fingers into Bradley’s with a little hum of satisfaction. “That’s much better,” he says, voice light and smug and sweet all at once.
Bradley huffs out a laugh—short, helpless—and shakes his head, resuming the short trek up the walkway with his husband in tow, grocery bags cutting into his arm like penance. Because honestly? This is Jake. This is them. And Bradley wouldn’t trade this ridiculous, inconvenient, perfect life for anything.
+ ONE
The barbecue had been a hit. Ribs falling off the bone, Maverick and Bradley trading memories over Carole’s rib rub recipe like no time had passed, and Jake—well, Jake remained firmly in his role as Ice’s favorite child. Bradley had stopped pretending to compete years ago. He didn’t mind. Watching Jake light up under that quiet approval? Worth every sarcastic comment from Mav.
Now, five days out from detachment, Bradley’s back in the classroom, trying to drill advanced ACM tactics into a room full of wide-eyed, caffeine-fueled greenies who think “nose authority” is something they can fake in a dogfight. The projector hums overhead, slides on high-aspect BFM scenarios blinking onto the screen as Bradley cues up the next set.
He’s mid-sentence—“And if you’re dragging someone into a rolling scissors, your energy state better be—”
Giggling. From the back row.
Bradley’s head snaps up. The sound cuts off fast, like someone hit mute. His gaze zeroes in on the far corner where two baby-faced lieutenants are suddenly very invested in the grain of the desk.
He narrows his eyes. “Something you want to share with the class?”
Both pilots jerk upright like puppets on a string. “No, sir,” one blurts, voice cracking like a teenager’s. The other just shakes his head, eyes wide, posture stiff enough to snap.
Bradley lets the silence stretch a beat longer, heavy as an airbrake, before he exhales through his nose. “Then cut it out and pay attention,” he says, tone flat as steel.
“Yes, sir,” they chorus, voices shaky.
Bradley goes back to the slides, but there’s a prickle crawling up his spine, the kind that says he’s missing something. A joke, a whisper, some shared secret pinging around this room that has his greenies biting back laughter during his lecture.
He moves on, breaking down the geometry of an offensive perch setup, voice steady, but his mind’s already circling the question like a bogey on his six.
Bradley wraps up the lecture on offensive perch setups, voice cutting through the classroom with the same clipped precision he’d use over comms. “That’s it for today. Evaluation hops start now. You know the drill—get your pre-flight med checks done and meet me on the tarmac.”
A chorus of “Yes, sir” fills the room, chairs scraping against tile as greenies gather their flight bags. Bradley powers down the projector, watching them file out in pairs and trios. There’s laughter in their voices, low and muffled, like they’re trying to keep it under wraps—but not well enough. A couple of them glance his way, grins twitching at the corners of their mouths before they duck out the door.
Bradley’s brows pinch as he gathers his notes. He’s not imagining it. Something’s up. And for the life of him, he can’t figure out what the hell it is.
By the time he steps onto the tarmac, the sun’s high and hot, shimmering off the steel skins of a neat line of F/A-18s. He spots Nat and Bob by the maintenance tent, trading quiet words while checking their tablets. They look up as he approaches, Nat lifting a brow like she already knows he’s running hot.
“You good, Bradshaw?” she asks.
“Peachy,” Bradley mutters, scanning the far end of the tarmac where the greenies are trickling back out from the hangar, helmets under their arms, flight suits half-zipped. Most of them keep their eyes front—but there it is again. The smirks. Quick and sharp, exchanged in glances they think he won’t catch.
Bradley’s jaw tightens. What the hell is that about?
“Hold here,” he tells Nat and Bob, and doesn’t wait for a reply. He starts across the tarmac in long, even strides, boots ringing against the concrete until he spots who he’s looking for—Cactus, walking alone toward his jet with that quiet, by-the-book posture Bradley’s always appreciated.
“Fisher!” Bradley calls out, voice carrying sharp over the rumble of ground crews and auxiliary power units. “Front and center!”
Ltjd. Aaron “Cactus” Fisher freezes like someone hit the brakes on his whole system, then jogs over without hesitation. He stops two paces in front of Bradley and snaps to attention, face carved from stone.
“At ease,” Bradley says, tone easing a notch. Cactus relaxes, hands folding neatly behind his back.
Bradley studies him for a beat—because if anyone’s going to crack without theatrics, it’s this kid. “What’s going on?” he asks, voice calm but edged. “And don’t tell me nothing. I’ve been doing this long enough to know when my pilots are sitting on a joke.”
Cactus hesitates—just for a breath, eyes flicking toward the line of jets, then back to Bradley. His throat works, like he’s swallowing words he knows better than to say.
Bradley tilts his head, one brow lifting. “Spit it out, Lieutenant.”
Cactus shifts his weight, and for the first time in weeks, Bradley sees something flicker in his expression—amusement, quick and sharp, before it’s gone.
“It’s… uh,” Cactus starts, voice low, like the words themselves might explode on contact. “Sir, it’s… a video.”
Bradley’s pulse skips. His stomach sinks. “A video,” he repeats flatly. “What kind of video?”
Cactus hesitates again, glances at his boots, then back up with the look of a man about to hand over state secrets.
“Your husband, sir,” he says carefully. “He… posted something. Well, somethings. ”
Bradley stares. Just stares.
Because suddenly, everything clicks—the giggles, the smirks, the whisper of something electric threading through his squad. And all Bradley can think, standing there under the brutal San Diego sun, is Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jake. Not again.
By the time the last hop is logged and his final debrief wraps, the sun’s sliding low and Bradley feels rung out—sweat sticking to his undershirt, paperwork gnawing at the edges of his patience. He should go home. He should shower, eat, maybe steal an hour of quiet before Jake decides to climb him like a tree.
Instead, he does something he swore he’d never do.
He downloads TikTok.
The little icon glows smug on his phone screen, and Bradley glares at it like it personally owes him money. One tap and it opens into a screaming void of videos—dancing, voiceovers, clips flying past so fast his brain short-circuits. He fumbles through the setup, skipping every prompt like it’s a landmine until he’s staring at a blank account with zero followers and zero clue what the hell he’s doing.
He exhales, drags a hand down his face, and mutters, “Alright, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’ve been up to.”
He types Jake’s name into the search bar.
The account pops up immediately. Jake’s profile picture is obnoxiously handsome, and the bio just says naval aviator + husband ✈️ / proud cat dad 🐾 . Bradley clicks it, and the blood drains from his face.
Ninety-eight thousand followers.
Over three hundred thousand likes.
And the videos—God. There are dozens of them. Clips of their cats. Jake mouthing lyrics in the kitchen, all smug and golden. One of Bradley grilling shirtless, completely unaware of the phone angled from the deck railing. Comments scrolling fast—thirsty, relentless, strangers eating it up like Bradley’s just been dropped into a marketing campaign for husband material.
Bradley curses under his breath. “How the hell—”
He clicks the most recent video, posted just this morning.
The screen fills with a familiar sight: him, walking up the path to their house, arms loaded with grocery bags like a goddamn pack mule. His jaw’s tight, his biceps straining, sweat sticking his shirt to his back—and then Jake’s voice comes from behind the camera, sweet as sugar and smug as sin:
“Why aren’t you holding my hand right now?”
Bradley watches himself stop dead, sees the moment of defeat flicker across his face as he shuffles all the bags into one arm. Then—silently, without complaint—he reaches out his free hand. Jake slides into frame, smiling like sunshine, their fingers lacing together like the credits of a rom-com.
The video ends with Jake purring, “That’s much better,” before it cuts to black. Text across the screen reads: marry a man who makes the bare minimum look like a love story 💍.
Bradley stares at his phone, jaw slack.
“That was two days ago,” he mutters to the empty room. “Two. Fucking. Days.”
He scrolls down. The views climb into the millions. The comments? Worse.
“who is this man and why do I suddenly believe in love again”
“someone check on their neighbors because I bet the walls shake”
“hold my hand challenge BUT MAKE IT NAVY”
Bradley pinches the bridge of his nose, groaning low in his throat.
Jake Seresin is going to pay for this.
The healthy thing to do would be to go home, sit Jake down, and have an adult conversation about privacy, boundaries, and why half the internet now knows what their front walkway looks like. That would be the reasonable choice.
Bradley does not make the reasonable choice.
Instead, he goes home, kisses Jake hello, eats the dinner Jake ordered in, and pretends nothing is wrong. Pretends he didn’t download TikTok, didn’t spiral down a rabbit hole of thirst comments, didn’t memorize every smug caption his husband has ever written. He goes to bed with Jake curled into his side, Jake’s hand on his chest, Jake’s soft breath against his skin—and stares at the ceiling plotting revenge.
The next morning, Bradley walks into the classroom like nothing’s amiss. His slides are ready. His coffee’s strong enough to stun an elephant. He’s got the calm, commanding demeanor of a man who knows exactly how to kill you with two fingers and a roll of duct tape.
“Who wants extra credit?” he says, voice flat, hands braced on the edge of his desk.
Every head snaps up. Silence stretches long and taut. Extra credit is a myth in his class—he’s said so a dozen times. Now? Every single greenie is looking around like someone just announced a bomb threat.
Slowly, cautiously, hands start to rise. First one. Then another. Until the entire room is a forest of stiff arms and suspicious eyes.
Bradley nods once. “Good,” he says. “Who here knows how to make a TikTok?”
Two-thirds of the hands stay up.
Bradley scans the room, eyes sweeping over faces like he’s calling in a target strike. He’s not looking for loud. Not looking for cocky. He needs quiet. Competent. Discreet.
His gaze lands on Spider.
Ltjd. Ryan “Spider” Kovács. WSO. Solid track record. Quiet as a shadow unless you catch him talking to Cactus, his equally introverted other half. Bradley tilts his head.
“Spider,” he says. “Stay back after class.”
There’s a collective groan from the room, a ripple of mutters and sympathetic winces. Spider blinks like someone just handed him a death sentence, but nods anyway. “Yes, sir.”
Class moves on—thrust-to-weight ratios, energy management, defensive break turns. Bradley teaches like normal. Nobody suspects a thing.
When the last slide clicks off and the greenies scatter for the flight line, Spider lingers by the front row, hands shoved in his pockets, expression wary. Bradley finishes packing his notes, then looks up.
“Relax,” he says, tone easy. “You’re not in trouble.”
Spider exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders—but only a little. “Okay…”
Bradley leans forward on the desk, lowering his voice like this is a covert op. “I need you to teach me how to use TikTok.”
Spider blinks. His mouth opens. Closes. “Sir?”
“I need,” Bradley says slowly, “a crash course. Posting, tagging, all of it. And then—” He pauses, jaw tightening. “Help me find some kind of… relationship prank.”
Spider stares at him like Bradley just asked him to hack NORAD. “Prank… on Lieutenant Commander Seresin.”
Bradley doesn’t confirm, doesn’t deny—just gives him a look that could peel paint off steel. Spider swallows hard, then nods once.
“Yes, sir,” he says faintly. “I… can do that.”
Bradley straightens, claps him on the shoulder. “Good man.”
As Spider fumbles for his phone, muttering something about trending audio and “safe for work filters,” Bradley sits back in his chair, a slow, grim smile tugging at his mouth.
Jake wants to play games? Fine.
Two can play.
Spider teaches Bradley how to use TikTok the way you’d teach a grandparent how to send an email. Slow. Careful. With the kind of soft, deliberate tone reserved for explaining basic technology to someone who looks like they could kill you with their bare hands but doesn’t understand what a “For You Page” is. Bradley endures a crash course in trending sounds, hashtags, filters, and—apparently—why lighting matters more than dignity. Bradley has a fleeting, horrifying thought: Is this how Uncle Slider felt when I explained to him that Wi-Fi doesn’t magically follow him home from his office?
In the end, they settle on something simple: the “You’re too clingy” prank. According to Spider, it’s “trending like crazy” and “guaranteed to get views.” Bradley doesn’t care about views—he cares about payback. The rules are easy: start filming while Jake’s wrapped around him like an octopus, say the words that will absolutely shatter his soul— “Babe, you’re being kinda clingy” —and capture the reaction. Clean. Efficient. Maximum impact. And with only four days left before detachment, Bradley doesn’t have time to overthink it. It has to happen tonight.
Bradley decides to start strong. Ice’s lasagna—the recipe he hasn’t touched since last Thanksgiving—feels like the perfect opening move. Layers of pasta, ricotta, meat, and that ridiculous amount of garlic Ice swore by. If Jake has a weakness, it’s carbs and nostalgia, and by the time they sit down to eat, Bradley knows he’s nailed it. Jake practically moans through the first bite, murmuring something about marrying him all over again, and Bradley files that away under mission accomplished.
They clean up together—well, Bradley cleans up while Jake leans against the counter, wrist in its black splint, sipping the last of his beer and talking his way through tomorrow’s plans for “maximum laziness.” Bradley humors him, smiling like his brain isn’t busy running a different kind of op.
By the time the dishes are in the sink and Jake’s moving toward the living room, Bradley’s brain is in full mission mode.
He sneaks in first, phone in hand, heart pounding like he’s about to brief a classified op. The couch is perfect: big corner section, soft throw blanket draped over one arm. He tucks his phone against a stack of books on the console table, angling it just right so the couch fills the frame. Perfect. He hits the camera app, sets it rolling, and steps back like nothing happened.
The trick is to act casual. Natural. Like this isn’t the dumbest covert op he’s ever run.
He grabs the remote, saunters to the sectional, and drops into the corner seat with his legs stretched wide. It’s a calculated move, and he smirks to himself because he knows his husband—knows Jake is going to see that space and think mine. Bradley lounges like a man who isn’t plotting petty revenge, thumb flicking through streaming options, waiting for the inevitable.
It doesn’t take long.
Sure enough, Jake wanders in a few minutes later, two fresh beers dangling by their necks in his good hand. He sets them down on coasters, glances at Bradley like he knows something, then slides right into the open space like a heat-seeking missile. His back presses to Bradley’s chest, warm and solid, his hips fitting between Bradley’s legs like they were made for it.
Jake reaches for the remote without asking, plucks it right from Bradley’s hand with that smug little flick of his wrist. Bradley just chuckles low in his throat and doesn’t fight it. Instead, he snakes his arm around Jake’s waist—careful of the splint on his left wrist—and tugs him closer until there’s no space left between them. Jake makes a pleased little noise at the back of his throat, soft and smug, like a cat curling up in the sun. His head tips back just enough to brush Bradley’s jaw, and Bradley feels something twist tight in his chest.
It’s perfect. It’s sweet. It’s the calm before the storm.
Bradley kisses the crown of Jake’s head, lips brushing golden hair, and breathes out slow like he isn’t about to commit a crime against his marriage for the sake of a TikTok prank.
Jake picks John Wick . Gunfire and neon light spill across the room as Bradley sinks deeper into the cushions, heart pounding like he’s about to pull nine Gs instead of prank his husband. The phone’s tucked away and recording. The couch is warm, Jake’s weight solid against him, and it almost feels wrong to ruin this. Almost.
Bradley breathes slow, steady, pulling Jake a little closer like it’s any other night. Keanu Reeves is tearing through half of New York on-screen, and Jake’s relaxed—completely at ease, all heat and softness pressed into Bradley like gravity itself. It should feel easy. It always does.
A few minutes in, Bradley loosens his hold. Slowly. Carefully. Until his arm slips away entirely and the only thing keeping them connected is Jake—Jake’s back pressed to his chest, Jake’s hand resting over Bradley’s thigh like he’s afraid to let go.
Bradley clears his throat. Quiet. Casual.
“Babe,” he says, soft enough to make Jake tilt his head slightly, eyes still on the screen.
“You’re being kinda clingy right now.”
It hits like a missile.
Jake freezes. Completely still. His shoulders lock, and for a second Bradley swears he hears the blood rush in his own ears. Slowly—like it costs him everything—Jake turns his head. His eyes are wide, shining in the flicker of gunfire. Confusion. Hurt. Something raw threading through blue like a crack in glass.
“What?” Jake asks, voice small. Like he didn’t hear right. Like maybe Bradley didn’t mean it.
Bradley should stop. Right there. Laugh it off. Say it’s a joke. But his own nerves make him double down, and he repeats it—light, teasing, like the TikTok voiceovers Spider showed him.
“You’re just… really clingy tonight.”
He expects a laugh. A shove. Maybe a dramatic gasp and some sass about how Bradley should be grateful.
What he gets is Jake pulling away.
Slow at first, then all at once—Jake pushes up from the couch, movements jerky, breaking every point of contact like it burns. Bradley’s arm drops uselessly against the cushions as Jake crosses to the far end of the sectional and folds himself small, knees tucked to his chest, arms wrapped tight like he’s trying to hold himself together.
“Jake—” Bradley starts, stomach dropping like a freefall.
Jake doesn’t look at him. His chin rests on his knees, eyes fixed on the coffee table, and his voice comes out hoarse, broken at the edges.
“I didn’t…” He swallows hard. “I didn’t realize I was being too much.”
Bradley’s chest seizes.
“Baby, no—”
“I just—” Jake’s breath stutters, and then, to Bradley’s horror, his eyes shine wet. He swipes at them fast, like he doesn’t want Bradley to see, but the tears keep coming anyway. “You’re leaving in four days, Brad. Four. And then it’s weeks of me sitting here wondering if you’re okay, if you’re coming home in one piece—” His voice cracks like glass under weight. “I just wanted to be close to you before you go. I thought you’d… want that too.”
Bradley feels sick. Actually sick, like he’s been punched straight through the sternum. The prank—the stupid, petty revenge plan—evaporates in smoke and shame.
“Oh, sweetheart.” His voice is rough, scraped raw. He moves fast, sliding across the couch, heart hammering as he reaches for Jake—but Jake flinches like he’s bracing for another emotional hit. That kills him. Bradley cups his face anyway, gentle but firm, tipping Jake’s chin until those wet blue eyes finally meet his. “Look at me. You’re not too much. Not ever. You hear me?”
Jake blinks, lashes clumped with tears. “But you said—”
“I was an idiot,” Bradley cuts in, voice low, fierce with self-loathing. “A total idiot. I didn’t mean it. Not for a second. I love that you want to be close. Hell, I need it, Jake.” His thumb swipes under Jake’s eye, catching a tear that breaks him in half. “I need you. Always.”
Jake exhales, shaky, like he’s trying to believe it but can’t quite. Bradley presses on, every word pulled from the pit of his chest.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, forehead dropping to Jake’s. “I was trying to be funny. I thought—God, I thought I was being cute. But it was stupid. So fucking stupid. You are never clingy to me. Never too much. You’re perfect, and I’m the asshole who doesn’t deserve you.”
Jake’s breath hitches. His arms loosen, just a little, enough for Bradley to wrap him up and drag him back where he belongs—into his chest, against his heartbeat, where Jake melts with a soft, broken sound that makes Bradley’s eyes burn.
He kisses Jake’s temple, then his hair, then every inch of him he can reach without letting go. His voice is a rasp against Jake’s skin.
“I’ve got you. And when I’m gone, I’m still yours, you hear me? Every second. Always.”
Jake nods against his neck, clutching fistfuls of Bradley’s shirt like he’s anchoring himself in a storm. And Bradley just holds him tighter, heart aching with the weight of how badly he screwed this up—and how much he’s going to make it up to him tonight.
Because if Jake thought for even a second that Bradley didn’t want him close? That ends now.
Jake’s breathing still trembles against Bradley’s chest, fist curled tight in his shirt like he’s bracing against a storm that already passed. Bradley strokes his back, words spilling soft and desperate into his hair.
“You’re not too much,” he murmurs again. “Not ever. I need you close. Always.”
There’s a long silence—just the sound of Jake’s shaky breaths evening out, the faint gunfire of John Wick still going in the background. Bradley’s just starting to think maybe, maybe , he’s patched the hole he blew in his own marriage when Jake tilts his head back.
Those wet blue eyes lock on him. No more tears. Just… something sharp flickering in the depths. Dangerous. Bradley feels it like turbulence in his gut.
“Bradley,” Jake says slowly, voice all soft honey with a blade under it. “Why,” he pauses, letting the word hang like a loaded gun, “did you think saying that would be funny?”
Bradley freezes. Abort mission. Abort.
“I—” He swallows hard. “Okay, so… funny story.”
Jake just stares.
Bradley clears his throat. “You know how you… have a TikTok account?”
Jake blinks once. Slowly. “Bradley. What. Did. You. Do.”
Bradley rushes in before he loses his nerve. “I might have downloaded it. Just to… see what you’ve been posting.”
Jake’s eyes narrow, and Bradley swears he can hear the theme music from Jaws start playing somewhere in the distance.
“My greenies kept on making weird faces! I finally got it out of Cactus, who admitted they’ve all seen your videos and were giving me shit for it!” Bradley admits.
“And?” Jake says, voice razor-sweet.
“And then I, uh…” Bradley shifts, rubbing the back of his neck because God help him, he’s sweating like a boot in SERE training. “I might’ve… asked Spider how to, you know. Make a video. For revenge.”
There’s a beat of silence where Jake just stares at him like he’s a museum exhibit titled Poor Life Choices in Motion.
“For revenge,” Jake repeats slowly. “On me. ”
Bradley offers a weak shrug. “I thought it’d be funny?”
Jake blinks. Once. Twice. And then he laughs—a sharp, incredulous sound that makes Bradley want to pray. “You—” Jake breaks off, laughing harder now, actually wiping his eyes. “Oh, my God. You tried to prank me for TikTok? You? The man who still calls Instagram ‘the gram’ like it’s 2014?”
Bradley scowls, heat crawling up his neck. “It’s not that funny.”
“It’s hilarious, ” Jake fires back, grin spreading slow and wicked as a sunrise over hell. “What was this? Some kind of clingy challenge? Oh, no, don’t tell me—you went for the old ‘you’re too much’ bit.”
Bradley groans. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” Jake corrects, leaning back just enough to smirk at him like a cat who’s cornered a very large, very dumb dog. “And you’re terrible at this. Look at you—you feel so guilty you look like you ran over Fleetwood with the Bronco.”
Bradley drags a hand over his face. “I do feel guilty, Jake! You cried!”
Jake’s grin softens, just a little. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s on you for forgetting I have abandonment issues and a hot husband who’s about to leave me for six weeks to go flirt with death.”
Bradley groans again, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling because honestly? He deserves this. All of it.
Jake pats his chest, smug as hell. “Tell you what, Bradshaw. You can make it up to me.”
Bradley eyes him warily. “How?”
Jake’s smile goes slow, sweet, and dangerous. “First, you delete that footage.”
“Done.”
“Second…” Jake hooks two fingers in Bradley’s shirt, tugging him close until their noses almost brush. “You admit on camera that your little prank backfired because you’re hopelessly in love with me and can’t stand when I’m not touching you.”
Bradley groans so loud Jake laughs again, bright and victorious. “You’re the worst,” Bradley mutters, even as he kisses him because God help him, he can’t not.
“And you’re making me famous, baby,” Jake says against his mouth, grinning like the devil in jammies.
An hour later, Jake’s sprawled across Bradley’s chest like a satisfied cat, phone in hand, cackling at the comments on the “confession video” he made Bradley film. Something about “my husband tried to prank me and ended up exposing himself” scrolling across the screen while Jake kisses his jaw between laughs.
Bradley just groans into the couch cushion, one arm thrown over his eyes. He’s never touching TikTok again. Ever. Not if it means briefing greenies on rolling scissors is easier than keeping up with his own husband on that godforsaken app.
“Cheer up, Bradshaw,” Jake drawls, smug and golden. “You’re officially trending.”
“Great,” Bradley mutters, voice muffled. “Add that to the list of things I didn’t need before deployment.”
Jake kisses the corner of his mouth, grin softening just enough for Bradley to catch it. “Fine,” Jake says. “New rule. No videos of you without permission. And nothing that gets you roasted at work.”
Bradley exhales like he’s just signed a peace treaty. “Thank God.”
Jake smirks, nipping at his jaw. “Doesn’t mean I’m done with TikTok, though.”
Bradley groans again—louder this time—but tightens his arms around Jake anyway. He figures he can survive TikTok, so long as Jake’s the one breaking the internet.
Some battles you don’t win. Some, you just surrender—and hope your husband goes easy on you.
Notes:
There are actually still two scenes/pranks that were scrapped/extra so if anyone wants those, I might consider uploading them for shits and gigs.
Did I spend way too much time coming up with backstories for the two greenies mentioned's callsigns and then not even include them? Yes, yes I did.
As always, If you like this verse and wanna see more, please leave a kudos and comment, I promise I'll see it, and I love reading everything you all write!
Thanks for reading! 💕
PS: I would like to acknowledge that these TikTok trends are all more or less from 2025, and this fic takes place in 2021. I am aware of this and to this I say, If the Top Gun cannon universe can't keep their timelines straight, neither shall I. All jokes aside, I have spent literal hours trying to make sense of a proper timeline for this 'verse, and I'm okay with it being a lil out of balance for the sake of cuteness here.
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