Top Gun Imagines

Saviors In White [Maverick X Reader]

* This story originated from my 30 days of one-shots book!

Prompt: Pinned Down

Title: Saviors In White

Fandom: Top Gun (1986)

Warnings: Physical intimidation, unwanted physical touch, unwanted verbal interaction.

Word Count: 2,088

Author's Note: This story is inspired by my Top Gun ambience you can have a listen to, below! Enjoy!

Synopsis: When a Navy Journalist by the name of Y/N finds herself at the local bar to try and defeat a seemingly undefeatable bought of writer's block, she quickly discovers that try as she might, her work will have to be put on pause... no thanks to some drunkard that decides to confront her, the situation quickly escalating at his unwanted interaction. Though, a certain pilot has his eye on her, and he, along with his fellow comrades, decide to step in.

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Saviors In White

You haven't had a case of writer's block this bad in... forever.

Sighing heavily, you set the pen that had been in your grasp, aside, taking a sip of your ice water.

You'd made it clear to the bartender that you're staying away from alcohol tonight - the last thing you need is that messing with your already clouded, frazzled headspace.

This particular bar is one you frequent often, being a journalist for the Navy has that addition to it.

Though on this particular rainy evening, you'd figured leaving behind your quarters on Base would help to clear your head from the haze of whatever you're experiencing.

As experienced as you are, no matter how many of these articles you've written throughout your career, this one just seems to not want to come to you.

The words escape you every time you put the pen to your paper, your notebook well worn in, some of the pages even torn and yellowed - a testament to the many different aspects of your job and the locations you often find yourself in.

Such as this one, sitting alone on a bar stool, hunched over your workspace, the buzz of people, the clinking of glasses and rather loud music all keeping you company.

But yet, even in the crowded, noisy room, you feel alone, your mind falling prey to the same slump it's been in all week - from the minute you'd gotten this assignment.

Grumbling to yourself, you pick up the pen, tapping it absentmindedly against the paper, eyes wandering the sea of people, dots of familiar white uniforms setting you at ease slightly.

You're not the only one here on active duty.

There's a group of four men chatting down the bar aways, their expressions clearly teasing and defensive, no likely exchanging friendly competitive banter.

Another group of folks sit in a booth behind you, enthusiastically exchanging words you can't make out over the hubbub, the one woman practically hanging off of the one man's arm, her gaze not leaving him as he speaks.

And then... there's one man sitting two stools away from you, the other one on your right side vacant.

This man had already been here when you'd first walked in, hours ago, merely nodding a hello as you'd sat down and gotten to work.