#Preflight Check

[nocternalrandomness]

Pre-flight Exterior Inspection Walk Around

[michaelgabrill]

Preflight Checks for Astronaut Loral OHara

Expedition 70 NASA astronaut Loral O’Hara has her Russian Sokol Suit pressure checked ahead of launching to the International Space Station on Sept. 15, 2023. O’Hara, currently on the station, is scheduled to spend six months there. She and her fellow Expedition 70 crew members are studying an array of microgravity phenomena to benefit humans […] from NASA https://ift.tt/pIHUgWv

[callmebyyourcallsign]

Touch and Go

Pairing: Lt. Robert “Bob” Floyd x Pilot!Reader

Tags: Slow burn, mutual pining, emotional repression, soft yearning

Setting: Post–Top Gun: Maverick, new elite flight program

Summary: You're a rising star pilot hand-picked for an advanced tactical training assignment. Bob Floyd, calm, brilliant, and frustratingly unreadable, is your WSO. You trust him in the air more than anyone. On the ground, though, your hands brush a little too often. Your silences last a little too long. And Bob? He's already gone, in the quiet, devastating way he always does. Love is mutual, but unspoken. After all, you’re both professionals… right?

Word Count: 4,983

Bob Floyd has always been good at silence.

Not the awkward kind, he hates that, actually, but the kind that sits warm in your chest, wraps around your ribs like a seatbelt. The kind that lives in cockpits and libraries and back porches after midnight. The kind that feels like knowing.

That’s the kind you bring with you.

You talk a lot less than people expect from a pilot with your record. But when you do, it’s always something that sticks. A sharp little joke. A perfectly timed one-liner. Sometimes, if he's lucky, one of those honey-dripping nicknames you toss at him when the others aren't around. Flyboy, mostly. Soft and smug, like you know exactly what it does to him.

Bob pretends he doesn’t.

He's good at that too.

The first time you flew together, you turned around in your seat, grinned through your visor, and said,

“Don’t let me crash and die, Floyd.”
He’d blinked, heart skipping a full beat.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Now it’s been months.

You know the rhythms of each other’s breath in-flight. You finish his checklists before he finishes speaking. You know when he tenses by the way his boot shifts under the floor panel, and he knows when you're fighting Gs by the subtle dip in your voice, still strong, still cocky, but just soft enough to make his heart ache.

And still. Neither of you has said it.

Neither of you has said anything.

This morning, on the tarmac, the sky’s the color of the Pacific, soft gray-blue, streaked with sunlight, like someone dragged their fingers through it. You walk toward the jet with your helmet under your arm and a lazy kind of swagger that drives him insane.

Bob is already waiting, running preflight. He hears your steps before he sees you.

“Morning, Flyboy.”

He turns, and God help him, you’re smiling. Not a big one, not like the ones you throw Rooster when you’re teasing, or the bright ones Phoenix gets when she’s kicking Hangman’s ass in a sim. No, this one’s just for him. Subtle. Real.

His hands pause on the panel.

“You’re late.”

You raise a brow. “You’re early.”

He shrugs, looks back down at the jet like it matters. “Wanted to make sure everything was perfect.”

Your voice dips, warm like whiskey. “You calling me high-maintenance, Floyd?”

He flushes. Stutters. “No—no, I—”

You laugh, soft and surprised, like you didn’t expect to get that out of him so easily. “Relax. I like it when you're nervous.”

He says nothing.

What could he say?

I think about you every night before I sleep? I replay every flight, every brush of your hand, like it’s scripture? I’ve been in love with you since day three?

So instead, he climbs into the jet and double-checks your oxygen levels.

In the air, you’re like poetry.

You take corners like you’re dancing. Pull into dives with the kind of grace he’s only ever seen in nature, like birds or storms or the ocean at dawn. Bob watches you from behind, one gloved hand hovering by the throttle, the other pressing the radio.

“Looking good, Spook,” he murmurs.

You smile without turning. “Aww, Flyboy. That almost sounded like flirting.”

He swears he hears Hangman laugh over the channel.

Bob clears his throat and looks back at his screen. His heart is loud in his helmet.

After landing, when the others are walking ahead to the locker rooms, you fall into step beside him.

It’s quiet again. But that kind of quiet Bob loves.

“You did good today,” you say after a minute.

“You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.”
You bump your shoulder lightly into his. His stomach flips. He wonders if you can feel the way he leans into it just a little too long.
“You still nervous around me, Floyd?”

His voice is soft. “Always.”

You don’t respond, but your hand swings close to his, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t pull away.

Neither do you.

That night, Bob sits in his bunk with a journal he never shows anyone.

He writes down flight stats. Maneuvers. Fuel data. And then, in smaller handwriting, like he’s afraid the ink will betray him

She looked back at me before takeoff.
I think she always does.
I wish she’d stay.

Across the base, you lie still in the dark, listening to the faint hum of the A/C and the buzz of the vending machine down the hall.

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight.

Not with the shape of his voice still tucked behind your ear, and the way he always leaves a little extra space on the ladder, like he’s waiting for you to catch up.

You close your eyes and see his hands. Careful, steady. Always holding something invisible.

You wonder what it would feel like if it were you.

-

The storm rolls in out of nowhere.

That coastal kind of wild, thick sky, wind like a punch, lightning cracking in silhouette. Half the squadron’s grounded before they even make it off the tarmac. And your jet’s tucked away in the hangar, warm and dry, but completely useless.

Bob pulls his helmet off with both hands, curls of damp blond hair sticking to his forehead.

“We’re not getting out of here for a while.”

You sigh, pulling off your gloves with your teeth. “Damn. And I was looking forward to fighting for my life at 30,000 feet.”

There’s a beat. Rain slams into the hangar roof like it’s got something to prove.

Outside, someone’s truck backfires. Probably Rooster’s. Hangman’s already making jokes. Phoenix is haggling over vending machine snacks.

You sit on a crate, tugging your flight suit down to your waist, tank top sticking to your skin.

Bob looks like he’s trying very hard not to look at you.

“You cold?” you ask, half-sincere, half-testing.

He shakes his head. “No. I’m good.”

You smile, barely. "You always say that."

There’s only one truck back to base tonight. Everyone else finds a ride, Hangman with Coyote, Phoenix and Rooster squished into Payback’s ridiculous little Subaru.

You and Bob?

You get stuck behind.

It’s quiet now.

Stormy dusk bleeding into navy blue, rain still hammering the roof in a steady rhythm. Bob’s sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, flipping through the manual like he doesn’t have it memorized. You’re pacing. Slowly. Like something inside you’s moving too fast.

“You hungry?” he asks, not looking up.

You pause. “Not really.”

“Me neither.”
He hesitates. “But I brought one of those granola bars you like.”

You blink. “The cherry almond kind?”

He nods without meeting your eyes. Holds it out like an offering.

You take it.

You sit beside him, knees not quite touching.

Twenty minutes pass like a sigh.

Bob reads. You pick at the wrapper. He clears his throat.

“You ever think about what it’d be like... to not do this?”

You glance over. “Fly?”

“Yeah. The Navy. The pressure. All of it.”

You tilt your head back against the crate behind you. “Sometimes. Usually when we’re pulling 7 Gs and I think I’m gonna puke.”

He huffs a laugh. “Same.”
Then, quieter: “But then I think about days like today.”

You turn to look at him. “Rainy and grounded?”

“No.”
He finally meets your eyes. “Flying with you.”

Your chest goes still. Like the storm stopped inside you, just for a second.

You want to say something, anything, but the words get caught somewhere in your throat.

So you offer the granola bar back to him instead.

He breaks off a piece. Your fingers brush. He flinches, like the contact startled him.

You pretend you didn’t notice. Even though it’s all you can notice.

Later, the lights flicker.

You both look up.

“Power must’ve gone out,” you say, unnecessarily.

Bob nods. “Shouldn’t be long.”

You shift closer to him instinctively. Just a little. Just enough to count.

It’s quiet. Not tense, just full.

Full of things you haven’t said. Of all the times his hand hovered near your back when you climbed the ladder. All the glances across the ready room. All the almosts.

He speaks first.

“You ever think maybe—”
He cuts off. “Never mind.”

You nudge him with your knee. “Maybe what?”

Bob shakes his head. “It’s dumb.”

“Bob.”

He closes the manual. Sets it aside like it’s too heavy now.

“Maybe it’s not just flying I don’t want to lose.”

You look at him.

Really look.

The hangar light flickers again. Thunder cracks like a warning.

You say, so quietly it barely counts:

“Me too.”

And that’s it. No kiss. No confession. Just two people sitting on a hangar floor, sharing a granola bar, rain tapping the roof like Morse code.

But it feels like something.

It feels like a shift.

A holding pattern, sure, but maybe next time, you’ll land.

-

You wake up stiff, aching, and warm.

Bob’s jacket is around your shoulders, too big, sleeves bunched up to your wrists, the collar soft with wear. It smells like jet fuel and cedar soap and the weird, sweet nothingness that is him.

At some point last night, you must’ve drifted off on the hangar floor. He did too, slouched against the wall, one leg stretched long, the other bent, chin tucked to his chest.

The storm is gone.

The world is pale and quiet in the way it only gets just before sunrise. The kind of light that makes everything look like it’s waiting for something.

You don’t move.

You just sit there, wrapped in Bob’s hoodie, listening to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the distant squawk of gulls outside.

Eventually, Bob stirs. His eyes blink open, slow and owlish. He stretches, winces, notices you watching him.

“Morning,” he says, voice low and gravel-soft.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

He looks down at the jacket around your shoulders, then back up, slightly pink.

“Sorry. You were shivering.”

You shake your head. “No, it’s… Thanks.”

There’s a pause.

And then you say, gently:

“You always take care of me.”

Bob’s mouth opens like he’s going to deflect, say something dumb or self-deprecating, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods.

“You take care of me too.”

It’s quiet after that.

The kind of quiet that says everything’s shifted, but no one wants to startle it.

The truck finally arrives mid-morning. Phoenix hops out of the passenger seat and gives you a look like you good? You give her a look like later. Bob loads the gear like it’s muscle memory, avoiding your gaze but staying close.

When he helps you into the truck bed, his hand lingers at your back.

You think about that all the way back to base.

You don’t see him the rest of the day.

You both get assigned separate pre-flights, different trainers. You wonder if he’s avoiding you or just busy. You wonder why that stings.

Later, you find his jacket still folded on your bunk. He must’ve dropped it off during your briefing.

On top of it, a granola bar. Cherry almond.

Folded underneath, a note. Scrawled in Bob’s neat, awkward handwriting.

Thought you might be cold again.

I’ll be in the sim room tonight. Just in case.

You read it three times.

You don’t go.

Not because you don’t want to.

But because your heart is thudding too loud in your chest and you’re afraid if you see him, really see him, you’ll say something stupid.

Like don’t leave again.
Like stay the night.
Like I think I want you to kiss me.

Instead, you write back.

See you tomorrow.
Save me a seat.

You leave it tucked inside the pocket of his flight suit.

Bob finds it the next morning, just before warm-up.

He reads it, folds it up, presses it into the inside cover of his journal.

Then he smiles, just a little. Just enough to count.

-

The sim room smells like coffee and jet oil and a hint of someone’s off-brand cologne. You’re early. So is Bob.

He’s standing at the control panel, fiddling with his headset, glasses pushed up into his curls. The simulator’s screens are still dark. Outside, the sky’s starting to smudge purple.

“Hey,” he says when he hears you.

“Hey,” you say, voice lighter than you feel.

You take the copilot’s seat beside him. Close, like always. Closer, maybe.

Bob’s legs are longer than yours. One of them brushes yours under the desk. Neither of you moves.

The sim loads.

You start the mission. Standard approach, familiar territory. You and Bob in sync, calling coordinates, updating status, ticking boxes. It’s smooth. Too smooth.

And then, turbulence.

Not real, but simulated. Unexpected.

Your console flickers. You lurch slightly forward.

“Whoa—”

His hand flies out and catches you.

Fingers splay over your ribcage.

Just for a second.

Just long enough.

You freeze.

Bob does too.

His hand stays there, warm through your flight suit, palm over your side like a tether. You turn your head. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, breath caught.

“Sorry,” he says, barely a whisper.

You shake your head, equally quiet. “It’s okay.”

But he doesn’t let go. Not yet.

There’s something unsaid sitting heavy in the space between your mouths. Not even a breath away.

And then.

“Pilot One, altitude dropping—”

The console voice crackles, breaking the spell.

Bob pulls back like he’s been burned. His hand drops to his lap. He stares forward, ears red, jaw clenched.

“You good?” you ask, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Fine,” he mutters.

But he’s not. You can see it. Feel it.

Neither are you.

You finish the sim. Land the jet clean. Call the end of the exercise with the same forced calm you use when your hands won’t stop shaking.

He logs the results. You shut down the system. Neither of you speak.

You walk out together, side by side, the hallway lit with that same bluish hum. When you reach the locker room doors, you hesitate.

“Bob,” you say.

He stops.

Turns.

Eyes soft. Scared. Hopeful. Tired.

You don’t say what you want to.

You don’t say you can touch me again.
You don’t say I wanted you to keep holding on.
You don’t say I think about you all the time.

You just say

“Thanks. For catching me.”

He nods, slow.

“Anytime.”

You part ways. Locker rooms. Showers. Briefings. Dinner.

But when you’re lying in your bunk later that night, wrapped up in the same silence you’ve carried all day, you touch your side where he held you.

Like maybe the shape of his hand is still there.

Like maybe it always has been.

-

It’s weird, not flying with Bob.

Not wrong, exactly. You’re a professional. He’s still on base, still training, still just a few hangars away. But it feels like the air shifts without him in the backseat, like the jet flies fine but not quite right. Like muscle memory tripping over a heartbeat.

The switch wasn’t personal. Scheduling conflict, maybe. A re-routed assignment. You didn’t ask. He didn’t explain. All you know is when you checked the flight log that morning, someone else’s name was listed as your WSO.

And his name was missing.

Your new WSO is capable. Sharp. Quick on comms. He does everything right.

But he doesn’t know how you like your patterns called out. Doesn’t echo your thoughts mid-maneuver like Bob does. Doesn’t glance up at you through the canopy after a perfect landing like he’s proud of you in secret.

You miss that.

You miss him.

Bob’s been quieter, too. Around the locker room. The mess. Even in briefings. He’s not avoiding you, exactly, but he’s not seeking you out either. The silence between you has stretched, uncertain and loaded. Like you’re both waiting for the other to say something first.

And neither of you does.

You catch a glimpse of him two days later on the tarmac, post-run. He’s halfway through a bottle of water, sleeves rolled up, curls damp with sweat. There’s a red mark on his jaw, helmet, maybe, and his eyes are on the horizon like he’s somewhere else entirely.

You open your mouth.

You almost call out.

But then your new WSO claps you on the back, says something loud and dumb, and Bob flinches like the sound hit a bruise. He walks away before you can stop him.

That night, you find yourself in the hangar.

It’s mostly empty, just a few shadows and the hum of after-hours maintenance. One of the jets, the one you flew today, is parked under a dim light.

You rest your hand on its nose cone and stare at the stars through the open bay.

“Miss me already?” a voice says behind you.

Your heart lurches.

You turn.

Bob’s standing there, hands in his jacket pockets, expression unreadable.

You try to joke. “You wish.”

He half-smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “I do.”

That quiet hits you hard.

You swallow. “Why’d they pull you from the rotation?”

He shrugs. “Said they needed me to run backup sims. Training the newer guys.”

You nod. “Makes sense.”

Neither of you says what you’re thinking.

Makes sense. But it sucked.
Makes sense. But I wanted to look over my shoulder and see you.
Makes sense. But nothing else felt right.

You sit on the edge of the wing. He stands next to you.

The hangar is all hush and echoes.

Then he says it, softly

“I don’t like not flying with you.”

It’s not dramatic. Not even particularly romantic. But it hits you harder than anything has in days.

You nod, slowly.

“Me neither.”

There’s a long pause. Then

“I’m sorry,” Bob says.

You look up. “For what?”

“For leaving you in the air without me.”

Something cracks open in your chest.

“I don’t feel steady without you,” you whisper.

His breath catches.

Then, gently, he leans his arm against yours. Barely a touch. But it’s enough.

“I’ll be back in your backseat soon,” he says, voice low and certain.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

You close your eyes.

And for the first time in days, you feel your heart start to level out again.

-

The base wakes before dawn, but you’re already tangled in thought, and maybe a little frustration.

Bob didn’t show up to breakfast.

No text, no word. Just silence that hums louder than the engines on the flight line.

You sip cold coffee, eyes on the muted chatter of the mess hall, but all you can hear is the thrum of your own heartbeat, tight, impatient, restless.

He’s been distant since the hangar night, like there’s a wall he’s building brick by brick, and every time you try to reach him, the mortar’s fresh and unyielding.

Later, you’re suiting up for another sim run. Your new WSO is ready, calm, competent , but he isn’t Bob.

You glance over at the empty seat beside you, where the cockpit light never flickers without him.

You fight down the ache curling in your chest, because this mission is important. Because professionalism means showing up even when your heart is jamming on stall warning.

You taxi down the runway, engines roaring to life, but it’s the silence in your headset that’s deafening.

Mid-flight, something goes wrong in the sim, a sudden mechanical failure on the enemy’s side. Your fingers tighten on the stick, muscles tense, and instinct takes over.

“Bandit at your six!” you bark into the comm.

“Copy that,” comes a voice you don’t recognize. It lacks the familiar edge you crave.

You’re scrambling, trying to shake the imaginary tail, but inside you’re scrambling for Bob, his voice, his steady calm, his fierce presence.

A bead of sweat runs down your temple. You miss him.

Hours later, back on the ground, you find him in the briefing room, eyes dark and jaw tight.

He’s barely spoken all day, swallowed behind a mask of professionalism.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly. “We need to talk.”

He looks up, startled, like you broke some unspoken truce.

“What about?”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “This… us. The distance. The silence.”

Bob’s gaze flickers, like a storm barely contained.

“It’s not that simple,” he mutters.

You cross the room and stand in front of him, heart on your sleeve, voice shaking but determined.

“It is that simple. We don’t have to pretend it’s not.”

He looks at you, eyes searching, and for the first time in days, you see the truth shining beneath the surface:

He wants this too. But fear is tying his hands.

The air between you thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.

You reach out, brushing your fingers against his.

He doesn’t pull away.

Instead, he sighs, low and rough.

“Why is it so damn hard?” he asks, voice barely a whisper.

You smile, bittersweet.

“Because it’s worth it.”

And just like that, the dogfight shifts from the skies to your hearts, a battle for courage, for honesty, for the quiet, messy beauty of letting someone in.

-

The squadron’s quiet buzz hums through the ready room, but all you feel is the weight of the moment pressing against your ribs.

Bob sits beside you, closer than before, but the space between you still tastes like a question unanswered.

You both know that whatever was there last night, no, whatever’s been there for months is waiting to be named. Waiting to take shape beyond stolen glances and tentative touches.

You glance at him. His jaw clenched, eyes locked on the briefing screen, but you see it, the hesitation. The part of him that’s still afraid to cross the line.

You clear your throat.

“Hey,” you say softly, voice barely above the hum of the room.

He turns, eyes meeting yours, surprised but steady.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you say. “The almost, the maybe, the silence.”

Bob exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath for too long.

“I know,” he admits. “But it’s not easy.”

You nod, heart pounding.

“Nothing worth it ever is.”

The briefing ends, and you walk side by side to the hangar, the sun filtering through the windows casting long shadows that seem to reach for you both.

Your fingers brush, light, accidental, but this time neither pulls away.

“Why did you stop coming around?” you ask quietly.

Bob’s eyes flicker, vulnerability softening his usual edge.

“I was scared,” he confesses. “Scared of what this could mean. Scared of what I might lose.”

You stop walking, turning to face him fully.

“You won’t lose me.”

His gaze drops to your hands entwined, then back to your face.

“I don’t want to mess this up,” he says. “Not with you.”

You smile, something gentle and fierce blooming in your chest.

“Then let’s stop pretending. Let’s take the risk.”

That night, the base hums a quieter tune.

You find yourselves on the roof, under a sky strewn with stars, vast and endless, like the possibility before you.

Bob reaches for your hand, fingers trembling slightly, and you squeeze back, steady and sure.

You don’t need words.

The silence between you says everything

This is the beginning.

You lean in slowly, breath mingling, hearts racing, and for the first time, the line you’ve both been afraid to cross becomes the bridge you’re ready to walk.

-

The morning light seeps softly through the blinds, painting the room in muted gold. You wake before Bob, your fingers still laced with his, the warmth lingering like a secret promise.

His breathing is slow, steady, a rhythm that somehow feels like home.

You watch his face, the way his brow smooths, how his lashes flutter, delicate and vulnerable. It’s a side of him few get to see, and it makes your heart swell with something deeper than you expected.

When Bob stirs, his eyes open to meet yours, wide and raw and honest.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice husky with sleep and something more.

“Morning,” you reply, voice barely a whisper, afraid to shatter the fragile bubble you both inhabit.

There’s a long pause, the kind of silence that isn’t empty but full of everything you don’t say yet.

Bob’s hand tightens around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles like a question.

“I’m not good at this,” he admits, eyes searching yours for forgiveness or understanding.

“You don’t have to be,” you say. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

He smiles then, slow and shy, like he’s afraid to believe it’s real. And maybe it isn’t perfect, maybe it’s messy and uncertain, but it’s yours.

Later, the base feels different.

Every glance between you carries a new weight, every touch lingers longer.

You walk down the hallways with a secret shared just between the two of you, like you’re part of something no one else understands.

During briefings, you catch Bob’s eye and see the spark that’s always been there, only now, it’s not just longing; it’s something steadier, more fierce.

After drills, when the adrenaline fades and the world quiets, you find your way to each other again.

One afternoon, you’re sitting on the wing of the jet, the sky a brilliant blue canvas.

Bob sits beside you, helmet set aside, his gaze fixed on the horizon.

“Ever wonder what it’d be like,” he says softly, “if we didn’t have to keep it all so guarded?”

You turn to him, heart quickening.

“I do,” you confess. “More than anything.”

He laughs quietly, a sound full of warmth and relief.

“Me too.”

For a moment, the world shrinks down to just the two of you, breath mingling, laughter light and free.

And then, almost without thinking, Bob’s hand finds yours again, fingers weaving together like they belong.

That night, in the quiet dark of the bunk, you lie awake, the afterglow of the day wrapping around you.

It’s not fireworks or grand declarations, just a steady, simmering warmth, the kind that roots deep and promises more.

You don’t need to say the words aloud.

You already know.

-

The day starts normal, but the air feels heavier, thick with the kind of silence that’s waiting to snap.

You and Bob are prepping for a joint training mission, the kind that demands every ounce of trust and synchronicity you’ve been building. But underneath the routine checklists and briefings, something feels off.

Maybe it’s the way Bob’s eyes flicker away when you glance at him. Or how his jaw tightens just a little too much when the instructor calls out formations.

You want to reach for him, steady him like he’s steadying you. But there’s that wall again, the one you thought you’d chipped away with every quiet moment.

The mission begins with familiar drills, engines roaring to life, the world narrowing to speed and precision.

You’re locked in your cockpit, the steady hum of the jet syncing with the pounding in your chest.

Bob’s voice comes through the comms, clear, but clipped.

“Ready when you are.”

You respond, heart thudding.

The sky blurs around you, adrenaline sharp and bright. You move together, two halves of the same pulse, perfect in motion.

But when you land, the air is still thick with unspoken words.

Later, in the dim glow of the briefing room, you catch Bob alone, staring at a map like it holds the answers.

“I messed up,” he says without looking up.

You step closer. “What happened?”

He swallows, voice tight. “I lost focus during the run. Missed a call. Could’ve put us both at risk.”

You shake your head. “We all mess up.”

“But this—this felt different,” he admits. “Like I’m carrying more than just the mission.”

Your heart clenches. “Bob…”

He finally looks at you, eyes raw and vulnerable. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of losing you. Of not being enough. Of what this means—us.”

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek.

“You’re enough,” you whisper. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

He closes his eyes, leaning into your touch like it’s a lifeline.

That night, the tension hasn’t lifted, but something’s shifted.

You find yourselves sitting side by side, neither speaking, just sharing space.

Bob’s hand finds yours again, tentative but desperate.

And in that quiet grasp, all the fear and hope and longing swirl together.

It’s messy.

It’s real.

It’s yours.

-

The base is quiet in the early hours, a fragile calm that feels almost sacred.

You’re leaning against your jet, the dawn light soft against the glass. Bob slides in beside you, the world outside still waking, but beside him, time slows.

His eyes catch yours, no words needed. The space between you is charged, filled with every unsaid confession and yearning.

“Talk to me,” you finally whisper, voice trembling just a little.

Bob’s gaze drops, then lifts again, steady, sure.

“I’ve been scared,” he admits. “Scared of losing control. Scared of what this means. But mostly... scared of losing you.”

Your heart twists, but you reach for him, fingers threading through his.

“You’re not losing me,” you say softly. “We’re in this together.”

He smiles, small, genuine, and it breaks through every wall he’s built.

The jet rocks gently as he moves closer, breath mingling with yours.

“I want you,” he breathes, voice low and raw. “Not just when the world falls apart, but when it’s quiet. When it’s real.”

You lean in, the distance dissolving, lips brushing in a hesitant, trembling kiss that blooms into something fierce and tender.

In that kiss is everything, the fear, the hope, the long nights and silent battles.

When you finally pull apart, the world feels different.

Brighter.

Clearer.

You rest your forehead against his, breath mingling, heart pounding the same rhythm.

“We don’t have to have it all figured out,” you say.

Bob nods. “No. Just... this.”

Outside, the sky is vast and endless, a promise of more flights, more moments, more love.

And inside this small cockpit, you both know you’ve finally found your safe place.

Ao3

[30somethingautisticteacher]

"How'd it go, baby?" Tommy asked as Buck walked in the door, despite already knowing by the defeated look on Buck's face.

"Failed it. Again," Buck said with a quiver in his voice.

"Oh sweetheart," Tommy said, scooping his husband up into a hug.

"Three times, Tommy. I've failed the Captain's exam three times," Buck choked out, his eyes welling with tears. "I ace the interview portion and the simulations, but I just freeze with the written exam. As soon as they tell me that I have 150 minutes to complete the exam, my whole body locks up. I know this stuff, Tommy. I know it by heart. Why can't I do it?" Buck said, his voice breaking on the last words.

Buck snuggled deeper into Tommy's shoulder. "It's always been like this too. I knew the material in school but I would end up with Cs in my classes because I would bomb the tests. My parents would get so frustrated. Everyone thought I was dumb."

"Evan, you are not dumb. You are so incredibly smart," Tommy said firmly, running a hand through Buck's hair.

"I don't think I'm dumb, but I just feel like a failure," Buck said, his voice muffled against Tommy's shirt. "Even when I got my certification for being a firefighter, I broke records on the physical stuff but barely squeaked by on the written exam. I was so relieved that I didn't have to take the written portion for recertification after my leg."

"How would you feel about requesting accommodations?" Tommy asked, his voice gentle.

"Accommodations for what?" Buck asked.

"For the test," Tommy replied simply.

"How would I even go about that?" Buck asked, lifting his head slightly.

"Well, the first thing we'd have to do is get you diagnosed with ADHD," Tommy said.

Buck groaned and buried his face back into Tommy's shoulder.

"I know, Ev, but it doesn't change anything. If anything, it opens up doors. I love your bouncy, sparkly brain. But tests like this aren't designed for it, and you deserve to be captain, baby," Tommy said, pressing a kiss to Buck's temple.

"Can I think about it?" Buck asked, his voice uncertain.

"Of course. Do your research. See what accommodations are available and if they might help you, and then we go from there," Tommy said, his eyes warm with understanding.

The next few months were a blur of appointments, assessments, and preparing to take an accommodated exam. When the day of his fourth attempt came, he was nervous but ready in a way he hadn't been before.

Tommy looked up from where he was doing some preflight checks on his helicopter to see his husband walking into the station. The bounce in Buck's step told him everything he needed to know.

"You passed?" Tommy asked, beaming.

"I passed!" Buck exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement. "Having that extended time and someone reading the questions to me was a game changer. Thank you so much, Tommy."

"For what?" Tommy said with a confused look on his face.

"For helping me help myself," Buck said, squeezing Tommy's hand.

"Anytime, Captain Kinard," Tommy said with pride in his voice.

"Oh, I like the sound of that," Buck said,

pupils darkening.

"Down boy. I still have 4 hours left on

this shift, but we'll celebrate at home," Tommy said with a wink.

"I'm counting on it," Buck said, kissing his husband and turning to leave, still basking in the glow of his accomplishment.

[mlqueen89]

Glossary of Terms linked to (i love you) it's ruining my life - jake "hangman" seresin x f!oc

Ace (Flying Ace or Fighter Ace) = Military aviator credited with shooting down five or more enemy aircraft during aerial combat.

Avionics = Advanced processors and networking systems to fiber optics and conformal wideband antennas, etc.

Bandit = an aircraft identified and verified as enemy.

Bogey = radar or visual contact whose identity is unknown and not yet verified as an enemy. Bogey can also be a friendly once identified.

Break (right/left) = when an aircraft is instructed to sharply turn left/right, essentially "breaking" away from its current flight path to the left/right side

HUD = "Head-Up Display," for fighter pilots is a transparent screen in the cockpit that projects critical flight information directly into the pilot's line of sight, allowing them to view essential data like airspeed, altitude, heading, and weapon targeting details without needing to look away from the outside environment, maintaining situational awareness during flight operations. 

Lt. = Lieutenant (rank)

Lt. Cmdr = Lieutenant Commander (rank)

LTJG = Lieutenant Junior Grade (rank)

Preflight checks = a thorough inspection that pilots perform on an aircraft before each flight, meticulously examining its exterior, systems, controls, and documentation to ensure it is in a safe condition to fly, identifying any potential issues that could compromise flight safety by checking for damage, fluid levels, proper functionality of components, and reviewing necessary paperwork.

Qual(ification) hop = refers to a flight performed by a pilot to demonstrate proficiency in a specific skill or maneuver required for certification or qualification. In the military aviation world, pilots must complete these hops to be officially qualified to perform certain missions, fly specific aircraft, or execute advanced tactics.

RADM = Rear Admiral (rank)

RIO = Radar Intercept Officer (now known as WSO)

SAM(s) = Surface to Air Missile(s)

Splash = typically refers to the moment of impact when a bomb or missile hits its target, essentially signifying the detonation or "splash" of the explosive upon contact.

Tally = communication used to tell a controller they are about to engage enemy aircraft. Also used to announce to the squadron leader (or other person of command in the flight) the spotting of an enemy aircraft.

Telemetry = the collection of data from a remote and usually fast-moving device for measurement purposes. It is used in aircraft/missile testing to track moving objects in action or collect data provided by instruments and sensors on the test object.

Tone = fighter pilot speak for a missile or weapons lock. When a pilot is tracking a target the computer will beeping as it acquires a lock-on, which changes to a continuous tone when lock is established.

VFA = Strike Fighter Squadron

Weapons envelope = the area around the bandit where your missiles or gun can be effective.

WSO = Weapons System Operator (formerly known as RIO)

NATOPS F-18 Manual

Am I missing any? Send me an ask!

[dendrobium-writes]

Preflight Checks

>connection: ok >prc vitals: ok >prc nrvlink: ok >prc syslink: ok >ping: 5ms

“Looks green! Boot ‘er up!”

A blinding light briefly fills your field of view before fading to reveal your surroundings. It doesn’t take long for your mind to adjust to receiving input from ten eyes rather than the standard two. You’ve trained for this, after all. Years of conditioning and several surgeries make this almost second-nature to you.

“Alright, girlie.” The deck chief waves a hand in front of one of your eyes. “Preflight time. Just follow my instructions.”

Right. Preflight checks. Should be easy. “Go ahead and give me a right roll.” Right, okay. You flex your right wrist, putting it in a fully upward position. Your left moves down. “And swap?” You adjust in the opposite direction. You’d go into a left-spinning aileron roll if you were in the air. “Perfect. Airbreak now.” You clench your body, causing the airbreaks to extend. “Alright, great. That seems to be working.”

“Hit the parking break.” Done. as easy as tensing your calves. “Okay, throttle up, slowly.” You breathe in deeply, air entering your intakes. With each exhale, your thruster plume grows until it burns a bright blue. “And disengage.” With a final, deep exhale, your thrust plume dies.

“’Kay, that’s the essentials done. How’dya feel in there?”

You move your right hand to give a thumbs up. Your right aileron extends upward.

“Alrighty then. Let’s get you airborne.” The deck chief pats the nose of the aircraft.

Your nose begins to itch, and you let out an aggravated groan. “Ah, sorry.” The Deck chief doubles back, his pager beeping on his belt. “Force of habit.” He scratches at the nose of the craft, right where he pat it before.

That’s better.

[ladymunson]

Mile High 18+

Fic summary: You Spot the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen in the business class lounge at the airport and then he happens to be on the same flight as you. Things are about to get very interesting.

A/N: This is a short one shot Drabble, there will be no additional parts. No use of y/n. No minors, shoo!

Warnings: strangers to lovers, SMUT 18+, mutual public masturbation, public nudity, airplane bathroom, unprotected sex (wrap it up!) cream pie.

Word count: 1244

I do NOT give permission for my work to be copied, translated or posted to any other platform.

Support content creators by hitting that reblog tab.

You arrive at Boston Logan airport an hour earlier than you need to, and spend time in the lounge after checking in. It’s mid evening so they offer you a glass of wine, business class sure has its perks. You take a seat at the bar and sip on your wine as people come in and out of the lounge. While waiting for your flight to be called, something catches your eye. He enters the lounge and stops, standing over by the door, his expensive suit opening up as he stretches revealing his tight and broad shoulders. He’s fucking gorgeous! And possibly the sexiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on. His beard full and luscious, his eyes a sparkling blue matching his tie.

He looks around the lounge and stops when he sees you. The top button of your white blouse is open, he catches a glimpse of cleavage, his eyes widen as he continues staring at you.

Your black skirt was short enough to reveal your thighs and he looks at your legs, the black stilettos on your feet... Hunger in his eyes. You both eye fuck each other across the lounge, he keeps his distance and doesn’t approach, at which you quickly glance down at his left hand that is holding a briefcase. He’s not wearing a wedding ring.

The flight is called so you pick up your handbag and head towards the door, brushing past him. Making sure there was a little contact. You can feel the electricity as you touched, had he felt it too? Doesn't matter you think to yourself, because you won't see him again.

You board the plane, the flight attendant pointing you the the right direction. After settling in your seat, you feel someone was standing next to you, you think it might be the flight attendant. But it isn’t... It’s him.

He smiles at you, and you return his smile.

The flight attendants go through the preflight routine which you’ve seen many times before, so you concentrate on the book you’re reading.

As the plane takes off, the rumbling of the engines starts to turn me on. A dampness in you underwear causing you to shift. You haven’t realised, but you’ve been caressing your collarbone and the contours of your breasts (you do that sometimes when you’re thinking about sex). But he’s noticed and been staring at you.

He looks a little uncomfortable; you look around to see if you can figure out why.

Then you see it...

The hard on he had been trying to conceal with his copy of 'The Boston Herald’.

You look him in the eye, and smile. A boldness building within you, so you kick off your shoes and rearrange yourself into a more comfortable position with your legs crossed. So, he can see your black lacy French panties. You pull the gusset of them side to side gently, enjoying the friction against your pussy.

His hand disappears underneath the paper and you hear the sound of a zipper.

He was stroking himself under there, and you couldn't see.

You pull your panties to one side...

For a few seconds you just let him look at your Pussy, wet and pulsing, aching for his touch but having to make do with your own.

You begin to rub your clit, gently at first but soon that wasn't enough. You raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

He lifts up the paper to show you his cock, it’s large and thick and looks like it could give you immense pleasure. His hand works up and down on his shaft, as you work mine on your Pussy. Doing this in such a public setting is so naughty but so exciting, it’s heightening the pleasure you’re feeling.

You’re seconds away from coming; he must've sensed it cos he snatches you hand away and transfers it to his cock...

When your fingers close around his warm skin, you hear him moan.

Then he throws your hand away, zips himself up, and moves out of the chair.

Why?

Disappointment must've shown on your face because he winks and nods towards the lavatory door.

You can’t follow straight away; you don’t even bother to put your shoes on when you get out of your seat and walk down the gangway towards the lavatory.

You knock lightly on the door, the door folds to one side and a strong arm pulls you in...

He’s got his pants down round his ankles, his beautiful dick standing to attention before you.

He pulls you close and kisses you, urgent and probing around in your mouth.

He sits down on the lavatory seat and pulls you towards him; he rolls your panties over your hips, and you step out of them.

You part your legs so they are either side of his lap and lift your skirt so he can see how wet you are....

You lower yourself down onto his cock, letting the head rest against your dripping cunt for a moment. You had meant to hover, teasing him but you can’t. You desperately need him inside you.

You lower yourself down, letting his cock prise open your wetness and penetrate you. Filling you up, giving you what you need.

You lift yourself and begin to pound your Pussy onto his cock, hard and fast.

He bites your hard swollen nipples through your blouse, which sends thrills through you...

One hand on the mirror steadying yourself as you bounce up and down on his cock. Your other hand on his shoulder.

You kiss again. His hands on your hips, guiding you up and down, beads of sweat rolling down your forehead.

He starts rubbing your clit making you moan, you started squeezing your cunt around his cock, making him groan as he starts to shake...

You can feel your orgasm getting closer and closer, and from the look on his face he isn’t far off either.

"The plane will begin its descent in ten minutes, please return to your seats" came over the tannoy. It was now or never, you grind your pussy down hard onto him, his pubic hair tickling your clit and triggering your orgasm..

You come hard; the contractions of your cunt sets off his climax. You come together, his cock filling your pussy with hot white cum. He lets out a long moan, your head buried in his shoulder, muffling your screams of pleasure.

You take a moment to catch your breath before you stand up and he helps clean you up and rearrange your skirt down, gives you a quick kiss and shoves you out of the bathroom into the corridor.

Walking in a straight line after such an intense orgasm is a challenge but you manage to get back to your seat. By the time you check your make-up and straightened your blouse he was back in the seat next to you.

When you disembark the plane, he walks straight past you and gets into a car that’s waiting for him.

'There he goes' you think 'The best fuck of my life.'

You smooth your skirt down and stop, feeling something, so you reach into the pocket of your skirt and pull out a business card, Andrew Barber; Assistant District Attorney. His cell phone number is written on the back, along with the hotel he was staying at and room number.

'I know what I'm doing tonight' you think to yourself smiling.

THE END

Tags: @cevansbaby-dove @patzammit

[usafphantom2]

I can remember like it was yesterday the first time I climbed on top of a Tomcat to preflight my first flight in the jet (VF-124, Miramar, 1990). I had just passed my final FAM (familiarization) simulator where the instructor is another pilot who signs off on me being able to fly the jet and THEN has to put his money where his mouth is and ride in the back seat. Bear in mind there was never a "T" (trainer) model of the Tomcat. Two seats, one stick, so the GIB (Guy in Back) has no way to control the airplane.

Some instructors were VERY reluctant to do these "trunk rides", one guy to the point that during your final check simulator he'd give you an unrecoverable emergency on takeoff (split flap one way, stuck spoilers on the other side) and you'd simulated "augur in " just past the runway, he'd give you a "pink sheet" (a downing flight/bad grades). Naturally, I got that guy.

So "Jethro" did the above to me and I was pretty upset since my performance had been really good up until that point. And this was a big deal; two "pinks" and you were gone. So I go back to the squadron to tell the Ops O ("Flex") to give him my pink sheet, ready to get savaged. I walk into Ops and get his attention, handing him the pink sheet (it was the pink page of a carbon copy stack, so actually pink). He looks at it, sees it's signed by "Jethro", crumples it up and throws it in the shit can saying ("Ffffff.........Jethro."). I was rescheduled for the next day with "Stainless", passed the check simulator and was on the schedule the next day for my first flight.

Nervous as hell but ready, the big idea for this flight is to man the jet up, get it started, get through all the post start checks (a legendarily daunting task....takes an hour your first time), get the beast airborne, do some maneuvers, come back for some touch and goes, and in general just don't fuck it up. Good plan.

So Stainless and I climb on top of the jet (for my first time) and says "This is why it's called the flying tennis court." The view was spectacular! This thing was HUGE compared to my last jet (T-A4J Skyhawk; length 40 feet, wingspan 27 feet and a wing area of 260 square feet). The Tomcat is 62 feet long, a max spread wingspan of 64 feet, and a wing area of 565 feet (in addition to the massive fuselage). A veritable MONSTER in comparison.

We'd learn a little later in the RAG how formidable that little A-4 could be in the hands of those (f**king) bogey drivers! And little did I know at the time, but I'd eventually be a RAG instructor myself, doing the very same "trunk rides". They were actually kind of fun, really. You got a chance to play with all that RIO shit, and the young pilots generally knew what they were doing by that point. And anyway, if it all went to shit I could always pull the "give-it-back-to-the-taxpayer handle".

I really valued my opportunity to show a young pilot his

or her first view of "the flying tennis court."

@rse_vb via X

#TomcatTuesday

[roosteraloha]

infirmarian

jake seresin x reader

wc - approx 7.2k

warnings - angst, general discussion of sickness, description of vomit/throwing up, brief description of panic attacks.

disclaimer - ANY BLANK/AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!! I also DO NOT give permission for any of my works to be copied, shared, compiled, translated or posted onto other sites!!

a/n - this is wrote itself. being chronically in pain sucks, sorry it took so long to get out, been the longest flare up of my life :(

reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated!!

A few days had passed since Jake had received any communication from you, you’d have your schedule rammed full of new work projects and meetings, not leaving much time for a social life, at least the kind that you longed for. This wasn’t something uncommon, Jake himself had a hectic day to day schedule, and the addition of your new work responsibilities was something that neither of you had enough to fully consider the amount of time that you’d have left to share with each other.

Fresh off an eight week deployment, Jake was eager to spend time with you however he could, swallowing down the bitter taste of disappointment that he came home to you being far busier than you’d let on in your limited communication. With only a few weeks left before you’d get back to your usual schedule, you had gotten to the point of longing for Jake’s company too. Eight weeks having been too long to not be able to hug him and snuggle up to him after another draining and exhausting day.

Jake had been home for close to two weeks when he started to see signs that you weren’t doing too well. You were overworking yourself again, and there were tell-tale signs that you were about to get sick. Something that you would never admit, choosing to deny the facts, even when you’re exhausted and tucked in bed with a fever.

Slipping his key into the lock, Jake frowns. The door is already unlocked. This normally wouldn’t be a cause for concern, but today, Jake hadn’t expected you to be home already. You were meant to be at work, at least that was what you had told him in between many incessant kisses this morning as Jake got himself ready. So he could have got confused, too distracted by the beauty he had in his bed, not that he would ever complain about your company.

Tossing his keys onto the hall table, Jake calls out to you. He has a small smile flickering on his lips, Jake could get used to this. It felt nice to have someone to come home too, it felt right. Wandering down the hall, Jake peers into the living room, face lighting up when he sees you curled up on the couch, typing away on your laptop.

Coming up behind you, he places a soft kiss on the top of your head. You had a rule about Jake coming home after flying, he would reek of jet fuel, and while that had slowly become a comforting part of your life, mainly because it reminded you of him, it was a smell that permeated fabrics. There was one incident with a throw blanket, luckily one you didn’t like, Jake had used it one day after a particularly tough day in training, only for you to pick up the next day and the smell was so strong, it may as well have been a rag for him to use on preflight checks. Weeks had passed and no matter how many times you washed it, the smell remained. Now, it was that Jake would shower before leaving base and then change as soon as he got home.

Quickly changing into some sweatpants, Jake joins on the couch, legs outstretched onto the sectional, an arm loosely thrown around your shoulders to pull you into him. Jake eyebrows furrow when he makes contact with your skin. You normally ran cold, hence the otherwise insane amount of blankets and oversized hoodies that you owned, but your skin was burning under Jake’s touch.

He shifts to get a better look at you, your cheeks are flushed, a light sheen on your forehead, your hair is knotty. All signs that something isn’t right. Jake quickly mentally ran through any important dates in your relationship, then running through any mentions of tensions or meetings at work when he failed to recall missing anything. Pressing his palm to your forehead, Jake’s concern grows, you’re overheated, not quite a fever, probably just dehydrated, which was especially likely considering the fact that you probably hadn’t moved around much since you got up and settled on the couch to work.

You still hadn’t actually looked over at Jake since he got home, too invested in furiously typing away, filling in countless mindless admin forms that your coworkers were too lazy to do. The only acknowledgment that you had given to Jake, was a distracted hum when he asked about your day. To be perfectly honest, you were in a work focused daze. These forms needed to be done by the fast approaching deadline, and not a single one of your coworkers had bothered to even try to follow the new formatting, leaving you to pick up the slack. Not like you already had your plate full with the rest of your role.

Jake leans against the kitchen counter thoughtfully, observing you work in your stressed state. It was obvious that you were overworking yourself, more than usual, and quite frankly, more than your coworkers and managers would acknowledge.

After mentally processing through the potential options to help you, Jake settled on what he is hoping will work. If not, he’d have to pull out more drastic measures, which he’d strongly prefer not to have to do. You’d hate him for it, and honestly, he’s hate himself for letting you get so bad in the first place.

Pushing himself off the counter, Jake approaches you, albeit a bit cautiously, he wasn’t entirely sure how you’d react. You almost seem paler than before, and you’re sniffling intermittently, eyes bloodshot and dry from staring at your computer screen for way too long.

"Sweetheart, please stop. You've done enough work, you need to rest." Jake’s low and quiet tone cuts through your daze, your eyes flickering over to him for the first time since he got home. Sighing in relief, Jake smiles softly at you, which falters when he realises that you’re not exactly looking at him, as much as looking in his direction. But that alone was progress and Jake could work with that.

Gently reaching out, Jake pulls your laptop away from your lap, saving your work quickly, then turning it off and placing it closed on the wooden coffee table. This grabs your attention, eyes darting straight to meet Jake’s concerned gaze. You open your mouth to protest but his stern look has any complaints dying on your tongue. Blinking up at him, it takes you a few moments to realise that Jake had taken your work away, the panic and stress soon taking over your features.

You scramble helplessly towards your laptop, Jake’s grip around your waist pinning you to his side. A frustrated cry rips from your throat, clawing at Jake’s arm, begging him to let you go. “No! No, no, no, no. JAKE NO! I need to finish my work!” Your voice comes out weak and wracked with emotion, mainly frustration and hurt that Jake wasn’t letting you finish what you’d started.

Jake’s response is to curl his arm tighter around you, his other hand coming up to caress the side of your face soothingly. He mummers quietly in your ear, hoping to help calm you down before you got yourself into a worse state, “Darlin’. Darlin’, look at me. You need to rest, trust me.”

There’s a moment where all you can hear is the breathing of you both, processing Jake’s gentle coos. A soft whine escapes your lips, “But…”

Jake’s grip loosens a fraction as he shifts to get a proper look at your face, fixing you with a firm stare, “Stop complaining, sweetheart.”

Huffing, you instantly relax in his hold, snuggling back into his chest, burying your head in the crook of his neck when he pulls you close. Finally having gotten through to you, all the tension leaves Jake’s body. While he still had a long way to go with you, to try and get you to understand it was okay to take breaks, that working yourself until you burn out is no way to go through life.

The sheer exhaustion of the stress you’d been under the past few weeks was definitely catching up to you. Jake kept a soothing touch on the back of your head, holding you close to his chest, a quick look down at you told him you needed this rest more than he initially realised. You could barely keep your eyes open for more than a few seconds at a time, yawning softly at regular intervals, snuggling closer to him every time.

Feeling content with you settled so comfortably on his chest, Jake exhaled deeply, leaning his head back against the sofa. Closing his eyes, Jake’s breath evens out, yes he had a long way to go to get you to rest properly, but this with you looking so peaceful laying on him, well, Jake could get used to this.

Dinner was takeout, Jake being too tired himself to cook and secretly didn’t want to disturb your sleep while he attempted an old Seresin family recipe. Settling on your favourite, Jake only moved to wake you after the food arrived and he’d dished out the portions.

You were still asleep when Jake came back, still curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket, wearing an old sweatshirt of his. A small smile flickered across his lips, as Jake’s heart swooned at seeing you so peaceful and wearing his clothes, something you’d initially been too insecure to try.

His smile was short lived, you’d barely roused from your slumber while Jake was busy in the kitchen, or while he was doing odd jobs around the house while waiting for the food to be delivered. There were more and more red flags to Jake that there was something more serious going on with you, than simply being overworked.

A small frown of concern lingered on his face when you barely responded when he shook you gently to try and get you to eat something. Then, when you eventually woke fully, you declined the food, pushing the dishes away, choosing to move away from him, curling the opposite direction instead.

Jake, drawing this up to your over-exhaustion for now, just took your plate away, carefully portioning the food into some tupperware, hopeful that you’d be hungry later. Turning back to the couch, he frowns again, you still remained curled tightly away from him.

Displeased and slightly frustrated with your decision, Jake returns to your side, shaking you awake, despite your groans in protest. When you finally open your eyes, the harsh glare you send his way has Jake internally wincing. He hated to see you like this, but deep down he knew this was the only way to get through to you.

“Darlin’…”

He trails off, unsure of what else to say to you. His brows pull in together, forming a deeper frown. You weren’t okay, he just needed you to admit it. Glancing down at your clenched hands above the blanket, he takes note of the slight tremble of your hands, eyes darting up to your face, searching your eyes for any answers.

There’s a glistening to your eyes that wasn’t there before when you finally make eye contact with Jake. You felt the panic building, like an icy hand gripping your chest tightly. Your mind running a million miles a second, unable to pinpoint a single cohesive thought. Tears streaming down your face, gasping to catch your breath. Reaching out a shaky hand, you try and catch Jake’s wrist, desperate for any direct contact with him, seeking his comfort any way you could.

Jake is immediately by your side, pulling you close to his side, “It’s okay sweetheart. You’re okay darlin’.” Your teary eyes focus on his worry stricken face, Jake was blindsided but your sudden emotional reaction, he knew something was wrong, you’d been withdrawn, but he hadn’t expected you to be so quick to break down the minute he pressed you for answers. “Darlin’. What’s going on?”

You shrug, looking away from him, not really knowing why you feel the way you do. Jake sighs heavily, sometimes he knows you better than you knew yourself, “It's okay, you don’t have to tell me now. Just breathe, nice and slowly, okay?” You hum softly, nodding gently against his chest, “I promise you, you don’t have to hide this stuff from me. I’m always gonna be here for you darlin’.”

Smiling softly down at you, Jake presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer to his side, “Not that I don’t love being used as your personal heated pillow darlin’, but I think we’d both be far more comfortable in bed.” You giggle softly, but agree, Jake was a comfortable pillow of lean muscle, but your bed was so soft and comfortable, and with Jake there to hold you close, you couldn’t think of anything better.

“You’re adorable when you’re so sleepy darlin’.” Jake croons softly, brushing loose strands of your hair back behind your ear tenderly. You shrug playfully, with mock offence at his words, “It’s not my fault that you’re so comfortable to lay on Jake!”

Jake tries and fails to keep a straight face, soon joining you in soft laughter, shaking his head at your antics. He much preferred you to be this happier version of yourself than the one that had a panic attack on the sofa after a stressful work week.

You whine wearily when Jake leads you towards the adjoining bathroom rather than getting straight into bed, which you’d much prefer. The sheer exhaustion from the past few weeks had finally caught up to you, you couldn’t help but yawn as Jake lifted you to sit up on the counter, your usual place when you’d get ready together, whether the pair of you were getting ready for the day, or just going to bed.

You huff heavily, annoyed that Jake seems to be taking his sweet time getting around to whatever he was doing, moving to the edge of the counter, ready to just jump down and head to bed yourself. “We’re almost done, love. Just stay a little bit longer.” Jake’s soothing tone, paired with the calming circles he was gently rubbing on your knee, has you shuffling back on the counter, resting your head back tiredly against the cold mirror.

You must’ve started to doze off, as the next thing you know, Jake is stirring you gently, a soft squeeze on your shoulder, and a gentle touch on your cheek. You groan, eyes flickering shut again quickly at the harsh light in the bathroom. “Can we go to bed now?” Your soft whines have Jake chuckling as he moves to pick you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest, smiling contently to himself when you bury your face in his neck, hiding from the bright lights.

“You’re so cute when you’re so tired.” Jake teases as he places you gently onto the bed, wrapping the blanket and sheets around you, before climbing in next to you and doing the same. He hums thoughtfully as he feels you snuggle closely up to his side, tangling your ice cold feet with his own. You prop your chin up on his shoulder, watching your boyfriend who was deep in thought.

“Jake…” Your voice is a quiet whisper, not wanting to startle him from his thoughts, knowing how he could react when startled by others in the past. You only continue when he hums softly in acknowledgement, looking down at you, a soft smile appearing on his face when he takes in your concerned expression. Jake didn’t need you to continue, he could read you like a book on most occasions, especially when you were this sleepy and worn out.

He shakes his head calmly, pressing a loving kiss to your forehead when your concerned frown doesn’t fade. “I promise you that I’m okay darlin’. I’d tell you if I wasn’t, you know I would.” Pursing your lips, you study his face carefully, for any signs that he wasn’t being one hundred percent honest with you about this. Finding no obvious signs of dishonesty, you nod once, kissing his cheek softly and nestling your head back on his chest, inhaling his comforting scent deeply, sighing softly with content.

You feel Jake take a few deep breaths, then tighten his arm around your body, holding you securely against his own. It was something he’d started doing very early on in your relationship, and something the both of you had grown to love and crave whenever you cuddled together. The intimacy of being so close to each other was something you hadn’t known you’d love so much, but having Jake so close to you, him holding you close, well that something you would never tire of. And for Jake, he would forever be grateful to be able to go to sleep holding the love of his life, and her still be there in the same position, tucked comfortably into his side, the next morning. No matter how much the pair of you moved around in the night, he still got to wake with you by his side, and now, Jake couldn’t see himself spending his life any differently.

Waking up the next day, your throat is scratchy, eyes burning and bloodshot. Groaning, you snooze your blaring alarm, sending a quick text of ‘Hey Jake, I’m not feeling too great, can we push date night?’, to your boyfriend. While technically you lived together, Jake would often spend evenings at his best friend Javy’s house, it was closer to base and helped him to unwind from a stressful workday with someone who understood the ins and outs of the job. You didn’t take any offence to this, as Jake had been expecting you too, it was a way for Jake to unwind, and honestly, it was probably why your relationship was so healthy. Jake got the time to process his feelings, to then be able to get home to you and express them in a healthy manner. You would always support Jake’s out of work time with his squadron, it was almost like a second family, something you all desperately needed after the uranium mission.

It wasn’t uncommon to go to bed alone, especially if Jake had been having a stressful run at work, only to wake with a strong arm wrapped carefully around you, holding you close to his chest, your head resting on him like a pillow. You admired the relationship that Jake and Javy shared, the pair had been through a lot in such a short time, and where most people would have drifted apart, it only solidified their need for each other, feeling and acting more and more like brothers with each day they spent together. But it was when Jake came home to you acting off, that his worries couldn’t be soothed by his wingman. You were everything that Jake had ever dreamed of, and more if he was being honest, and when you acted not like yourself, it set alarm bells ringing for Jake. He had just found you, and in no world was he ready to lose you, especially not so soon.

Jake had been preoccupied all day, you had been withdrawn all evening, and slept through your first alarm, the one you routinely set so you could kiss Jake goodbye. It was something that Jake had grown to love, a simple addition to his morning routine, something he looked forward to each time he awoke to his alarm, getting to kiss you before he left always put him in a better mood, something that his fellow squad members had noticed, and perhaps teased him for.

Javy was the one who approached Jake about his sullen mood, there had been plenty of opportunities for Jake to tease and antagonise the others, yet the absence of Jake’s cocky tone over the radio was concerning to all. Jake’s demeanour had been so off that you woke to a string of concerned texts from Javy, asking if you were okay, if Jake and his family were alright, and the last, rather frantic message demanding to know if you’d broken up with him. If you didn’t feel as bad as you did, you would be texting Javy back with just as much concern for your boyfriend.

You busied yourself with as much work as you could while at home, cleaning, laundry, mindless admin for your job. The occasional tickle of a cough in the back of your throat, an unnecessary reminder that you were unwell. All you’d wanted to do since Jake got back from his deployment was to spend as much quality time together as physically possible, and being sick wasn’t in your plan.

Truthfully thinking, it was probably a bug that Jake had brought back with him. Unfortunately for you, Jake had an absurdly strong immune system, he rarely was ill, often just carrying the bug home to you, which consequently caused you to be unwell. You had a decently strong immune system, but the intensity of your symptoms often left you bedridden with a fever for days.

Gently tucking a strand of loose hair from your messy sleep hair, Jake finally voices his concerns, “Don’t even think about going to work today.” It takes you a few long moments to process Jake’s words, to which you immediately start to protest, mumbling on and on about how you had to work, denying that you weren’t feeling your best.

Furrowing his brows, Jake is again growing more and more concerned about you. Deciding with a different tactic, Jake reaches out to slowly halt you buttoning up your work uniform, “Would you rather go to work, and suffer all day, because you obviously don’t feel well, or stay in bed and get cuddles and forehead kisses and watch movies with me?”

The halting of your weak movements and silence has Jake relaxing, he knew you well enough to know that you were giving in, thinking over the two scenarios. You never could get enough cuddles and kisses from Jake. Never.

Turning slowly towards him, you look sheepishly up at Jake, hands tugging at your uniform, a desperate attempt to get out of the restrictive and stiff material and back into Jake’s sweatshirt. A ghost of a smile flickered across his lips, on the rare occasion you did get sick, you were so needy, having to have Jake nearby at all times as a comforting presence.

Helping you out of your uniform, Jake carefully pulls his sweater back over your head, kissing the crown of your head lovingly. A soft whine slips through your lips, the sudden movements making your head spin, fingers digging into Jake’s arms, desperate for something to ground you.

“Get back in bed. Now. You don’t need to be up and about right now. You need to rest darlin’.” Too lightheaded to even attempt to argue, you allow Jake to gently manhandle you back into bed, tucking your comforter up to your shoulders, making sure your pillows were fluffed and positioned just right, as to prevent any cricks in your neck.

Huffing, as you shift around, trying to get comfortable with all your aches and pains, you try to fight against Jake’s fussing, but soon giving up, too exhausted from just trying to get ready for work. You blink tiredly up at him, eyes dry and bloodshot, “You don’t have to stay and do this Jake. I’ll be okay.” You sit up slightly, pushing yourself against the pillows, “Anyways, you have training. You shouldn’t be here because I’ll get you sick.”

Jake doesn’t dignify your complaining with a verbal response, raising one eyebrow at you, keeping his stare strong and bordering on the edge of harshness. A stare which soon had you shifting uncomfortably under his gaze, shuffling back down in the bed, giving him what you hoped was an equally annoyed stare, but the way Jake’s shoulders shook, told you that it didn’t appear as you’d hoped.

Pouting, crossing your arms across your chest, you huff up at Jake, frustration creeping in as the sickness starts to fully take its toll on you. He sighs heavily, moving closer to your side, to which you continually avoid his gaze, growing more and more frustrated with Jake’s fussing, no matter how much you’d secretly crave, but would never outright admit.

Jake was never one to give in, especially where you were concerned. To his advantage, the two of you act eerily similar when you weren’t feeling your best, a lot of stubbornness and pushing the other away. He switched tactics, continuing to put away all your work clothes and tidying the room up, all the while keeping a close eye on you in case things got worse.

You soon grew tired of Jake’s approach, frustrated that you knew why he was doing what he was, and hating how effectively it’s working. Whining softly, you reach out for him, to which Jake finishes putting away your clothes and slowly moves back to your side.

A wave of nausea overcomes you as you stir from a much needed nap. Screwing your eyes tightly, you pray that the unpleasant feeling will pass, breathing shakily.

Scrambling off the bed, your feet momentarily tangling in the sheets in your haste, you dart into the bathroom, holding your breath and locking the door behind you. There were just some things you’d rather not have the love of your life see. Being this violently unwell was one of them.

There had been countless times when you’d tended to Jake when he was in your position, but the way you’d grown up often meant you’d have to take care of yourself. Even with someone as selfless as Jake, you struggled with the actual complexities of opening up and letting someone take over that caretaker role, the one you’d spent years perfecting for yourself.

The burn in the back of your throat is actually welcomed, the promise of feeling even a little better after throwing up, lingering in the back of your mind. There’s a soft knock on the door, then, a more concerned rattle of the door handle when you fail to reply, too busy trying to catch your breath in between heaves.

Your hair is pulled gently back from your face and neck, soothing fingers rubbing soft circles across the base of your skull. Jake. He ties your hair loosely into a very messy bun, the one he’s seen you do effortlessly, yet his not quite measuring up to the elegant flair yours did. Not that it mattered to you. Jake’s insistence to be a constant presence by your side was all you could dream for.

A few weaker dry heaves later, Jake is leaning away, reaching up to the sink, dampening a soft face cloth and tenderly wiping your face, then turning to grab a clean towel, dabbing your face dry as gently as he could. Your shaking fingers cling feebly to the cold tiles, a desperate plea for the nausea to wane.

A soft whimper of his name had Jake shushing you gently, pressing gentle kisses to your forehead, “You’re going to feel so much better after this, the worst part is over darlin’.” Another soft whimpery sigh is his reply, too drained by this sickness to form any verbal response. The back of his hand on your clammy forehead told him your fever still wasn’t improving, despite your previous insistence that you were ‘fine’.

Sighing deeply, Jake braces himself, pulling himself to stand and bringing you up gently with him, letting you rest heavily against the counter, swaying slightly with each shuddering breath. His large palms cup your face, his worried green eyes searching yours for any sign that you could actually understand him.

“Darlin’…” He trails off as your eyes shift to meet his concerned gaze, “I know you’re gonna hate me for this, but I- We have to get that fever down. You need to shower.” An instant feeble protest from you comes in whines and shifting hesitantly away from him, a move which Jake preempts, catching your arm in gentle hold, just enough is this state to keep you in place. His soothing tone washes over you, eyes flickering closed and nodding cautiously at his next words, “I promise we will get you all cleaned up and feeling so much better when we’re done. I promise you darlin’.”

The spray of the shower is a shock to your clammy skin, much colder than you normally preferred, one that has you hugging yourself closely to Jake’s body, both for warmth and stability.

“I know you hate being sick, but you need to let me care for you. Let me take care of you, okay?”

Instead of the protests Jake is anticipating, he’s met with a weak nod, and your body going more lax under his touch, letting him manhandle you as he saw fit, something you usually fought against with every scrap of energy you could. Now even more concerned with your health, Jake moves you both fully under the water, allowing the spray to cascade down your back and freshen you up.

You blink heavily, in a daze, as Jake methodically dries your body, applies your body lotion, and towel dries your hair, before blow drying it enough for you to sleep comfortably with. Jake’s soft mummerings of soothing praises and reassurances never cease, not as he helps you get dressed, or as he cleans up the bathroom as you sit and watch him from the bathroom counter.

Reaching a hand out to him, Jake ceases his tidying, by your side in one stride, cupping your face gently, peppering kisses across your face. An act which always elicits a soft giggle from you, no matter how you feel. A soft smile on his lips mirrors your own, you struggle to let Jake in enough to let him help you fully, but this was a fight he’d won, one that you willingly let him help you with. That alone was a major step forward in your relationship together.

Guiding you back to bed, Jake is cautious with each movement, all too familiar with how a sudden movement could cause another flare up of nausea. A soft pout is on your lips as he settles next to you, a knowing, sympathetic smile on his.

“I feel so gross and disgusting. I could’ve handled that myself. You didn’t have to see me so disgusting.”

A soft shake of his head, and Jake is lowering his head to meet your gaze, gently guiding your face up to try and catch your eye line.

“Shush, you aren’t disgusting at all sweetheart, it’s only natural.” When you refuse to meet his gaze he continues, “And you’ve seen me in way worse states than that. From drinking too much with Coyote to nightmares after deployments, you’re always there for me.” You finally flick your eyes to his glistening green ones, “Let me take care of you darlin’.”

Swallowing thickly, blinking back stinging tears, you nod sharply, emotions bubbling up with his loving words. Jake wasn’t one to open up fully either, you guess that’s why you work so well together. A pair of people too accustomed to looking after themselves, to observing the most minor changes in their partner, to now allowing someone else to help them.

You shift closer to Jake, snuggling into his side, resting your head on his shoulder, “Thank you. I know I’m stubborn when I’m sick, but thank you for always being here to look after me.” A curt nod, and Jake is pulling you impossibly closer to his side.

“You’re welcome. You don’t have to thank me for looking after you. Ever. But you’re welcome darlin’.”

You drop the eye contact, shy, but nodding in understanding. This is how it’ll always be with the pair of you, you’ll always look after each other, no matter how much the other tries to fight the help. You’d always be there to support each other.

The pair of you stay like that for a while, in your feverish state, you’re unsure of how much time passes. All that matters is that Jake is by your side. Jake eventually pulls away from you slightly, shushing your complaints before you can even voice them.

“I’m just going to grab you something to eat. Just something plain. It’ll settle your stomach enough so you can get some medicine and hopefully some proper sleep.”

Scrunching your nose up in displeasure of this plan, you shake your head slowly, “No way am I even thinking about eating something right now Jake! My throat hurts so badly- And no to that disgusting medicine you’re gonna try to give me.”

A smirk twitches on Jake’s lips, you knew him too well, and vice versa. With a soft kiss to the crown of your head, Jake shifts away from you, tucking you back in bed properly. He pauses momentarily in the doorway, and looks back at you with a serious look on his face.

“If I see or hear you leave that bed, even once, I’m going to physically manhandle you back into it.”

Knowing full well that Jake is dead serious on his threat, you nod once and give him a mock salute, a small signal to him that you’re already beginning to feel more like yourself. He returns your salute with his own smirking, then he makes his way downstairs to grab you some saltine crackers and some water, along with a few medications to help you fight this illness.

The glare you send in Jake’s direction when he returns, does not have the desired effect. Instead of discouraging him to try and get you to cooperate with the food and medicines, all it does is make him chuckle as he resumes his position by your side, with a playful nudge.

“Jake…” You whined in protest when he offered you the open packet of crackers, a small detail not gone unnoticed by you, “I’m really not hungry right now. I just wanna sleep.”

Shrugging, Jake took a cracker for himself, crunching away at your side. You frown, those crackers were your crackers, and now your boyfriend, with a seemingly endless appetite, was tucking in to your snack. Huffing indignantly, you snatch the packet from his grasp, shifting to face away from him, slowly nibbling away at one.

Behind you, Jake has a content smile playing on his lips. His tactic of eating your food worked, again. He knew you’d know that’s what was happening, hence why you turned away from him. Jake was content enough to know that you were starting to feel better, it was often baby steps when you were this unwell. This was a big step in the right direction.

After nibbling your way through half the packet, you chance a glance over at Jake, who is carefully watching you and presses a kiss to your temple, “There you go darlin’. Do you think you could drink some water? It’ll make you feel a bit better.” Jake dips his head to catch your gaze, when you avoid eye contact, a move you pulled when you really didn’t want to do something he asked of you.

Focusing back on his hopeful gaze, you blink cautiously at him, unsure if your body could handle any more. While the strong wave of nausea had settled, it still lingered if you thought too hard about eating or drinking anything.

His gentle nudge drew you out of your overthinking, eyes flickering down to the glass in his outstretched hand. The familiar burning sensation of tears filling your eyes returns, which has Jake on high alert, immediately placing the glass down, out of your sight, concern and worry filling his own.

“Hey, hey, hey. It’s okay darlin’, what’s wrong?” His soothing tone is laced with poorly hidden panic at your emotional state. Jake hated to see you cry, especially when it was something out of his control that caused it, something he couldn’t fix. “Hey, look at me sweetheart. It’s okay, just please try and drink a little, for me?”

Wrapping your arms tightly around him, you cry softly into his chest, shaking your head gently. His hand carefully cradles the back of your head as he holds you tightly to him. Your voice is weak and cracks with emotion, “Jake… I really don’t think I can. It’s just-.” You cut yourself off and look up at him, resting your chin on his chest, “You always take such good care of me. No one has ever done that before.” Jake nods in understanding, he already knew that, it just adds to his confusion as to why you’re suddenly crying over him offering you a glass of water. “You made sure it was iced water, and you got me a straw because you know how much I don’t want to drink it. Jake, you’re so sweet and thoughtful, and I wish I wasn’t so sick because I just want to kiss you so badly.”

Jake nods once more, pulling you back close to his chest, finally understanding that he hadn’t done something wrong and crying just happened to be your go-to emotion when you didn’t feel well. He chuckles softly and presses multiple kisses to the top of your head, “No kisses until you’re better darlin’. You know the rules.” He’s sorely tempted to kiss away the pout that forms on your lips, he just knows that one sick person in the household was enough. It wouldn’t help either of you, if you had to call Javy to bring you food and medicine. Well, it'd be fun for you, Jake on the other hand would never hear the end of it from his squadron.

Offering you the glass again, Jake cradles the back of your neck as you take slow sips, not wanting you to choke or spill any. You don’t miss the way he shifts slightly to reach for the medicine bottle either. Narrowing your eyes at him, you pout, hoping that by some miracle he’ll give in, “I’m not having that stuff again Jake. It tastes gross. In no world does lemon taste like that.”

Jake chuckles softly, running a soothing hand back and forth over your back, fingers occasionally lightly scratching your scalp. “You’ve gotta try some of this, even just a little bit. I promise it’s not that bad darlin’, just try it.” Shaking your head vehemently, you scoot as far as you can to the edge of the mattress, until you’re perched precariously.

Jake reaches an arm out, curling his fingers around your shoulders and pulling you back towards him, your back pinned against his chest. Knowing you’re stuck now, you give in, going limp in his hold and leaning your head back on his shoulder.

He kisses your forehead softly, “Just try. For me?” He brings the small medicine cup up to your lips, as your eyes narrow at him. He gives you his signature shrug and smirk, you mock him as best could which pulls a chuckle from him. Reluctantly, you swallow the foul tasting syrup, immediately reaching for the water that Jake already had in his grasp. You gulp hurriedly, trying in vain to wash away the lingering taste, your glare returns, “If I didn’t love you so much, I’d hate you right now.”

He nudges you playfully, “What? I got you to take it. Did you seriously think the taste would’ve changed after a few months?” Huffing, you playfully shove him back, then when his laughter bubbles up again, you quickly press a kiss to his shoulder.

“I should’ve known better, but it said ‘new and improved recipe’! And you! You looked so disappointed that I wasn’t gonna take it, and you know I can’t say no to you when you look like that!” Jake has the audacity to do his smirk-shrug combo again, which has you laughing weakly along with him.

He swings his arm loosely around your shoulders, tucking you into his side. Finding Jake to be his usual personal body heater, you snuggle impossibly closer to him, head resting on his chest, listening to the soothing sounds of his heartbeat. Your poorly disguised yawn does not go missed by Jake, who’s now concerned that you probably haven’t slept properly in days, “Get some sleep, you need rest darlin’.”

Shaking your head vehemently, you curl around him, burying your head into the crook of his neck, inhaling deeply, whining when he tries to pull away so he could look at your face. “I don’t wanna sleep Jake.” You whine into his neck, “I just got you back, I don’t wanna lose any more time with you than I have too.”

Jake exhales slowly, it’s not the first time you’ve expressed this when he comes back from an extended deployment. Not that he particularly minded you being so invested in spending quality time together, it’s just this time with you being so unwell, you needed rest over anything else right now.

“Just go to sleep. I’ll still be here when you wake up.” There’s one more indignant huff from you, before a bigger yawn escapes you, he nudges you gently, kissing your forehead lovingly, “C’mon sweetheart, you know you’ll feel better for it.” When you peek a look at him, he can see the fear on your face. You’re scared he won’t be there when you wake you, that this was all a dream and he was still on deployment, or worse. He could see it so clearly now, the pain and deep-rooted fear in your glossy eyes. He had never seen you so fearful, it made his heart clench painfully.

“Darlin’. I promise you that I’ll be here when you wake up. I won’t leave your side. I promise.”

His smile is soft and for the first time since he got home, he feels relaxed knowing that you’re not suffering alone anymore. It occurred to him, more frequently the longer your relationship continued, that he never wanted you to be alone like that again, that he’d do anything to ensure you were looked after for the rest of your life. Well, more like the rest of his life, because he couldn’t see himself now without you. Jake needed you in his life, and it was clear now that you are going to spend the rest of your lives together.

He presses a soft kiss to the crown of your head as you doze lightly on his shoulder, eyes flickering momentarily over to his dresser where he’d placed the box a few weeks earlier. Resting his head against yours, he takes a moment to rest his eyes while he thinks over what the rest of his life was going to look like.

He was going to ask you to marry him soon.

He was going to marry you.

tag list - from taglist or seemed interested in this fic! (let me know if you want to be added/removed)

@els-marvelvsp @sky2nd @nouis-bum @atarmychick007 @solo2leo @jessicab1991 @avengersgirllorianna

[songoftrillium]

Werewolf: the Essentials Project Update 12/1/2024

Hello, Kinfolks! So, where is book 1?

In the words of an old teacher: "Vinegar is fine, but wine takes time." If you take something sweet and let it ferment, you'll get a tasty drink sooner or later, but there are many steps between juice and wine, requiring checks and cleanup and careful measuring. Vinegar on the other hand, put anything sweet in any jar and it'll be vinegar in a couple days without trying. It's easy to make something sour, but making something of lasting value takes effort.

In short, the book is not ready yet. I'm still not happy with what we have and it needs a little more work done, both in terms of writing and layout. Some pieces we're waiting for and life just got in the way of some deadlines. Others need some rewrites to capture the pathos right. Others just need laying out and we haven't gotten to them yet.

So, what's our road map for release look like?

Copy editing and layout

In-Line writing

Annotation

Indexing

Preflight

Let's break this down:

Copy Editing and Layout

The copy edit is where you have the written portions of a document and lay it out in a book. This becomes a game of word economy on the page, and sacrifices (and embellishments) have to be written to make things all fit in their sidebars and sections in a manner that is visually satisfying and doesn't waste space. My design ethos is that nobody wants to pay for white paper and double spacing. This isn't a college essay after all.

Where the document template we've been using to write can hold about 900 words per page, the book is tidy enough to hold about 1300 words per page, taking all the preplanned formatting in the master docs largely out the window by the time it hits the page. While we can (and do) perform some formatting magic to flex this number a bit and add graphics to fill out dead page space, that'd require we add and format images for every single page, which I refuse to do. We'd be looking at hundreds of images in the book. While there is some degree of using graphics to fill in dead space, when it's deliberately padded this way on every page, it stands out in an unpleasant way.

In-line Writing

On the note of not using too many images to fill in dead space, I'm doing some writing while doing layout, and by some, I mean a lot. On average I'm adding an extra 100 words per page as I go along. As a perfectionist I'm trying not to make the words empty either, so of what writing I am doing, it's adding value to the book on the whole. While 100 words per page doesn't sound like a lot, in the scale of 250-300 pages I am effectively writing a novel in addition to what's already written. Getting closer to the holidays, people are spending more time with their loved ones and nearly all this writing is being handled myself.

Annotation

This is the biggest one. Annotation involves not just making endnotes referring people to other books but also cross-referencing sections inside the book. If someone sees the word "Rekindling" in the book and clicks it, they can be instantly taken to the main section of the book written on the subject. This elevated the final product to one that is not just informative but also useful at the tabletop for quick lookups.

These cross references have to be added for every instance of that kind of referencing, and that takes time. That same treatment comes for both things being indexed for the back of the book, as well as formatting for the table of contents. This is all well and good, but also, cross referencing cannot happen until all the book sections are added, so there will be additional time needed even after I'm done with the layout. We have our citations ready thankfully, we just need those sections down.

Indexing

Which brings me to indexing, another task that largely needs to happen after all book sections are added and laid out. In order for an index to be effective you don't just need to flag words to add, but you need to create topics and subtopics, and designated white indexed topics are written more comprehensively than others. Like cross referencing, the ability to rapidly find the core articles being indexed means having those sections defined. If you index things without the right topics to place them under you're just doubling the work needing to get done.

Preflight

This one's gonna hurt, and tbh is a massive unknown for how long it'll take to pass. Preflight is a term used by desktop publishing software that consists of a system of checks and error reporting to ensure the book doesn't contain formatting errors before rendering it to its final document. This encompasses word table flow, graphics resolution, and color grading. This is the final check stage, and if we do not pass it, the software may not render the book correctly (or may not render it at all.) WtE as a series is being produced in what I'm calling a "Print-Ready" state. This means the final document is being made at high resolution, in a CMYK color profile, as though it will be printed as a book. To be clear, we are not planning to print hard copies at this time (Paradox Interactive's community content guidelines do not allow printed fan material at the time of this writing.) What this does offer, however, is future-proofing. Should the opportunity present for the series to be printed, it can happen without any ceremony. This will also accommodate higher resolution screens in the future, and we can release a higher dpi edition in ten years.

That said, however, passing preflight is a Sisyphean task, where solving one prerequisite may unsurface others. Converting graphics in RGB over to CMYK is also no one-click operation without things coming out a lot duller in appearance. While it's not hard to do all the proper conversions, it's tedious, and the more images added to the pile, the more time spent converting things manually.

Text being pushed behind the borders of a table is easy to miss and may lead to missing book passages. It's an easy mistake to make, and indeed several older edition books have passages missing for this exact reason. Then, when you bring it to wrap into the next table, it may wreck formatting for the rest of the chapter and need further corrections.

I'll be the one to say giving a fixed release date was a mistake, and it's why I'm not giving a hard release date on final release. I thrive on deadlines, but a deadline on final delivery is a dangerous gamble. I can say confidently we're past the worst of it and that "Soon" truly means "Soon."

The good news is that we're done with writing, but the book isn't ready yet. So, when is it coming out? I'm not sure. I'm at a point where once we're past preflight, I intend to immediately release it, and that's kind of where we're at. I'll have a future update to announce once we're in preflight. When we hit that stage, it could be a matter of a few days or hours until release.

Vinegar is fine, but wine takes time.

In the meantime, enjoy our comic, Cracking the Bone, and we'll see you soon~!

[911coded]

I’m about 1/2 to 2/3 of the way through my bucktommy goes to the Pegasus Galaxy fic. The plan right now, if the characters don’t run away with it, is to get these crazy kids to Atlantis and back together. I will be leaving it open ended to continue with them living and working on Atlantis but right now I have no idea what that looks like. Ideas are welcome! I want to just post chapters here until I finish writing, then I will post the whole thing on AO3.

Chapter 1: My Lover’s Gone

Evan.Buckley13@gmail.com

To: David.Parrish.civ@mail.mil

Dave,

This is going to sound crazy but I just found out that Tommy has taken an assignment to Antarctica for the next six months! Antarctica, David! I can’t let him just leave, right? Fuck. I think I understand now why he ran but I’m at the end of my patience here now and I need to chase him before he somehow figures out how to leave the planet! Lol 😆

The LAFD bulletin says he’s stationed at McMurdo. Isn’t that where you and Lorne were based when we met in Mancora? Are you still in contact with someone there? I know you can’t say much, believe me, I understand classified, but I’m desperate man! I just need a contact in SAR and I’m sure with my certs and experience I can convince them I’d be an asset. I’ve been keeping up with all my training just in case so all I need to do is rent out my loft and I’m all set to go. Anyway, hopefully you’ll have some news for me in thurdays email. 🙏🏻

P.S. Sorry this is not like our usual emails, my head’s just a mess as you can probably tell. 😳

Talk soon,

Buck

David Parrish pushed his desk chair back and turned to the wall of windows and the sea glittering in the sun while trying to decide how he wanted to handle this situation. He smirked as he imagined the chaos Buck would bring to Atlantis. And maybe another pilot for Sheppard to play with. Of course, that’s a big if, it’s getting less and less common to find someone with the gene the last few years and Carson has been scratching his head over the why of it. With a sigh, he got to his feet and waved their suite door open. “Now to find someone with some actual authority,” he muttered to himself as he turned the corner to the nearest transporter.

He emerged in the main SCIENCE! corridor, almost positive he would find Major General John Sheppard hiding in Dr. Rodney McKay’s lab. Sure enough, when he entered the main lab, John was sprawled in an oversized chair, engaged in their version of flirting which consisted of snark and Rodney calling John, Colonel, instead of General, while they also solved complex math problems for fun. Weirdos. Dave plopped into a nearby chair and observed the chaos while he debated who to approach first.

“I got some news from my friend in Los Angeles,” he stated, when he noticed John looking at him. “Oh, yeah?” John prodded.

“Remember the ex-boyfriend that we advised to give him a little time, then go full Buck on him?” Dave asked.

“Is this the firefighter friend that makes ancient tech sit up and beg?” Rodney asked, smirking at John. John rolled his eyes at Rodney then nudged Dave’s arm, “What happened?”

“The ex-boyfriend ran away to McMurdo for six months. Buck wants to chase after him, he asked for my help with an introduction to someone in SAR down there,” Dave shared.

John’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Are you going to lure him into the program?” he asked. “Thinking about it,” Dave responded with a smirk.

Tommy was running through his preflight checks when he flinched reaching for the clipboard. Pathetic. Multiple memories of Evan grinning mischievously with a clipboard in hand ran through his mind. He shakes his head sharply and stuffed the thoughts and pain back in the steel chest in the back of his brain. He was here to work where no one knew him, where he could just breathe without someone tiptoeing around his feelings, and where he could hopefully learn how to let go of the pain of his imploded relationship. Maybe if he hadn’t done the imploding himself, it would be easier but of course he panicked and the next thing he knew, he was walking out of Evan’s loft having destroyed everything. Before Evan could ruin him. Jokes on Tommy though, turns out he can ruin himself without any help. With a deep breath, Tommy shoves the self-loathing aside and returns to his checklist with a huff.

He was running the last checks when he heard the crunch of boots on the frosted pavement, his VIP passenger was right on time.

David.Parrish.civ@mail.mil

To: Evan.Buckley13@gmail.com

Buck,

I have to tell you, my friend, you have some of my coworkers fascinated. 😂 With a bug from me in the right ear, it looks like a bored retired general should be on his way to meet your Tommy. Things are moving surprisingly quickly (well I say surprising, but most of us are out of field work and missing excitement in our lives). I heard that there was a fight between 2 generals about who got to scope out your pilot. Jack claimed that his “great age” and free time due to retirement meant that he was the obvious choice. Somewhere on my base, John is pouting and complaining to his scientist that no one lets him have fun anymore. You have already caused chaos without even being here! If nothing else, I’ll have a report on his state of mind for you by our next email. OR. If you are feeling adventurous and can get to Colorado Springs tout de suite, I have another bored general who has heard from Lorne about your uncanny bartender abilities. There may or may not be a betting pool. 😇

In all seriousness, I can get you a job without a problem, Tommy too. You both have the skills that our program can use. Here is where you have to make a decision, Buck. Classified. Our program can change your whole life, expand it and toss it on its ear. His too. Are you ready to fall down this rabbit hole? Think about it. Let me know.

Dave

Buck put his laptop on the coffee table and sat staring blankly at the wall, his mind racing in a million different directions at all the possibilities. Did he want to explore this opportunity that is now much more than SAR in Antarctica for a few months? Not only for him, but is it fair that he dragged Tommy into this? What if Tommy hates him for indirectly bringing him to the attention of these people? At this point, Buck is pacing the floor of his kitchen. Is he ready to leave his life here in LA for what could be a life-changing new job? Eddie was leaving next week to be with Christopher. Maddie, Chim, Hen, and Karen are settled in their families and happy. Bobby and Athena have both mentioned thoughts of retirement as a not so far into the future potential. What does he want next? What does he want? He wants a life with Tommy. He wants to help people. He wants to make a difference. He needs to talk this out. He needs some clarity. Buck jumps to his feet and grabs his keys and phone. He's out the door and in the elevator with the phone to his ear in a matter of moments.

[docdetective]

In The Woods Somewhere

Logan was slumped over the couch in an unoccupied cabin he had found the night before, a bottle of bourbon in one hand. From what he had seen, the area was remote enough. There weren't any other cabins in the area, and if there were, they were probably empty at this time of year. He could admit to himself the luxury of a real bed would be a nice change while its owners were away, and it was early in the winter season.

He explored the small building quickly. A living and kitchen area with a banged up plaid couch, a wood stove for both heat and cooking, and a simple table. One door led to a bedroom with a double bed, another to a tiny rough bathroom. Logan winced at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. Dirt streaks all over his clothes, his hair grown to his shoulders. He let his claws come out and started hacking at his hair.

After his hair was back to a reasonably short length, he slumped down on the bed,pulled the heavy quilt over his body, and closed his eyes, letting all of the air out of his lungs in an attempt to relax. His thoughts started straying to Jean, the team, and he sat up, swung his legs over the bed, and stalked to the kitchen to grab another couple of bottles, chugging both before passing out before his liver could catch up.

A few hours later, he awoke, and stared at the bottle in his hand, the other empty on the floor, before setting it down with a sigh. The memories that he couldn't shake from his mind had been relentless last night, and no amount of alcohol could drown them out, especially with his healing factor. He needed to move, to get out of the cabin, to do something.  He came out here to suffer, and here he was trying to be normal again. 

Andi, meanwhile, was completing her preflight routine on her plane, ready to head slightly north and work her way down to the coordinates of the claw marks from the air. She wanted to double check her maps were correct, and that there weren't any buildings, or other strange activity, in the area. If there were any camps, that would certainly indicate poaching. Heaven forbid the marks came from an injured animal. 

Andi was making smooth grids in the air, flying low enough to see the terrain clearly. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary; no camps pitched, no other cabins except hers and the summer home, which still looked unoccupied. She decided it was worth checking the summer cabin from the ground.

Landing her plane back at her house, she grabbed her pack and began hiking toward the summer cabin. The strange marks were still bugging her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, something that should have been easily explainable wasn’t, and that didn’t sit well with her.

Logan continued his sulk through the woods, moving forward with determination but no real goal in sight. He growled at the sky as another plane flew overhead, the engine noise fading away after what felt like an eternity. For the last two hours, it had been nonstop. At first, he had been on edge, but now, he was more annoyed than anything. No one knew he was here, and there was no one around to see the marks he had left on the trees. It had been some time since he'd had any unfortunate encounters with humans, the last being two weeks ago in a small town, over illegal fishing, and that suited him just fine.

His nose caught a scent, distinct and out of place among the usual smells of pine, snow, and cold air. It was a person, but certainly not a woodsman like he might have expected. Logan went on alert, instincts kicking in as he circled back towards it. His curiosity was piqued, but the remoteness of the area made him suspicious. Who the hell was out here?

As Andi trekked through the woods, the sound of rustling leaves and snapping branches caught her attention. She paused, narrowing her eyes and adjusting her pack, ready to face whatever might be there. Moving quietly, her footsteps barely made a sound as she approached the source.

Suddenly, she locked eyes with a man, half hidden behind a tree, his hand clenched in a fist by his side. He was wearing a tan coat, zipped up against the cold, jeans, and boots, he looked like any other woodsman sticking out the winter in the bush, except the fact he looked a little too picture perfect ideal. Normally, they were skinny little weasel men, putting up a tough front but backed up with nothing but a gun and his friends. This man was tall, and broad, and probably had a hell ton of muscle under that coat. His hair was wild, sticking up on both sides, with no hat, no greasy slick.  She felt like suddenly she was in a movie, nobody actually looked like this in the middle of nowhere. She stopped, her muscles tensing as she took him in. 

He did the same, surprised by the eye contact, the fact it was a woman. A very pretty woman, her eyes showing some surprise, but seeing no weapon on him probably put her at ease. If only she knew how much more dangerous he was than a gun. He looked her over, brow drawn together, hands stuffed tightly in pockets. She was very well equipped for the weather, hardy boots, pants, jacket, backpack. He noted no weapon on her, either, and his eyes met hers once again.

She took a step towards him, but there was still a guarded wariness in his eyes that made her pause. 

Andi was the first to speak, her voice friendly and confident, masking any of the unease that had been nagging at her since she first saw those marks. “Didn’t expect to run into anyone out here,” she said, a hint of curiosity in her tone. “This place is usually pretty deserted this time of year.”

Logan eyed her warily, his gruff exterior making itself show. “Could say the same,” he replied, his voice low and rough. He hadn’t expected to meet anyone, especially someone who seemed so at ease in the wilderness. “What are you doing out here?”

“Work,” Andi answered with a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “I track wildlife for the Forest Service. Helps keep the ecosystem in balance, you know?”

Logan grunted in response, not particularly interested in small talk but unable to just walk away either. It was strange, someone being out here in the dead of winter, especially a woman. It wasn’t that he doubted her capability, but he couldn’t help the protective instinct that flared up, even though he barely knew her. “You’re not worried about being out here alone?” he asked, his tone gruffer than he intended.

Her friendly smile dropped and he sensed the hint of wariness. “Should I be?”

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Bears aren’t the only things up here. The only people around this time of year aren’t usually friendly.” 

“I can take care of myself.” she said, meeting his gaze without flinching. There was something in her eyes, a knowing look that made him pause. It wasn’t arrogance, but rather a deep-seated confidence that came from experience. She wasn’t just bluffing, she believed it.

For a moment, Logan considered turning away, leaving her to her work and retreating back to his solitude. 

“I’m Andi” she said, extending a hand. 

Logan stared at her hand for a moment before finally taking it. “Logan,” he said gruffly.

“Nice to meet you, Logan,” Andi replied, her smile genuine. “I’ve got a cabin not too far from here. If you ever need anything, feel free to stop by.”

He nodded, still a bit taken aback by her friendliness. It had been so long since anyone had treated him like a normal person, without fear or suspicion. She didn’t seem to be fazed by his gruffness, even though he knew she must be more discerning with many others. If not, she certainly wouldn't still be standing in front of him alone. It was strange, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it.

As she turned to leave, Andi glanced back at him, her eyes lingering on the direction she had come from. “By the way,” she said casually, “you wouldn’t happen to have seen any weird animal behavior up here, would you? I’ve noticed some unusual signs, and I’m trying to figure out what’s going on.”

Logan kept his face impassive. “Can’t say I have.” 

She nodded slowly, as if considering his words. “I’ll keep looking,” she said, her tone thoughtful. But there was a glint in her eyes that told him she wasn’t entirely convinced.

With a nod in his direction, Andi turned and headed back toward her cabin, leaving Logan standing there, more unsettled than he’d care to admit. He watched her go, her figure disappearing into the trees. 

Logan walked away, slightly confused. He should have been angry at the fact the area was, in fact, inhabited, and he’d need to move that night before she suspected anything. She hadn’t seemed alarmed at his appearance, not even at the fact he definitely looked like he was one of the wild woodsmen he had warned her about. He stopped at the riverbank and sighed as he caught his reflection. Filthy, beard far overgrown, those damned cowlicks sticking straight out from his head. How she hadn’t immediately run away, he didn't know.

Previous Part Next Part

[sears-tower]

Want an object where it's not just socially acceptable to intimately touch, but even codified as a rule that you need to do every time? And in some cases the rule is you need to kiss a certain part of it to determine if it's safe?

Try a small four seater airplane like a Piper Warrior or a Cessna 172 Skyhawk! Preflighting is critically important to every single airplane prior to flight and involves running your hand across the plane's skin, moving the ailerons and elevators up and down manually, feeling the tire pressure through your boot, and for those more kinky minded, checking the fuel/removing impurities, with one particular method synergizing well for some kinks.

Also for Cessna 172s, although there is equipment to do this cleanly without using your actual mouth, the traditional method to check the stall warning horn is to put your mouth over a certain analog sensor on the left wing and kiss/suck on it.

Cons: flight training is expensive, and individual airplanes even more so

Pros: you can see why the joke is that most pilots want to fuck those things

[riversidewings]

Morning on the Ōjōjihara range. The crew chiefs clambering over the line of kneeling mechs. It's a full day of evaluating the new hardware ahead, and the combat doll pilots are going to be sending APFSDS downrange. Everything is nearly ready.

There are many tachi, but this one with the blue hair has a reputation. She comes to the maintenance stand with coffee can in hand, to begin her preflighting checks on the mech.

Its name, stenciled on the hull in script from half a world away, is Թուր Կէծակի: Sword of Lightning

The mech's not even online yet, but she speaks to it as she inspects exhaust ports and folds panels closed.

She's learned well from her foremothers, this doll from faraway mountains now home on Michinoku's peaks, that one must care deeply for one's mount.

She's heavier and older than most of her colleagues in the unit, but she enjoys it, being the steadfast rock from Nemrut's peak in the shadow of Mount Sasakura and her sisters.

Helmet in the crook of her arm, she goes up the ladder, through the hatch.

There's work to be done.

"Է, հէլէ իրդա՞նկ" she asks the control panels, flipping the switch cover off to begin startup. ‹Well, shall we be off?›

She dons the helmet, straps into the seat. Her fingers fly from one corner of the control panels to another as her eyes flit between her HUD projection and the physical displays.

Then the mech's cables connect with her neural interface, and the doll feels her toes clench. The euphoria never gets old, even this many years on, as she becomes one with the mech and rises to stand, fifteen feet tall, taller than a main battle tank.

Here, in these mountains, she will keep doing her best today.

[tyrantofthefirmament]

Have a Q:

Does preening, specifically for seekerlets/sparkling seekers ever get ticklish?

I know it’s VERY different but I’m an adult and to this day when someone rubs my shoulders, it is SO ticklish. However to other adults it feels like a massage.

Adults would tell me “Oh once you’re an adult, it won’t be ticklish anymore” but I have yet to reach that stage. anything similar for bby Seekers or is it just like a massage for you guys no matter the age.

It's an inexact comparison, since Cybertronians are never babies. We emerge from the Well of AllSparks full sized and fully capable, though lacking any experience. That said, newly Sparked Seekers do have an instinctual aversion to anything touching their wings, that could be considered "ticklish", though perhaps "twitchy" would be more accurate. It takes time to learn how to sit still and allow someone to preen your wings or perform preflight checks, and even after millions of years, someone doing it wrong can make fully "adult" Seekers want to flick their wings and get comfortable again. It also helps to have friends or Trinemates you know and trust, who preen your wings the way you like.

For example, my preference is firm but gentle handling, and slow stretching along my ailerons. I cannot abide light brushing or tapping - it sets me on edge and makes me want to flick the contact off of my wings, so I suppose you would call that tickling. Such luxuries were not available as the war went on though, and I settled for a few Eradicon aides de camp who could do a thorough pre-flight check without tickling.