#It's like... I know what I want to write and I think I wrote that... But then I read it later and it's riddled with typos

[dandydilfdiddler]

You fucking slaughtered me with the last one. We are now pivoting from my doom scrolling to read all your Bob works I can before I need to go to sleep for work tomorrow. Let’s play the age-old game of chicken, I can read all this and get enough sleep to function ☺️

Oh god jealousy as a tag

Oh, fucking helllllllllllll too young as a tag. Yep. I am SAT

Furiously writing notes to pretend that this would work irl “You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar.”

I love when Bob gets annoyed at others antics when it comes to a reader insert. Like yes, please, be possessive.

Yes Nat, you fucking tell them. A GIRL’S GIRL!

Oooooooo tension! A date that ain’t with Bob. Already we are setting up for that jealousy tag and I am on the edge of my seat

Jake is an antagonistic little shit and the way you write the team dynamic is how I aspire to write for multiple characters being in focus at once

“Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him.” Dropping to my knees and barking like I want it. Already. This. Yummy. This is what my creative writing teacher would call an A+ at show not tell

“He lives for it.” Heart ripped out and thrown across the room because this is delicious and also OUCH

Okay, Reuben this is fic #2 you are a good wingman. I love you once again I give a lil friendly smooch on your forehead for being a catalyst to try and shove Bob and I together like a toddler ramming their doll’s faces

Fuckkkkk. If I had a peen, it would be hard at “You’re young—too young.” Something about those lil (or big… who said that) gaps that are just the right side of making one person feel like a creep are my Achillies heel. I know it’s toxic. I know it’s bad. But good god I am called DILF diddler as a username for a reason. I wanna be that controversially young girlfriend. I started to listen to fucking ethel cain and lana del rey because they are apparently the sirens of this sorta relationship (citing tiktok as my source here)

“And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight.” SHOT THROUGH THE HEART AND YOU’RE TO BLAME

“he’s a carpenter” Baby I am thinking of Joel Miller. Why he gotta be named Ryan, my vagina just curled in on itself to run away

Ew. Okay yeah, I see why he was named Ryan. That is such a Ryan thing to do. The first Ryan to hit on me dead ass went “wanna play the firetruck game” and if you know anything about that it is for real the childishness. No offense to any other Ryans reading this but imma side eye you for that shit at this point.

OOOOF FUCK eMotIoNaL dAmAgE with “you’re not him”

Sobbing helping at the bar is so cute. I love this. This is a dream actually. Almost wanted to give up STEM so I could bartend because I read a book called the Drunken Botanist and I loved it so much

A compliment. I am tucking it away. This would work on me, I fear.

Lmfaooooo see you wrote this just for me because the next line!!!!!!!

Bob! Improper! Commenting on a girl’s-

Oh shit. Get outta my head! I am trying to be witty and funny to add to commentary and it is exactly right. The way I can see myself in this character!

“Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.”  HELLO??? Can you chill on dropping banger quotes because I have flooded my friend IRL with little snaps of this. She is tired of my shit, she doesn’t like Bob and I need to be able to chill out about how fucking good your writing is

AHAHAHA CALL HIS ASS OUT

AHAHA PENNY CALL HER ASS OUT

I loved nights on the ships… I did oceanography and my shift was always 3 pm to 3 am and it was the coolest. When we weren’t actively sampling and in the research zone the crew showed me that you can shine lights off the side of the boat and get cute lil squid to zoom up at the surface… also may I interest you in bioluminescent phytoplankton propaganda… or hell even a copepod… Please love nights.

Jake with whale noises? Adorable. Stop making him cute when he annoys me lmfaoooo

THE DODGE TO COYOTE I AM SCREAMING

Lmaoooooo Nat said “girl I don’t even play about him”

CORRECT IF HE’S GREY I LIKE TO PLAY

MAVVVVV YOU KILL ME

I feel like a fucking pavlov’ed dog ““Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close.” and my body is creaming… screaming for more

Ugh jesus christ I have nothing appropriate to say about an older man, even if it is slight, giving direct orders and fixing something. Nothing appropriate and I cannot scare off my new favorite fic writer addiction okay. So all I will put for this one is kgnojsnegouhgoirh mmmmmmmmm

“the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful.” I lied. I cannot hold myself back from this. I am a freak on main and proud about this man and how hot you make me during your writing. BARK BARK BARK BARK

ONLY YOURS HOLD THE FUCKING PHONEEEEEEE AAAAAAAA

“My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” I feel like he already put a baby in me from this point at the fic - and if it didn’t take, we’re trying again until it does

Jake isn’t wrong, he is annoying but he isn’t wrong

LMFAO BECAUSE THEY DO IT QUIETLY

“Did Bob really just override a direct order?” It’s just a fic I say to myself as I start to sweat because fuck that is hot. Feels all protective and shit and there is nothing quicker to make me swoon and open my legs to bring him home than that

Oop I know logically that would piss me off out in the field so this is correct but also awwww protective mmmmmm and bossy like yes daddy (who said that)

I hate to love you Bagman

DAMN RIGHT NO MAN IS THE BOSS ONCE THOSE DOORS OPEN

Okay that was a lie. A 24/7 dynamic but still, for the purposes of this, DAMN RIGHT

Yeah, you fucking apologize (adorable baby I could never be mad at you)

“I know”… “That’s why I’m apologizing”… HE’S A GOOD MAN SAVANNAH

“I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?”  I’m in love. Period. I’d fold like laundry with extra fabric softener

“His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. ” Breath hitch? Baby not just that is reacting to this kinda move. I’d be belly up and panting

“Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—”  YOU EDGE ME AGAINNNNN. I should expect it but I am ANGRY. I am throwing my phone, apologizing to it, and starting back up

“renowned little chaos gremlin” this. This. This. I need it. I need to be this. I am not getting called this IRL. I need this.

Grinder. GAE

OOOP he gave the call sign… ooooop

“you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement” I am not living up to my full potential and I never have been more disappointed in myself

HE IS GAY

HAHAHAHA

U R HILARIOUS

Oh god remember that hangman x bob fic I mentioned before? I also indulge in hangman x rooster because I like slutting this annoying fuck out like some sort of cheap whore. Please tell me he swings that way too in this fic. I need queer free ride for all jake

“has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate.” okay I give up because there is no way my brain can produce lines like this

Lmfao Grinder is gonna wind her ass up. Fucker knows hook, line, and sinker

“I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.”  Does he take friend applications because I need to learn from this diva

“Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.”  HELL YEAH BROTHER *caw caw*

My grandmother had us in bowling lessons during the summer because she played league and to see this lil bowling part mentioned warms me

“All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis?” A GIRL IN STEM MENTIONED. Ah another level of warmth.

Nat knows, she always knows, that is a woman who could read a room the second she came out of the womb

Everyone shortens his name to Roo and I always giggle going ‘cock’ because I secretly have the humor of a teenage boy

I need to know, is Bob just a leg man? Like my own HC this man when asked is all about the ass.

Unofficial nicknames because I am invested in their silly shorts. Maverick - Rick (like a Rick Roll because he’s old). Rooster - Cock. Hangman - Bag. Phoenix - Phone (big brain for you I love it). Payback - Back (because Pay is too easy). Fanboy - Boy (why does make me giggle). Coyote - Yote (I am from a college town that this was the official shortened name for the coyote mascot).

Jake you play too much - good for you

FOGGY GLASSES ARE BACK I LOVE YOU

Lmfaooo baby boy the question was noton the dress

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” *clutching my pearls* bitch I woul fold too. My fucking glasses foggin too irl in my mf air conditioned room!!!!!

Omg Fboy is so much betterrrrrr yes!!!!! Yessssssssss!!!!! Nix like the goddess. I see you, intentional or not I see you.

Mickey, honey, lemme kiss your booboo

Marry me Nat

My grandma would offer me up to him on a silver platter to secure his bowling for her league

The only time I crave to be objectified is by fictional characters and I am eating this with a spoon

Bradley, I would love to see you in a skirt. I would pay for it really. I love hairy thighs. I need them.

Oh not the hand kink. Oh god. Oh no. I am about to start being disrespectful because Lewis Pullman has veiny arms and I have been looking at them all day.

Big fucking hands.

Hands to choke me with. Hands to grip me with. Hands to hold the heft of a titty or an ass cheek

Yep, there you are, correct.

Mmmmmm fucking MARK ME

“You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion.” Correct. Right. Yes. You feel me. You basically writing fucking poetry as is

“And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes?” Suddenly I am Rhett Abbott and I am about to RIDE

HE OFFERED HELP!!! YES

Solid grip, not too tight, like holding your dick - who said that!

Oh what I wouldn’t do to feel this man’s thighs. Why did you remind me they exist and not have me on top of them?

Oh he would talk you through it. Nothing like dirty talk with him

I BEG, PLEASE LET IT BE A BONER

BATHROOM? BONER. PLEASE BE A BONER.

I am a dog with a… bone… heheehe

A bitch in heat

Okay I’m done, not sorry about this though. You have had two fics and so far, no fucks and I am just foaming at the mouth

See? Natasha knows. She just knows things. These boys are idiots and I love them. My idiots.

AHAHAHA NATASHA FUCKING CLOCKED THAT SHIT TOOOOO

I swear on Lewis Pullman’s veiny arms, this has not been edited or changed as I go on. I write a thought like I am narrating, raw and unfiltered for the purpose of expressing my joy at these fics. All natural.

Lmfaoo Jake just caught up on the “extra”

He is pretty. You be right.

Because nerds are hot. Like it feels almost like a circle rather than a venn diagram as to kinky/freaky and nerds. Especially if you throw autism in there. “oh you mean direct and clear outlines of everything in the bedroom? Oh masks so I don’t have to make eye contact?” come on.

OH PLEASE TELL ME YOU WROTE FLOYD AS A FREAK

Begging. Knees. For you. Please write a lil freaky deak.

Brother coded Bob for Nat. Sobbing. Yes. Heart. Love. (but being between them both… yeah my bisexual heart also loves that flavor).

No distance, I wanna cuddle the man. He is warm. Short skirts means needed huddles for warmth

I have written so much my notes on my desktop is freaking out, look what you have done

OUCH REJECTION NOOOO OUCH MY HEART SOBBING THIS HURTS

“what did you do” immediate. 0 lead up. No other question about it being me/her. Accuse and abuse. I love you Nat.

OOOOOF THE DISAPPOINTMENT HURTS ME

The sound of ‘ooo I fucked up’ is just looping

Bradley revoked his first name privileges for that fuck up. Called him “Floyd”

Nat should still chew him out imho

A good man fears women

I am also terrible because I am eating his guilt like fine caviar

Oh shit my chest hurts at that ignoring. Props to you being a good writer but this better resolve fast because I need to breathe

Awwwwww he needs me

“because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you.” twisting the fucking knife

“Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you.” YEAH BUDDY!!!!! YES YOU ARE

I think he is an ass man, this is another mention. A solid choice.

Okay, once again I must say, fictional men being like “yeah I got off to you” fucking HOTTTTT

Oh no… oh no… Bob is a boy. Boys are stupid. Bob isn’t gonna know this man is gae is he

And like that my chest hurts more. This feels like when I went through my breakup. Fuck you, but also I love you but also fuck this hurts. You tagged it properly, this was my own fault and I have no one else to blame but damn it.

No dummy you don’t have the right to be mad even if you are wrong

Mother fucker I been fucking waiting. Trying. Asking. Oh you stupid son of a bitch my chest doesn’t hurt no more I wanna start swinging. You cute but that doesn’t make you immune from catching these hands

Oh you stupid girl, Trevor is also right

I broke my cardinal rule about hating the miscommunication trope because I loved your writing, you should know this and also feel special.

Nat you are a good friend and I love you

I would be so mad if he kept correcting, I love you boo but one more word and I am crashing my plane into yours. You are just a jilted lil bitch (said with love and affection)

NOT THE EJECT – PLEASE I SAW WHAT HAPPENED TO GOOSE

“Like the world took a breath—and left you behind.” This is what I would read in a traditionally published book at the end of a chapter that would leave me screaming

“softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go.” I’m gonna kill myself

Oh no, I’m really gonna kill myself this hurts so bad

Where is my comfort you hoe

WHER ARE YOU GOING NOOOOOOOO NOOOOOOO

“The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family.” Girl I know you read the other bits I wrote, I know you know this is my shit. I know you know that this is going to make me weep from love

“In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously.” Stop being the funniest one in the room, some of us also have to creatively spin to get readers

Nat is a tattle tale, I love you

I love this internal monolog. I would quote it all but you read it and I just am giggling at it. There is a lil comfort for the HURT YOU THREW AT ME

Nat is an accomplice, I love you

He has a throw blanket, this is a MAN

He makes a house a home

Awwwwwww helps, points back for the meanie

I am screaming at my screen, wanting to smack the both of them

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” It’s giving… “You are what I treasure most in this world. Not because you are pretty. Not because you are smart. But because you love me and I love you and you can try to deny it, but I will not believe you. When certain atoms collide, it is instantaneous and it is inevitable. It’s basic chemistry.”

IT’S CHEMISTRY

Aka you wrote a line that invokes the same level of awe and swooning and love that damn near broke me in Lessons in Chemistry

Oh it keeps going, oh god, oh I am not going to survive this

I came this far to crash too

HELP I’VE BEEN WOUNDED. He didn’t ruin anything you sweet stupid man

Oops when you assume…. It makes an ass out of you and me lmfaoooooo

“His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips.” FUCKING FINALLYYYYYYYYYY

“It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall.” Hey. Is there a way that you are not poetic because I love it but also you just upped this from a simple kiss to something that has me having to pause to take a breather and remember my senses.

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” Help. Help. Help. 911. I need help. This is too good. Too sweet. It hurt for so long my body cannot handle this. It feels like I am being chased by a bear.

The goddamn shirt

Give her yours

Take your shirt off

I know what you’re packing Floyd

Lay a claim if it bothers you

AHAHAHA FINALLY A FUCK

Try

Oh good god

END

END

END

WHERE?

YOU HAD A POST ABOUT WRITING SMUT FOR BOB BEING HARD AND YOU FUCKING END THIS ONE TOO WITHOUT PEEN?

GIRL

GIRL

GIRL

HEY

THIS

EDGING ME

I NEED A COLD FUCKING SHOWER

I AM

I DON’T

THIS

YOU

>:[

Damn it the writing is amazing I can’t even be pissed but I need feral bob

short skirt weather ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital...

notes: the lew spiral is still spiralling and i almost struggled writing this because i love him so much??? anyways, it's heaps of fun, has all the tension, jealousy, angst, fluff, and of course... lots of horny thoughts! please let me know what you think!!! (p.s. shout out to the critical role nerds for the callsign, iykyk)

warnings: swearing, miscommunication, reference to a slight age gap (but it isn't specified and it's also described as 'barely there'), teasing, short skirts (sorry bob), jealousy, switching pov (kind of), plane crash, very minor description of injury, and horniness so 18+ ONLY MDNI! (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 18022 (i have no chill whatsoever)

your callsign is vex

Bob Floyd never thought of himself as someone who took particular interest in the weather—unless it had to do with flying, of course. But on the ground? He couldn’t care less. Or, he shouldn’t. 

Especially not when it comes to what the weather makes people wear. How is that any of his business? It shouldn’t matter how hot it is outside or how that directly affects the amount of material someone’s wearing. It really shouldn’t. 

But it does. And not just with anyone. No—this has everything to do with you. 

You, in that damn sundress and those ridiculous cowboy boots that shouldn’t be giving Bob a semi in the middle of the goddamn bar. 

And yet, there you are in all your glory. Legs on display, that flowy little skirt just barely covering the curve of your ass. And fuck if it isn’t making it impossible for Bob to keep his eyes from wandering. 

“God damn,” Jake says, his southern drawl thick as his green eyes lock onto you—or more specifically, your ass. “Do you think she knows?” 

Bob blinks, brows pulling together as he turns toward Jake, trying—and failing, miserably—not to sound annoyed that he’s checking you out. “Know what?” 

“What a girl like that does to guys like us,” Jake replies easily. 

Reuben chuckles and takes a slow sip of his beer. “Oh, she knows. She definitely knows.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Could you creeps stop looking at her like she’s something to eat? It’s gross. She’s our friend. Our teammate.” 

Jake opens his mouth, lips already curled into his usual smirk, but Natasha puts a hand up to stop him. 

“And she’s barely younger than us, so don’t say anything weird about her age.” 

Jake rolls his eyes and lifts his beer. “Wasn’t gonna…” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob lets his eyes drift back to you, drinking in the way you’re leaning against the bar. Elbow propped, hip cocked, one boot crossed over the other, and your head tipped just slightly as you talk to the dark-haired stranger beside you. 

“Wait,” Mickey leans forward, squinting—very unsubtly—across the bar. “Is that her date?” 

Natasha nods. “Think so. Looks like the guy she showed me.” 

Bob’s head snaps toward her, dark blue eyes wide. “She’s on a date?” 

Mickey giggles. Reuben snorts. Even Bradley has to hide a laugh behind his beer. 

“Alright,” Jake says, slapping a hand on the table in mock outrage. “Who didn’t tell Bob?” 

Natasha shoots him a flat look before turning back to Bob. “Didn’t you hear us talking about it at lunch? She met some guy on Hinge or something.” 

“Said she was gonna go home with him and let him keep her up all night,” Jake adds with a wicked grin. “Y’know, since we’re starting night rides next week—figured she’d get used to staying up late.” 

“I was intentionally leaving that part out,” Nat says, glaring at Jake. “But thanks for clearing it all up, Bagman.” 

Jake tips his beer toward her. “Anytime.” 

Bob’s jaw twitches. His teeth are clenched so tight it hurts, but he can’t relax—not with that guy’s hand on your hip, fingers digging into the soft fabric like he has some right to touch you. Like you belong to him. 

Which you don’t. You don’t belong to anyone. 

At least, that’s what Bob has to keep telling himself. 

“Easy, Floyd,” Bradley mutters beside him. “You keep staring like that, the poor guy’s gonna catch fire.” 

Bob doesn’t respond. He can’t. His voice is gone, breath caught somewhere in his throat. He’s too focused on your smile—how it flickers, just a little off. Not quite like the one you wear with them. With him. 

It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care whether or not you’re giving that stranger the same bright smile or soft laugh you always give him. Because it’s none of his business. 

Who you date and what you do—none of it is his business. You’re allowed to wear tiny dresses, flirt with strangers, and laugh at guys who think they’re clever. 

It shouldn’t matter. 

But it does. 

God, it fucking matters—way more than it should. 

Because for the first time in weeks, you’re not looking at him. You’re looking at... that guy. 

And even though he tells himself—repeatedly, a thousand times a day—not to enjoy being the centre of your attention... he does. 

He lives for it. 

“You know,” Reuben says slowly, lips curled into the tiniest smirk, “this wouldn’t even be happening if you’d sack up and—” 

“Payback,” Natasha warns. “Don’t.” 

“What?” He raises both hands in mock innocence. “All I’m trying to say is, if he likes her that much, he should just ask her out. She’s clearly into him. We all know it.” 

Bob’s eyes flick between you and Reuben, his brows furrowed slightly as his thoughts tug in opposite directions. On one hand, yeah, Reuben’s logic makes perfect sense. Bob’s not blind—he sees the way you look at him. The way your face lights up when you talk to him, the quiet smile you wear just for him, the blush you try to hide when he says something low and teasing. 

But on the other hand? He just can’t do it. You’re young—too young. And he’s... well, he’s not old, but he’s older. It’s not a huge age gap, not really, but that paired with how drop-dead gorgeous you are? It’s enough to make him feel like a— 

“Nothin’ wrong with being a cradle-snatcher,” Jake chimes in, eyes sparkling as he lifts his beer. 

Bradley chuckles quietly. “Jesus, Hangman. You’re on fire tonight.” 

“Why thank you, Rooster,” Jake replies smoothly. 

Natasha rolls her eyes and downs the rest of her beer in one long swig, looking thoroughly done with all of them. 

The conversation shifts then—to next week’s night ops training—but Bob barely hears it. The pounding of his pulse is too loud, drowning everything out. And he can’t stop watching you. 

The way your hands move when you talk, how your dress sways as you shift your weight, the gentle curve of your smile. Even over the music and chatter, he swears he can hear your laughter—if he strains. 

And it kills him. Because he’s not the one making you laugh tonight. 

- 

“Wanna get out of here?” Ryan asks, his voice low in your ear, breath warm against your neck. 

But not in a sexy way. Not in the way that sends goosebumps down your arms or makes your skin prickle with anticipation. It just makes you feel warm—too warm—in the packed, overheated bar. 

Honestly, for the last forty-five minutes, while Ryan has been telling you all about his super interesting job—he's a carpenter, it’s not that interesting—you’ve been seriously considering hopping behind the bar to help Penny and Jimmy. 

“It’s barely nine,” you say, forcing a polite smile as you tilt your head. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “But I’ve got to be at work by six tomorrow morning, so I figured if we ducked out now, we could... you know, mess around a bit before bed.” 

The way he says it nearly makes you laugh. He sounds like a teenager trying to sneak in some action before curfew. 

“Look,” you sigh, laying a hand on his knee, “this has been fun, but I’m just not your girl. And honestly? I was kinda hoping this would distract me from someone else, but... you’re not him. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault—this one’s on me. But, uh... good luck!” 

He looks completely flabbergasted. Like the blank stare you’ve worn for most of the evening—or the way your gaze kept drifting across the bar toward someone else—wasn’t a hint. God, he might be even dumber than you thought. 

You slip off the barstool with a clipped smile, wishing you looked more sincere, but your body is already moving toward where you really want to be—where your squad is. 

Where Bob is. 

You’re just about to head for the booth when your eye catches on Penny—and the very large crowd waiting to be served. 

“Damn it,” you sigh, pivoting sharply and hurrying around the bar. 

You slip through the swinging wooden doors behind the bar and fall in beside Penny, listening closely to the man ordering drinks—his voice raised over the music and chatter. Without hesitation, you start grabbing clean glasses, catching Penny off guard as you begin pouring pints of golden beer. 

“Sorry,” you say with a soft laugh. “I saw the crowd and couldn’t just let you suffer.” 

She rolls her eyes but smiles. “I’d tell you to scram if you weren’t so gorgeous—and a literal lifesaver.” 

You give her a cheeky wink before lining up the beers on a tray for the man. Penny swipes his card, and he’s gone in half the time. Then the next patron steps up, and you keep working smoothly, moving effortlessly behind the bar and easing the pressure. 

Eventually, the line dies down, and Penny takes full advantage of your presence by sending Jimmy out back for more stock. You stay behind the bar while she ducks off to collect empties, keeping yourself busy wiping benches, refilling lime wedges, and unloading the freshly washed glasses. 

You’re so focused on scrubbing at a particularly stubborn stain on the bar top that you don’t notice someone approach—someone you usually have a hard time not noticing. 

“You don’t work here,” Bob says, voice light, lips twitching at the corners. 

You glance up, your heart immediately jumping into overdrive. “I could,” you say, straightening. “Maybe I should quit the Navy. Bartending might be my true calling.” 

He chuckles. “You’re one of the best fighter pilots in the country, and you think slinging drinks is your destiny?” 

You shrug, leaning forward casually—knowing exactly what you’re doing. His eyes flick down to your chest for a split second before snapping back up, fast enough to pretend it didn’t happen. 

“Hey, don’t knock it. This job is harder than it looks.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he says softly, watching with quiet intensity as you pour him a pint of cherry soda—without him even needing to ask. 

You slide it over with a small smile. “What do you think? I’m a pretty good bartender, huh?” 

His cheeks tint pink, the flush dusting across his nose. “Yeah. I think you make a very pretty bartender.” 

You smirk. “Was that a compliment, Lieutenant?” 

He rolls his eyes and drops a crumpled ten onto the bar like it might save him from saying more. 

You shake your head. “Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” 

“You sure you’ve got that kind of authority?” he teases. 

“Penny said our drinks are free tonight,” you reply, smug. “Payment for being an excellent bartender.” 

“And for filling the tip jar faster than I’ve ever seen,” Penny chimes in as she reappears, arms full of empty glasses. 

Your cheeks heat as Bob’s gaze flicks toward the overflowing jar. 

“Wow,” he chuckles softly. 

You flick your hair dramatically and bat your lashes. “Perks of being a pretty bartender, I guess.” 

Then you turn around and bend over to grab something from the fridge—very aware of the effect—and sure enough, Bob promptly chokes on his soda. He coughs, his whole face turning red as he pounds a fist against his chest. 

“Jesus,” he mutters under his breath, “more like consequences of a skirt that short.” 

You snap upright, brows lifting and eyes gleaming with amusement. “Bob Floyd, did you just comment on the length of my skirt?” 

He blinks fast. “No.” 

You tilt your head, fighting a grin. “You sure? Because the colour in your cheeks looks a little guilty to me.” 

He straightens up, his usual walls clicking into place like armour. “Didn’t say anything.” 

You roll your eyes and plant both hands on the bar, leaning forward just enough to make him squirm. “Bob, I’m not a baby. And I’m not some virginal schoolgirl, either. You’re not going to hell just for flirting with me.” You pause, letting your gaze hold his. “Hell, if you did it more often, I might take you to heaven.” 

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, and you see the want flicker in his eyes—just before he reins it back in. 

“But if the age gap is that big of a deal to you—which, for the record, is barely anything—then maybe stop looking at me like you’re picturing me naked.” Your voice drops. “Mixed signals can really confuse a girl.” 

You hear the softest laugh from Penny, but your eyes stay locked on Bob’s—daring him to look down again, to do something other than walk away. 

He clears his throat. “Thanks for the drink.” 

Then he turns and walks away, heading straight back to the booth where all your friends are—acting like they haven’t been watching, but you know better. They’re all too nosy for their own good. 

You sigh heavily. “Men. Fucking impossible.” 

Penny laughs again, resting a hand on your shoulder. “Fighter pilots, actually. They’re a very special breed of difficult.” 

“Hey,” you giggle. “I am a fighter pilot.” 

She nods, smirking. “And there’s not a doubt in my mind how difficult you’re makin’ life for that boy right now.” 

You press your lips together and give her a flat look—because yeah… she’s not wrong. 

After all, why else bring a guy to the bar you knew your friends would be at—you knew he would be at? Why wear a dress this short? And why spend half the night with your eyes locked on him, just wishing he’d walk over and interrupt your lousy date? 

- 

Graveyard shift. Bat hours. Vampire runs. Ghost hops. Night rides. 

Whatever you want to call it—the squad hates night ops. 

It’s dark, it’s eerie, and your NVGs fog up if you so much as breathe wrong. Fatigue hits harder, the skeleton crew slows everything down, and visibility is shot—so you’re flying blind, trusting your radar and your WSO to keep you alive. 

“You know what’s great about night ops?” Mickey says, head tipped back in his chair. “Nothing. Not the dark, not the sleep deprivation, not the existential dread at two a.m. while staring into the black void wondering if your wingman ghosted you or just changed frequency.” 

You roll your eyes and take a sip of coffee. 

“It’s night one, Fanboy,” Natasha mutters beside you. “We still have four weeks of this. Are you going to complain the whole time?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. Probably.” 

“Did Mav piss Cyclone off or something?” Reuben asks. 

You shake your head. “Nah. He heard there might be a mission coming up with night flying. Figured we should get ahead of it.” 

“Or he just hates us,” Javy sighs, eyes half-shut. 

Natasha snorts. “Did you sleep at all today, Coyote?” 

“Nope,” he grumbles, shifting a glare toward Jake. “Someone had his whale noises up too loud and bit my head off when I told him to turn it down.” 

Jake shoots him a look. “They help me sleep. If you’ve got a problem, buy some earplugs.” 

“Damn,” you mutter. “Glad you’re not my wingman tonight, Coyote.” 

He shifts his glare your way and flips you off lazily before letting his eyes shut completely. 

“So, Vex,” Jake says, twisting in his seat toward you, “never did hear how that date went the other night.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now I have to report back on all my dates?” 

Jake’s lips twitch, his gaze flicking toward Bob. “Dates? As in plural? Just how many are we talking here?” 

“That’s none of your business,” you reply, taking another sip of coffee. 

There’s a brief pause, and his eyes narrow—seeing through you a little too easily. “The date tanked?” 

Natasha snorts and you quickly elbow her in the side. 

“Yes,” you mutter. “It sucked. He was boring. And no, I didn’t get laid. So yes, I’m in a less-than-favourable mood.” 

Jake’s smirk turns wicked. “Sweetheart, if getting laid is what you need, you only have to ask.” 

Your brows shoot up. “That so?” 

He nods. 

You turn to Javy, who’s about one breath away from snoring. “Coyote.” 

His eyes snap open. “Huh?” 

“Want to fuck me?” 

He startles—eyes wide, mouth dropping open. “I—uh, what?” 

Laughter rumbles through the room—everyone giggling softly at poor, confused Javy. 

Well... almost everyone. 

Bob isn’t laughing. In fact, he’s not even smiling, or looking your way. His eyes are glued to his phone—even though you can see the screen is blank. 

Which means he’s definitely listening. 

You shift in your chair and give Natasha a sidelong smirk. Her brow furrows slightly—a silent question about what you’re up to—but she nods anyway, signalling that she’ll follow your lead no matter where it goes. 

“Does anyone know if Cyclone’s single?” you ask, voice light and dripping with faux innocence. 

Mickey’s eyes go wide. “Admiral Simpson?” 

You nod, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah. He’s hot.” 

“Agreed,” Natasha says—and from the way her mouth curves, she’s not just playing along. She definitely agrees. 

“Isn’t he married?” Reuben asks. 

Javy frowns, still half-asleep but clearly paying attention now. “Nah, I think they divorced.” 

“So,” you say slowly, “what I’m hearing is... he’s single?” 

Bradley’s gaze flicks to Bob—just for a second—before settling back on you, reading you like a damn open book. “Bit old for you, isn’t he, Vex?” 

You shrug with a smile. “Not at all. I like older men. More experience.” 

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the way Bob shifts in his seat—just slightly, but it’s enough. He’s not looking at you, but the tips of his ears have turned pink, and his jaw is locked tight as he keeps his eyes on his phone. Still blank. 

“I swear he’s still married,” Mickey says, clearly trying to get this train back on the rails. 

“Yeah,” Reuben adds. “Didn’t they do couples counselling?” 

“They did,” Maverick says, breezing into the room like the punchline to your joke. “Didn’t stick. So yes, he’s single.” He pauses in front of you, green eyes sparkling with amusement. “But I’m not sure how he feels about dating subordinates. Want me to find out?” 

You match his smirk with one of your own, sitting up a little straighter as you meet his gaze. “How generous of you, Captain. That would be great.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head as he moves to the front of the room and sets a stack of papers down on the desk. “Alright, aviators,” he says. “Welcome to night ops.” 

After an hour-long briefing and way too many questions about why you’re all stuck on night training, Maverick orders everyone to get ready for the first hop. You’re on deck with Jake, Natasha, and, of course... Bob. 

The four of you ride in silence across the flight line, packed into one of the motorised carts as Maverick drives you from the squadron building to the hangar. There’s a low buzz of anticipation in the air, but no one says much. It’s late, and everyone is focusing on their own little preflight rituals. 

Once you reach the hangar, the ground crew directs you toward the night ops staging area where your NVGs and gear are laid out. You’ve done enough of these late-night flights to know the drill, so you join the others in wordlessly collecting your kit and starting to suit up. 

By the time you make it out onto the tarmac, your jets are already prepped and the crew chiefs are finishing up their walk-arounds. You head over to your jet, nodding to the plane captain before starting your own pre-flight check—walking the length of the fuselage, scanning for anything off, running a practiced eye over control surfaces, landing gear, intakes. It’s second nature by now, but you don’t cut corners. Especially not in the dark. 

Once you’re satisfied, you turn to face the runway and pull your helmet on, checking the vision through your NVGs. It’s blurry—just enough to make you squint. The image is skewed, the edges fuzzy, crawling inward like shadows that shouldn’t be there. 

You mutter something sharp under your breath, reaching up to adjust the settings yourself when— 

“Don’t move.” The voice is low. Steady. Too close. 

You freeze instinctively as Bob steps in—right into your space, like you’re the only two souls on the glowing stretch of tarmac. His gloved hand finds the side of your helmet, fingers sliding into place with steady control. It should feel clinical—routine—but it doesn’t. It burns. Even through the goddamn helmet. 

“I can fix it,” he murmurs, eyes on your goggles, not your face. “Tilt your chin up.” 

You obey—barely—and he leans in, his body almost touching to yours. One hand on your cheek-plate now, the other carefully turning the tiny focus dial above your temple. You can feel his breath against your skin, warm and shallow, and it sends a pulse through your ribs that you’re trying desperately not to show. 

“Didn't this happen last time?” he asks, the corner of his lips twitching. “You jam the strap too tight.” 

“I like it snug,” you mutter, not trusting your voice with anything flirtier. Not when he’s this close. 

Bob hums, low in his throat. “Of course you do.” 

Your heart stutters. 

He adjusts something with a flick of his thumb—the pad of it grazing down along the side of your face, slow and careful. Like he's memorising the shape of you under the gear. Your jaw flexes. 

“You always get this close when you’re adjusting gear?” you ask, pretending the heat in your voice is a joke and not a plea. 

Bob stills for a beat. Just one. 

Then—very softly—he whispers, “Only yours.” 

You swear your knees nearly give. 

But before you can breathe or speak or lean the half-inch forward that would start something you probably shouldn’t want this badly, Bob finishes the final adjustment and lets his hands fall. Slowly. Like it costs him something. 

“There,” he says, voice low but distant now. “Better?” 

You blink behind the goggles. “Yeah. Clear.” 

He lingers for half a second more—just enough to feel like maybe he wants to say something else—then turns and walks back toward the others without another word. 

You don’t move. You can’t. You’re just standing there in the dark, goggles perfectly focused, heart pounding like you’re about to hit Mach 1. 

It takes an embarrassingly long minute for you to remember how to function. To stop thinking about how close he’d just been—how you could smell him, feel his heat, and how, if you’d tipped your chin up and stretched just a little… you might’ve been able to kiss him. 

But then you hear Maverick shouting across the tarmac, calling for a final rundown before wheels-up. 

You shake your head, yank your helmet off, and join the others for a quick debrief before splitting up again and climbing into your jets. You settle in, strap your helmet back on, check your now perfectly focused NVGs, and run your usual internal systems check. 

Then—after the green light from ground crew—you’re in the sky. Squinting through your goggles, seeing the world saturated in green and grey, and wondering why the fuck no one has invented a better form of night vision yet. 

“Remind me again why we’re stuck on the graveyard shift,” Jake says, voice dry. “Because as much as I love flying blind through pitch-black nothingness, I’d really rather be in bed right now.” 

“You’re not blind, Hangman,” Maverick replies. “We’ve got one of the best WSOs in the world with us.” 

“Oh, good,” Jake says sarcastically. “My life’s in the hands of Phoenix’s baby on board.” 

You roll your eyes. “I’d rather have my life in Bob’s hands than yours, Bagman.” 

His chuckle crackles through the radio. “Yeah, I know where you’d like to have Bob’s hands. And it’s not holding your life.” 

Heat rushes to your cheeks, making the cockpit suddenly feel way too hot—your flight suit practically suffocating. 

“Hangman,” Maverick warns. “Be professional.” 

Jake scoffs. “Oh, so those two can eye-fuck each other all night long, but I can’t say the obvious out loud?” 

There’s a pause—a beat where you wonder if he’s finally pushed it too far—but then Maverick’s laughter cuts through. 

“Yes. Because they do it quietly.” 

Your eyes go wide and you almost—almost—fumble a right bank. “Mav!” 

More laughter crackles through the radio, Natasha now joining in. You’re just about to tell them all to stick it when the mood shifts, and the laughter stops. 

“Vex, check your two,” Maverick says, voice sharp and low. “Something’s throwing heat.” 

“Negative,” Bob cuts in. “Let me scan it first.” 

You hesitate, holding formation, but frustration flares under your skin. Did Bob really just override a direct order? 

“Confirming IR spike,” Bob says after a beat. “Something’s cooking down there, but it doesn’t match any known signature.” 

You glance down at the blur on your MFD. “I’ll break off, check it out.” 

“Wait. Don’t.” Bob’s voice is low but tense, edged with something more than caution. 

“Why?” you snap, anger prickling your chest. 

“I... I don’t like it,” he says. “It’s not worth the risk.” 

You grit your teeth and break off anyway, flying low and steady toward the suspicious heat signature. 

“I’m going to check it out, Mav,” you say, voice tight. “Hangman, got my six?” 

“Copy,” Jake replies. 

You bank left, staying quiet as you approach the stretch of uninhabited grassland. Your HUD flickers with the steady IR pulse—a dull orange glow against the dark terrain. Too concentrated for a campfire. Too controlled for a random burn. It’s creeping north—methodical. 

You drop lower when you spot flashing lights—fire crews moving with purpose, reflective gear flickering like stars in the NVG haze. This isn’t an accident. It’s a controlled burn. 

“Mav, why is there a fire in a training zone?” you ask. “Shouldn’t that be logged?” 

“It’s just brush management?” Maverick asks, sounding almost relieved. 

“Affirmative,” Jake replies before you can. 

“Copy. I’ll flag it with air traffic—looks like someone forgot to tell the rest of us.” 

You and Jake return to formation without issue. 

“Lucky it wasn’t Bigfoot, huh Bob?” Jake says, his smug grin practically audible. “Might’ve leapt right onto Vex’s jet and dragged her into the woods.” 

There’s no response, just the soft static of the open channel. 

Then Natasha mutters, “Don’t be a dick, Hangman. He was being cautious.” 

“Well, I’m sure she appreciates the concern,” Jake says. “But she’s not made of glass.” He waits for a retort—gets none—and chuckles. “And if she’d died out there, I would’ve avenged her. Dramatically.” 

“Hangman,” Maverick sighs. “That’s enough. Bob’s got better eyes than the rest of us tonight. Maybe don’t piss him off.” 

Still, nothing from Bob. You even crane your neck, catching sight of his and Natasha's jet—nothing but a shadow at your five o’clock. Like you could somehow see him in the cockpit, tensing his jaw or rolling his eyes at Jake’s jabs. 

Frustration simmers in your chest. You know he was just being cautious—or protective—but this is your job. He doesn’t get to tell you what you can and can’t do, especially when it’s a direct order from your CO. Even if you were dating, you wouldn’t let him boss you around—well, not outside of the bedroom, anyway. He can care. He can worry. But making it sound like you’re incapable? That’s what he just did. And it makes your skin crawl. 

The rest of the flight passes without incident, but the comms stay unusually quiet—even Jake gives up his teasing—and you’re still pissed by the time you’re back on the ground. 

You move through the post-flight motions with a frown on your face and your jaw locked tight. First, the ground crew helps you out of the jet and you do a quick walk-around. Then you ditch your night gear, knock out a maintenance report, and sit through a short debrief with Maverick before jumping in the cart back to the ready room. 

By the time you walk in, the others are already gone. You’re not sure if you were too caught up in your own grumpiness to notice them pass you on the way over, but you don’t bother asking. You’re still too busy being pissed. 

In fact, you’re so busy scowling at the coffee machine as it splutters out an espresso shot you know is going to taste like dirt that you don’t notice someone step up beside you. 

“I’m sorry,” Bob says, voice soft. “About what happened up there.” 

You jump—just slightly—then twist to face him, arms crossed tight over your chest. He's standing just a few feet away—helmet gone, flight suit half unzipped with the collar tugged open just enough to make your stomach flip. 

“I didn’t mean to undermine you.” 

“Sure felt like it,” you mutter. 

“I know.” His eyes finally lift to meet yours—midnight blue, heavy with regret and something else that makes your breath catch. “That’s why I’m apologising.” 

You turn back to the coffee machine, hoping the clatter and gurgle of the old machine will cover the sudden pounding of your heart. “Look, I get you were trying to be cautious, but Mav gave me a directive. You don’t get to override that just because your gut didn’t like it.” 

“I wasn’t thinking about you as a teammate back there,” he says quietly. “I was thinking—” 

“That I’m a little kid?” you snap, spinning to face him again. “Because whatever issue you have with my age, I need you to remember that I got here the same way you did. I worked my ass off to be the pilot I am today, and I don’t need someone second-guessing me just because they’re a little older. Especially when I know what I’m capable of.” 

His frown deepens. “No, it—it’s not that at all. I just—I didn’t see what it was, it was dark, and when you went low...” He drags a hand through his hair. “I couldn’t breathe. I thought, what if something happens to her?” 

You blink, startled by the raw edge in his voice. 

“If anything had gone wrong, it would’ve been my fault,” he says, softer now. “I’m the WSO. I should’ve seen it first.” 

“Bob,” you whisper, stepping closer before you can stop yourself. You can feel the heat radiating off him now. “If I ever end up in a bad spot, that’s on me. I trust you to have my back, always—but it’s my responsibility when I make a call. And I broke off because I knew you’d be there. You and Phoenix, Mav, Hangman... I knew I had the best team in the sky behind me.” 

His jaw clenches as his gaze drifts over your face, like he’s trying to memorise every inch. 

Then he moves closer—close enough for one of the clips on his suit to catch yours—and reaches out. His fingers hook gently into the edge of your suit’s hip pocket, tugging you forward just enough to make your breath hitch. 

“You’re not just my teammate,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get that? I care about you. More than a teammate. More than a friend. I—” 

“I don’t believe it,” a familiar voice cuts through the room. “The famous Dagger Squad stuck on the graveyard shift? What’d you do, lose another bet?” 

Bob startles, stepping quickly away from you with bright red cheeks, unnecessarily adjusting his glasses. 

You turn toward the door, ready to rip into whoever just decided to interrupt the closest you’ve ever gotten to Bob... when you realize who it is. It’s Trevor—an old friend from flight school and one of the newer instructors on NAS. You’ve been meaning to catch up with him, but being in an elite squadron doesn’t leave you much time for a social life. 

“Damn,” you say with a playful smile, “who let you in the building?” 

He steps fully into the room, wearing his signature shit-eating grin. “Vex,” he says, voice full of mock disbelief. “You’re still here? I figured Maverick would’ve canned your reckless ass by now.” 

Jake swivels in his chair to look at you. “So you’re a renowned little chaos gremlin? Good to know.” 

You roll your eyes and step toward your friend. “Guys, this is Trevor—or Grinder—I’ve known him since flight school. He gave me my callsign, actually.” 

Trevor snorts. “Technically, Admiral Prescott gave you your callsign. What exactly was it he said again? That you’re a living, breathing vexation who’s going to be the sole reason for his retirement?” 

Jake and Natasha giggle from across the room, and Trevor grins proudly. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Want to tell my squad how you got yours?” 

He tips his head, brows raised. “Maybe I should get to know them first.” 

Then his eyes flick toward Jake—grinning, handsome, utterly clueless Jake. Yep. That’s the real reason Trevor decided to drop by your squadron building tonight, because he knew Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin would be here. The very pilot he’s had a crush on for more months than you care to remember. He’s been bugging you for ages to introduce them, even though you told him—repeatedly—that you’re not sure Jake swings that way. He wasn’t deterred though; he said he’s happy to figure it out and see if he can negotiate if not. You just rolled your eyes. 

“So, Grinder,” Natasha says, “what do you do?” 

Trevor’s face lights up and he quickly launches into a long-winded explanation of his new role as a flight instructor. He walks toward her as he talks, inching closer to where Jake is seated not far from Natasha. 

You turn back to Bob, clearing your throat. “Sorry about him. He’s... a lot. But you were saying...?” 

He shakes his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the floor. “Nothing. It’s fine.” 

You frown. “It didn’t sound like nothing.” You take a slow step forward. “Didn’t feel like... nothing.” 

“It’s okay,” he says quickly, his eyes snapping up as he forces a tight smile. “We can talk later. Really, it’s fine.” 

You hesitate, wanting to push but knowing it’s no use now—those walls are well and truly back in place. 

“Okay,” you say, nodding once. “Later.” 

- 

Unfortunately, later never comes. 

You want to talk to him toward the end of the shift, but you’re both so exhausted after the first night that you can’t find the energy to push him for answers. So you let it go and head home. 

The next night, you’re on opposite hops, which means you don’t see him until the debrief in the early morning—when, once again, everyone is too wiped out to talk and just wants to wrap up and get home. 

The rest of the week slips by the same way. Every little thing keeps getting in the way of you and Bob actually talking. Even Thursday night, after a routine hop, when you’re both finally in the ready room and the moment couldn’t be more perfect—Trevor bursts in again, and Bob shuts down. 

When you finally leave base on Friday morning—glaring at the well-rested day-shifters on your way out like it’s their fault you’re dead inside—you make a promise to yourself. You’re going to talk to him this weekend. It doesn’t matter when or how or if you have to fake an emergency just to get five uninterrupted minutes. You’re going to do it. Because whatever weird, half-finished thing is hanging between you and Bob has been living rent-free in your head all week—and honestly, it’s starting to redecorate. 

“You sure you don’t mind?” Trevor asks, even though he’s already at your door with a duffel bag and a pillow. 

You roll your eyes. “Why would I mind?” 

He shrugs as he steps into your apartment. “I don’t know. Maybe you were planning to invite that gorgeous little blue-eyed lieutenant over.” He throws a cheeky wink over his shoulder. “You know, the one with the glasses. I’ve seen the way you look at him and—oof—does the man know what he’s in for? I mean, he looks at you just the same but—actually, come to think of it… why haven’t you screwed his brains out yet?” 

You shut your eyes and let out a deep sigh. When you open them again, Trevor is already sprawled across your three-seater couch like he owns the place. 

“First of all, he’s not little—you’re just freakishly tall—and secondly…” You step slowly toward the lounge, shoulders sagging in defeat. “He’s too good.” 

Trevor frowns. “Too good? Like… too good for you or—?” 

“That. And he’s respectful,” you say, flopping onto the end of the couch. “He’s got this thing about our age gap. It’s not a big one, but it’s… there, I guess. Maybe it’s also because we’re in the same squad.” 

Trevor watches you, eyes narrowed slightly, expression unreadable. 

“Wow,” he mutters. 

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He shrugs. “Just never took you for a quitter.” 

You rear back, incredulous. “A quitter?” 

“Yeah,” he says, tone cool and baiting as he casually searches for the TV remote. “I mean, if I was in love with a guy—which, you’re clearly in love with him—I wouldn’t stop until he had a restraining order against me.” 

You snort. “Yeah? Well, I like my job and my squad, so—” 

He lets out an exasperated sigh. “My God, Vex. Don’t take everything so literally. The man’s in love with you too. Just fucking go for it before your whole squad murders both of you for being whiny dumbasses.” 

He finds the remote and flicks the TV on, giving you a very pointed look—brows raised—before settling in and scrolling through streaming apps. 

And God, you hate to admit it, but maybe he’s right. Maybe instead of teasing Bob, you just need to go for it. Cut through the hesitation, stop him from overthinking, and make the damn decision for him. 

“Fine,” you say, standing up with purpose. “I’m going out tonight, by the way.” 

“Good,” he replies, not even glancing your way. “Just keep it down if you bring him home. He might look like an uptight officer, but I can tell that man fucks.” 

“Trev!” 

He chuckles. “What? I’m just saying.” 

You roll your eyes, cheeks burning, and storm off toward your room. 

Tonight, the squad has decided to go bowling. Everyone wanted to shake things up from the usual at The Hard Deck, and the only thing you could all agree on was bowling. 

Even though you hate the gross bowling shoes that have been worn in by a hundred other people—and the sticky holes on the balls after grubby little kids have been shoving their nasty fingers in them. 

But when Bob mentioned that he’s actually pretty good at bowling… well, how could you protest? 

Plus, it’s still short skirt weather—Bob’s favourite, as you’ve come to notice—and bowling in a tiny skirt feels like a fun, flirty little risk you’re more than willing to take. 

All in the name of science, of course. And your hypothesis? Bob doesn’t stand a chance. 

At 7PM, Natasha picks you up, shooting a very pointed look at the flowy little sundress you’re wearing under your denim jacket. But she doesn’t say a word. 

The drive to the bowling alley isn’t far, and soon you’re walking inside with Mickey and Reuben—who arrived around the same time. Jake, Bradley, Javy, and Bob are already there. They’ve got a lane, swapped into their shoes, and Jake is busy squeezing creative versions of everyone’s callsigns into the limited-character name slot. 

“Can’t you just be ‘Roster’?” he asks Bradley. 

Bradley frowns. “Can’t I just be Brad?” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “No way. You’re not a Brad. Just put Roo.” 

Jake’s face lights up like he just solved the mystery of why the sky is blue. “Good one, Phoenix. Thanks.” 

“What am I?” she asks. 

“Phone,” Javy replies, deadpan. 

Natasha blinks. “Phone? As in P-H-O-N-E?” 

“Yep,” Bradley chuckles. 

“What the fuck, Bagman?” She steps up to the little tablet where he’s typing the names. “Move. You’re an idiot.” 

You stifle a laugh and turn to Mickey and Reuben. “Want to get shoes?” 

They both nod, and you head toward the main counter—though not without catching the way Bob’s eyes drop to your legs, his throat working on a swallow as you walk away. 

You grab your shoes and rejoin the group, flopping down beside Bob just close enough to make him squirm. Then you lean forward, swapping your Converse for the white, red, and blue striped Velcro bowling shoes. 

When you’re done, you stand up and put one foot out. “These shoes are hot. Might have to steal them.” 

“You know what,” Jake says with a smirk, “I think you’re just gorgeous enough to make ‘em work. What do you think, Bobby?” 

You glance down at the man sitting beside you. The poor guy who’s basically eye-level—thanks to these ridiculously low seats—with your ass. The man whose glasses are just a little foggy by the bridge of his nose as he breathes a bit faster than usual. His cheeks are pink, lips parted, and his eyes are so wide—and so blatantly glued to your short, short skirt—that you can barely keep from laughing. 

“Bob?” you ask, voice full of faux innocence. 

He clears his throat, blue eyes flicking up to your face. “Y-Yeah. It’s a nice dress.” 

There’s a beat—everyone turns to Bob—and then they all burst out laughing. Mickey curls over, Reuben tips his head back, Jake’s face twists up, and Natasha has to hold on to Bradley’s shoulder to keep from falling over. 

Bob blinks, brow furrowed, looking back at you as the red in his cheeks deepens. “He wasn’t—we weren’t talking about the dress… were we?” 

You shake your head, biting back a smile. And with the way he’s looking at you—wide-eyed, breathless, full of heat—you feel a spark of boldness rise up in your chest. 

You reach out, pinch his chin between your fingers, and tilt his face up toward you. Then you lean in, slow and teasing, until there’s barely an inch of air between you—your voice a soft whisper just for him. 

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” you murmur. “I wore this dress just for you.” 

Then you straighten up with a wicked smile, leaving him speechless, blushing, and absolutely wrecked. 

You resist the urge to look back—even with all the teasing going on behind you—as you browse the rack of bowling balls. You pick one, mostly for its colour rather than its weight, and carry it over to the ball return where the others have already placed theirs. 

“We ready?” Natasha asks, finally tapping ‘finish’ on the tablet. 

The names pop up on the screen above the lane: Roo, Hngmn, Pback, Fboy, Nix, Bob, and Vex. 

“Rooster,” she calls, “you’re up.” 

Bradley steps forward, grabs a ball, and promptly sends it flying into the gutter. That’s all it takes. One terrible bowl and the trash talk ignites—like gasoline on an open flame. 

“Jesus, Rooster,” Reuben says. “My nephew could bowl better than that blindfolded—and he’s six, man.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Mickey laughs, “you sure you should be flying jets with that kind of coordination?” 

Bradley flips them off before picking up the ball again, dialling in his focus and managing to knock over seven pins on his second try. 

“Alright, losers,” Jake says, swaggering up to the ball return. “Time to watch how a real man bowls.” 

Unfortunately for everyone, Jake is obnoxiously good at bowling and casually lands a spare without breaking a sweat. But then Reuben steps up and nails a strike, which earns him an impressive amount of booing. 

“What can I say?” he grins as he drops back into his seat. “I’m just too good.” 

Next up is Mickey, who insists he has a ‘signature move that never fails’. He then immediately wipes himself out and lands on his ass as the ball rolls tragically slow down the lane. It takes everyone a solid few minutes to recover from laughing. 

Natasha follows, and—with terrifying precision—manages to hit a spare, knocking down a seven-ten split like it’s nothing. 

“Alright, Baby,” Jake says, clapping a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “You ready to show us what you got?” 

Bob rolls his eyes and shrugs off Jake’s hand, the corner of his mouth twitching as he stands and heads for the ball return. You’re not sure if it’s intentional, but the jeans hugging his ass are outrageously distracting, and it takes a considerable amount of effort to look at the pins instead of his backside. 

By the time you finally manage to drag your eyes down the lane, the pins are already gone—swept clean away as Bob turns around with just the faintest hint of a smug grin. 

“Fuck,” Reuben mutters. “Bob can bowl.” 

“Oh, damn,” Mickey giggles. “Going after that is gonna suck.” 

You shoot him a look as you push out of your seat. “Thanks, Mick.” 

Bob doesn’t sit down right away—he steps over to the ball return, picks up your ball, and hands it to you with a soft smile. 

You take it, intentionally placing half a hand over his. “Thanks.” 

He nods once, then retreats to where the rest of the squad are waiting. 

“Need a little guidance, Vex?” Jake drawls, voice low and smug. “I give excellent hands-on instruction.” 

You roll your eyes, sliding your fingers into the holes. “I think I’d rather roll a gutter ball than have you breathing down my neck, Bagman. But thanks for the offer.” 

There's a chorus of oohs behind you as you turn back toward the lane. You step forward, swing the ball back, and—thunk—release it way too late. You’re honestly surprised it doesn’t leave a dent in the floor. It wobbles down the lane before veering off and sinking into the gutter just before the pins. 

“Damn,” you sigh, turning around with a sheepish grin. “I’m going to score lower than Rooster.” 

There are a few murmured insults about your lack of bowling skill, but you barely hear them. Bob catches your eye, his lips parted like he’s about to say something—offer to help maybe—but then he just... doesn’t. 

You watch him sink back in his seat as you pick up your ball and turn to the lane—this time with a bit more intention. 

Bending lower than strictly necessary, you wiggle your fingers into the ball’s grip and line up your shot with exaggerated focus. The hem of your dress shifts just enough to tease the tops of your thighs, and you don’t have to look to know Bob’s watching. You can feel it—the weight of his stare, the sudden shift in the air like gravity is a pressing down just little harder. 

You swing the ball back and release with a cleaner motion this time. It rolls straight—miraculously—and clips five pins on the right. Not bad. Not great. But right now, you're more interested in the reaction behind you. 

When you turn, Bob’s gaze jerks up like he’s been caught red-handed. His lips are parted, cheeks flushed, and he looks absolutely wrecked—like someone just knocked the wind out of him with a feather. 

Jake whistles low. “Pretty sure what I just witnessed is actually a crime in several states.” 

Reuben leans forward, eyes on Bob. “Oh, no. I think Bob is broken.” 

Mickey snorts. “Somebody reboot him.” 

Bob blinks hard, still dazed, and mumbles something under his breath. The rest of the squad continue laughing quietly, their eyes flicking between you and the flustered lieutenant—who is now very interested in the floor.  

You smile to yourself as you walk back, fighting the urge to smirk too hard as you drop into the seat beside him. 

“You know,” Bradley says as he steps up to the ball return, “if I’d known this game was about showing as much ass as possible, I would’ve worn my shortest skirt.” 

You roll your eyes and lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “Please. You would've blinded everyone—and that’s probably the only way you'd have a shot at winning.” 

The squad bursts out laughing again while Bradley shoots you an unimpressed glare. Then he grabs his ball, turns toward the lane, and kicks off the next round. 

You stay quietly pressed to Bob’s side while the others take their turns. And honestly? You don’t care if the game ever continues. With his jean-clad thigh snug against your bare one, you could stay right here all night. 

And Bob doesn’t seem eager to move either. He stays close, legs aligned, knees brushing, arm grazing yours—his warmth wrapped around you like your favourite blanket. 

You’re seconds away from resting your head on his shoulder when Mickey pipes up, announcing that it’s Bob’s turn. He shifts slowly, giving you a soft smile as he stands and walks toward the ball return. 

This time, instead of watching his ass, your eyes track his hands. 

You’ve always had a thing for hands—especially Bob’s. They’re just... really nice hands. Big and steady, with long fingers that look like they could touch you in ways that would rewrite your entire understanding of pleasure. You’ve imagined those hands everywhere—ghosting over your skin, gripping your thighs, digging bruises into your hips, clawing down your back.��

You’ve thought about them more than what could ever be considered healthy. You could write poetry about those hands. Recite sonnets. Start a religion. 

And when those fingers sink into the bowling ball holes? 

Well, fuck. There’s nothing PG about this game—not when your brain is spiralling into fantasies about all the downright filthy ways that Bob Floyd could ruin you. 

“Hey,” Javy nudges your shoulder, knocking you out of your Bob-induced daydream. “It’s your turn, dude.” 

You blink, shaking your head and hoping your blush isn’t as obvious as it feels as you push out of your chair and walk up toward where Bob is. 

“Do you—uh, do you want some help?” he asks, holding your bowling ball in his hands. 

You fight the grin threatening to break across your face, nodding. “Sure.” 

“Hey!” Jake calls from behind you. “I offered first.” 

Reuben snorts. “Yeah, but she doesn’t want to bone you, does she?” 

Both you and Bob ignore them. You take the ball from his hand and move up to the lane, slipping your fingers into the holes and holding it at your chest. 

“Okay, coach,” you say with a small smirk. “Tell me what to do.” 

“Alright, here,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he reaches out and gently takes your wrists. 

His touch is light, reverent, and it makes your breath catch. He adjusts your hands around the ball, slow and precise, like he’s memorising the shape of you. How warm you are. The way you respond so eagerly to his touch. 

“Fingers like this,” he murmurs. “You want a solid grip. Not too tight.” 

Your heart stutters. His hands are big—warm and rough in the best way—and they settle over yours like they were made to. When he steps closer to correct your stance, his chest brushes your back, and you feel everything. The press of him. The tension in his thighs. The tremble in his exhale. 

“Now,” he says, gently guiding your arm, “swing back like this—smooth, steady…” 

You try to follow, but it’s hard to focus when his hands slide down to your hips, positioning them with the lightest squeeze. You swear he groans under his breath—just barely audible, like he’s suffering. 

“That’s… yeah. Perfect.” 

He freezes. 

You don’t move. Neither does he. His hands are still on your hips, his breath coming faster now, his body just slightly more rigid. 

And then you feel it. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

You shift your hips—just a fraction—and he instantly jerks back like he’s been electrocuted. 

“Shit—uh, yeah, you—you got it. You’ll do great,” he stammers, voice suddenly strangled and two octaves higher. “I—uh—I’ve got to—bathroom. Real quick.” 

You turn just in time to see him rush off, pink in the ears, tripping slightly over a chair leg. 

“Was it something I said?” you call after him sweetly. 

Jake cackles from the bench. “Nah, I think you just short-circuited the poor guy.” 

Natasha leans forward, watching Bob disappear down the hallway. “Oh no,” she says with a grin. “I think Bob is completely falling apart at this point.” 

You grin, still tingling from where his hands touched you, as you turn back toward the lane. You roll the ball and, somehow, end up getting a spare—despite your brain being completely stuck on Bob... and what exactly had made him bolt so fast. 

Bradley gets up for his turn as you move dazedly back to your seat, mind hazy with thoughts of how Bob had felt pressed against you. 

“God, you’re so gone,” Natasha says with a soft laugh. 

You roll your eyes, but the dopey smile refuses to budge. 

“It’s a shame he’s too stupid to do anything about it,” Jake mutters. 

Natasha shoots him a look. “He’s not stupid. He’s cautious.” 

Reuben chuckles. “Yeah, well, if tonight’s anything to go by, Bobby might be throwing caution to the wind pretty soon.” 

You sigh as you sink into one of the low seats. “Not tonight, unfortunately.” 

They all look at you, confused. 

“Trevor’s staying at my place,” you explain simply. 

The group gasps—everyone but Natasha staring at you in disbelief. 

You frown. “What?” 

“I thought—” Mickey glances around like someone else might back him up. “I thought you only liked Bob.” 

You and Natasha—the only two in this group with any emotional intelligence, apparently—exchange a look. 

“She’s not into Trevor,” Nat says dryly. “And he’s definitely not into her.” 

“Yeah,” you add. “He’s gay.” 

“Like, very gay,” Natasha says. “Like, into Hangman gay.” 

Jake’s head snaps toward her. “Excuse me?” 

“Ohhh,” Mickey sighs. “That makes so much sense.” 

Reuben laughs. “Is that why he’s been stopping by every couple nights?” 

You laugh too, nodding. “Yeah. He’s been stuck on nights since getting stationed here, and he’s been bugging me to introduce him to Hangman. Thought it was fate when he found out our squad got moved to nights too.” 

“Excuse me,” Jake repeats. “What exactly makes a man extra gay for being into me?” 

The whole group breaks out laughing—Bradley included as he returns from taking his turn. 

“You’re just... pretty,” Javy says with a shrug. 

“So?” Jake throws up his hands. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It’s a compliment, dude,” Reuben says. “Just take it.” 

Jake huffs, but the rest of the group turns back to you. 

“So, why is he staying at your place?” Mickey asks. 

“Yeah,” Bradley adds, “and why can’t you bring someone home? It’s your place.” 

“His plumbing at the barracks is all messed up, so I offered him my couch,” you explain, before looking at Bradley. “And I could bring someone home, but I’m pretty sure he’d make it weird. Plus, I’m not exactly a fan of… being quiet.” 

Jake tips his head back with a dramatic groan. “God, why is it always the quiet nerds who get the hot freaky girls?” 

You giggle and pat his knee. “Oh, Hangman. You’re delusional if you think Floyd isn’t a freak too.” 

“Ugh,” Natasha groans. “Why does this feel like you’re talking about my brother?” 

“She’s right, though,” Mickey says, thoughtful. “Bob’s got something about him.” 

The rest of the squad nods, unspoken agreement passing between them while Jake’s eyes flick around in horrified disbelief. 

“What’d I miss?” Bob asks, suddenly reappearing at the edge of the group. 

Everyone falls silent. 

“Hangman’s stalling,” Natasha says coolly, “because he realised he’s going to lose.” 

Jake narrows his eyes at her as he stands. “You’re going down, Trace. This next one’s a strike.” 

He stalks off toward the ball return, and the game resumes. 

Thankfully, Bob doesn’t question the odd look Mickey gives him as he sits down beside you. Only this time, he keeps his distance—at least an inch between your bodies, careful not to let even the fabric of his shirt brush your arm. He doesn’t look at you, either. His gaze stays locked on the lane, watching each turn with intense focus. And he definitely doesn’t offer any more hands-on guidance for the rest of the night— though the blush on his cheeks stays stubbornly in place. 

After two games of bowling, a round of hot dogs, and more shit-talking than could possibly be quantified, everyone decides to call it a night. It isn’t even that late, but with your wrecked sleep schedules, you’re all starting to feel a little loopy. 

You swap back into your own shoes, return the bowling pair, duck into the bathroom, and head for the door. Everyone but Bob is already outside, but like the gentleman he is, he’s still inside—waiting by the claw machine with his nose buried in his phone. 

“Hey, superstar,” you say as you approach. “How’s it feel to be the best bowler in the squad?” 

He glances up with a soft smile. “One of the best,” he corrects. “I only won the first game.” 

You smirk, confidence flooding your gut. “Was it first-game luck or my skirt that threw you off during the second?” 

His face flushes bright red, eyes going wide like he’s just been caught in a lie. “I—uh, no, I just—” 

You roll your eyes playfully. “I was joking, Bob. Calm down.” 

He presses his lips together and nods, eyes flicking down to your bare legs for the briefest second before returning to your face. 

You nod toward the doors. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before the others get suspicious.” 

He nods and gestures for you to lead the way—so you do, swinging your hips just a little extra. 

He hesitates for a beat, and you can feel his gaze sear into the exposed skin of your legs before he doubles his steps to catch up and walk beside you. 

“I was wondering,” you say quickly, forcing the words out before you lose your nerve. “Did you—um,” you clear your throat, “want to hang out tomorrow night?” 

He glances at you, blue eyes swimming with something you can’t quite place. 

“Just us,” you clarify, voice dropping. “Kind of like… a date?” 

There’s a pause. An awkward pause. 

The hairs on the back of your neck rise and your stomach twists. 

“Um,” he drops his gaze to the ground, brows knitting. “I—I can’t tomorrow. I’ve got—I mean, I haven’t done laundry like… all week with the shift change, and I really need to catch up before Monday.” 

Heat floods your face, embarrassment settling heavy and sour in your gut. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, still staring at the floor. 

You dip your chin and blink hard, swallowing the burn rising behind your eyes. “No problem,” you say, keeping your voice even. “Hope you have fun doing laundry.” 

Then you double your pace and slip out the doors, not bothering to hold it open. You cross the parking lot quickly, making a beeline for Natasha’s car without so much as a glance toward the others. You yank the passenger door open, slide in, and slam it shut. 

- Bob - 

“What’d you do?” Natasha asks, arms crossed and eyes narrowed. 

Bob takes a slow breath as he drags his eyes up to meet her glare. “Nothing,” he mutters. 

“Yeah?” She arches a brow. “So, Vex will say the same thing when I ask her?” 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubbing the spot where his glasses sit. “Probably not, Phoenix. But you know what? I don’t really feel like explaining myself to you right now, so please—just drop it.” 

She rolls her eyes and lets her arms fall to her sides, keys jingling in one hand. “I really thought you were one of the good ones, Floyd. I’m a little disappointed.” 

Then she turns and mumbles goodbye to the rest of the squad—who are all watching with wide eyes—before walking to her car and climbing into the driver’s seat. 

Bob can still feel your glare through the windshield, even if the dark night doesn’t let him see you clearly inside the car. 

As soon as Natasha peels out of the lot, Bob feels the shift—the boys’ eyes snap toward him. 

“So,” Jake says, brows raised, “what did you do?” 

Bob exhales and leans back against his car, arms crossing over his chest. “She asked me out,” he says quietly, “and I told her no… because I have laundry to do.” 

There’s a collective intake of breath. The atmosphere sharpens with something unspoken but easily understood: Bob fucked up—bad. 

“You what?” Reuben asks, leaning in. 

Bradley lets out a low chuckle. “Holy shit, Floyd. That was dumb.” 

“I know,” Bob huffs. 

He’s not sure why he couldn’t tell Natasha but has no issue telling the others. Maybe because Natasha was about to get in a car with you and hear the story anyway—so why bother? Or maybe it’s because he’s a little afraid of Nat. And he knows, deep down, that he messed up. He just didn’t feel like getting chewed out by his sharp-tongued pilot tonight. 

“Why the hell wouldn’t you say yes?” Jake frowns. “She’s so into you—it’s almost a joke. And she’s gorgeous. Who cares about the age gap?” 

Bob’s eyes snap toward him, brow furrowed. “You’re the one who always has something to say about it. You literally call me a cradle-snatcher, like… once a week.” 

Jake rolls his eyes. “Because it’s fun to get a rise out of you. I don’t actually mean it.” 

“Yeah, dude,” Javy adds. “If we thought it was wrong, we’d say something. We make fun of you both because it’s obvious you’re obsessed with each other.” 

“Honestly,” Mickey pipes up, “I thought you two were already dating and just keeping it from us.” 

Bob buries his face in his hands, the heat in his cheeks burning against his palms. “For fuck’s sake.” 

“Oh, wow,” Reuben mutters. “Bob just swore.” 

Bradley drops a hand on Bob’s shoulder. “Maybe you should call her. Or—I don’t know—go see her tomorrow. Apologise. You don’t have to date her, but if that’s how you feel, you need to be clear. Don’t lead her on. And you definitely owe her an apology for that shitty laundry excuse.” 

Bob nods slowly, letting his hands drop. “Yeah. I know.” 

Mickey chuckles, pulling his keys from his pocket. “Good luck, dude.” 

They all say their goodbyes and head for their cars, leaving Bob still leaning against the side of his own, a far-off look in his eyes and guilt twisting in his chest. 

He barely sleeps that night. 

Every time he closes his eyes, he sees the profile of your face after he said no—the way your eyes glossed over, your jaw clenched, and your lips pressed into a thin, unshakable line. The memory cuts through him like a blade. 

He hates the thought of hurting you. But more than that, he hates himself—because he knows he did. He knows you cried, whether it happened in the car or the moment you got home. Either way, the result is the same—he made you cry. And that thought alone makes him feel sick. 

Before the sun even rises, he’s out of bed. Sleep abandoned, guilt gnawing at his insides, he laces up his shoes and goes for a run—trying to outrun the tight knot in his chest. He knows he’ll have to sleep later and stay up again tonight, thanks to another stretch of night shifts. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is talking to you. This morning. If you’ll even let him. 

After his run, sweat still cooling on his skin, he finally works up the nerve to text you: ‘Hey, sorry about last night. Are you free this morning?’ 

An hour passes. Nothing. 

And he knows you’re ignoring him—because you’ve reacted to a couple of messages in the group chat. You’re awake. You’re just not answering him. And honestly, he doesn’t blame you. 

By ten o’clock, he can’t stand it anymore. 

The ache in his chest is unbearable. His head is pounding. The guilt in his stomach is curling tighter with every passing second. But it’s not just guilt. It’s not just the regret of hurting a friend’s feelings. 

It’s worse—because it’s you. 

You’re his favourite person in the whole damn world. He can admit that now. You make him laugh. You make him feel like himself. And as much as he’s tried not to need you… he does. Desperately. 

The age gap isn’t the real problem—it never was. Maybe it’s just an excuse, something to hide behind because deep down, he doesn’t think he deserves you. But that’s not good enough anymore. He has to fix this. Even if you never forgive him, even if things can’t go back to how they were—he has to try. 

Because Robert Floyd knows now, without a doubt, that he’s in love with you. 

And God, he hopes he can say it out loud—because it might be the only thing that can save him now. 

Before Bob even knows exactly how he’s going to say everything that’s been spinning through his head, he’s already outside your apartment building. He knows where it is because he helped you move in after the Dagger Squad was made a permanent unit at North Island. 

He still thinks about that day, too. About the exercise tights you wore—how they clung to your ass like a second skin. About the loose tee you eventually peeled off because you were overheating, leaving you in nothing but a sports bra. And when you finally took a break, beer in hand on your new balcony, he watched you cool down… and watched your nipples pebble beneath the Lycra fabric. 

Bob felt like a total creep that day, but that hasn’t stopped him from—repeatedly—getting off to the memory of you on that balcony. Cheeks pink, lips wet with beer, eyes so wide and innocent, even though he’s pretty sure you knew exactly what you were doing to him… 

He shakes his head and forces his feet to move—into the building, into the elevator, and up to your floor. The hallway feels both way too long and not nearly long enough as he approaches your door. Then, with a deep breath, he raises his hand and knocks three times. 

His heart is caught in his throat, hammering like it’s trying to escape. He’s felt pressure in the cockpit, but nothing like this. This is worse than pulling 8 Gs. 

The door swings open, and he opens his mouth to immediately beg you to hear him out—but… it’s not you. 

“Bob,” Trevor says with a sleepy grin and a wicked glint in his eye. “What a surprise to see you here.” 

His hair’s a mess, his cheeks are flushed, and his eyes are half-lidded. He looks like he either just woke up… or just got done doing something naked and personal with someone else. Which might explain why he’s shirtless, wearing nothing but a crooked pair of boxers that—at least in Bob’s opinion—aren’t leaving much to the imagination. 

“I—uh, Trevor?” 

Trevor nods, brow furrowing slightly. “The one and only. You good, man? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

Bob wishes it were a ghost. Because what he’s seeing right now is ten times more horrifying than anything spooky or undead. 

He clears his throat. “Y-Yeah, I’m good. I just—um, I was going to ask Vex if—” 

“Who is it?” you call groggily from deeper inside the apartment, your voice thick with sleep. 

Trevor smirks over his shoulder. “Floyd!” 

“What?” 

He nudges the door open a little wider, revealing you in nothing but an oversized U.S. Navy tee. Your hair is mussed, your cheeks are flushed, and your eyes are narrowed—definitely not surprised. Just… pissed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, arms crossed tight against your chest. 

Bob stares, wide-eyed. You’re not shocked. You’re not flustered. You're still mad. How could you still be mad at him now? 

“I—uh, well—” He shakes his head and steps back, his stomach swirling nauseously. “Nothing. It’s fine. Just—forget it. You two have fun.” 

Then he turns on his heel and practically jogs down the hall, mashing the elevator button hard enough to hurt. He can hear your voice behind him, Trevor’s too, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to care. He just wants to get the hell out of here before he goddamn cries over the fact that the woman he loves just jumped into bed with the next guy right after he turned her down. 

Does he have any right to be this angry? Probably not. But still—why couldn’t you see it from his point of view? Why couldn’t you understand he was just… hesitant? That he needed some time to wrap his head around it? 

But no. You couldn’t be patient. You couldn’t wait. 

Because maybe you’re not as into him as everyone keeps saying. Maybe you never were. 

God, he should’ve known. He should have known it was too good to be true. Why would someone like you want someone like him? And why would you waste your time waiting—when you could have just about any man you wanted? 

- You - 

“What was that about?” Trevor asks, his head still half-stuck out the door like Bob might suddenly come back. 

You drop onto the couch, shoving aside the blanket Trevor had been using. “Don’t know,” you mutter. “Maybe he was thinking about apologising for being a jerk, but then decided to just keep being one.” 

Trevor turns to you with a puzzled frown. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

He shuts the door and walks slowly toward to the lounge. “Yeah, but I didn’t understand you. What’s with the attitude?” 

You sigh, rolling your eyes. “I asked him out last night.” 

Trevor gasps—loudly. 

“But he said no.” 

He rears back, brows drawn. “What? Why?” 

“Because he has laundry to do.” 

Trevor’s eyes go wide, his mouth falling open. “No.” 

“Yup,” you mutter, sinking deeper into the cushions. “That’s what the attitude is for.” 

He nods slowly, still staring. “Right… but then why did he show up here?” 

You shrug. “Maybe to apologise. Or maybe he was going to let me down for good. Tell me to stop flirting with him, or whatever.” 

Trevor frowns again, his eyes glazing over like he's lost in thought. 

You nudge his knee with your foot. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” he says quickly, though the curiosity stays fixed on his face. 

“Trevor…” 

He exhales a short breath. “I mean—do you think he thought… you and I…? You know?” He gestures vaguely between the two of you. “He knows I’m gay, right?” 

You snort. “Yes, Grinder. Bob Floyd, along with all of North Island, is very aware that you’re gay. I was literally talking about it with the squad last night.” 

He nods. “Good. ‘Cause if he didn’t, me opening the door shirtless and you in that ridiculously oversized tee might’ve looked real bad.” 

You barely hear him as he continues to rant about men and miscommunication. Instead, you flick on the TV, letting the background noise of old cartoon reruns wash over you while the memory of last night replays on loop. 

You let yourself feel it—let your chest ache with it—and hope it’s enough to kill off this stupid crush once and for all. 

But deep down, you know the truth. 

Whatever this is, it stopped being just a crush a while ago. 

And you’re starting to fear that maybe—just maybe—you’ve accidentally fallen in love with Bob Floyd. 

You spend the rest of the day sulking on the couch like it’s your full-time job, while Trevor obliterates your kitchen trying to make homemade macarons to ‘cheer you up.’ Normally, you’d be in there with him, correcting his technique and keeping the apartment from burning down, but not today. Today, you’re tired and heartbroken. 

The two of you stay up late trying to adjust to the coming week of night shifts, but by two a.m. you’re passed out on the lounge… and promptly woken at four by Trevor’s snoring. That’s when you give up, throw on your shoes, and go for a run—hoping to burn through enough energy to sleep through the day before shift. 

Trevor is gone by the time your alarm goes off at eight p.m., giving you an hour to tidy the apartment before showering and heading off to base. You stopped living on base when the Dagger Squad was made permanent at North Island, same as most of the others. It’s nice not having to share bathrooms or constantly wonder whether you’re going to get all your socks back from the laundry room. But you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss running into your friends all the time—running into Bob. 

The sky is dark and the base is quiet as you park your car and make your way to the squadron building. Your stomach twists nervously at the thought of seeing not just Bob, but your whole squad. You know they’d all know by now—that you asked Bob out and he shut you down. 

Honestly, you wouldn’t even be surprised if Maverick knew. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, meeting you by the stairs before you enter the briefing room. 

You give her a tight smile. 

“Feeling any better?” 

You shake your head, lips still pulled into a watery smile as you push the door open. 

Bob is already in his usual seat—because of course he is—but he doesn’t look up when you walk in. He doesn’t give you that soft smile he usually does whenever he sees you. 

Instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the lid of his travel mug, jaw tight as he flicks the little tab open and closed. 

Natasha gives you a sidelong glance, her brows drawn curiously. She knows what happened—you told her—but you haven’t yet filled her in on the part where he showed up at your apartment and then left in a hurry. 

You shake your head, giving her a silent look that says you’ll fill her in later. Then you turn and make your way to the back of the room, sinking into one of the furthest possible chairs from where Bob is seated. 

It isn’t long before Maverick walks in and starts the briefing. He rambles on about a possible mission on the horizon, which means upcoming hops and drills are going to be more purpose-driven. He wants to work closely with the WSOs, having them and their pilots fly point to spot anything the night might hide from the F/A-18E drivers. 

You’re not particularly bothered by that, because after tonight, the rest of your hops are scheduled with Reuben and Mickey. Which means you only have to deal with Bob for one night. Just one. You only have to pretend to listen to him for one night. Then you get almost a full week’s reprieve. 

“Alright,” Maverick says, shutting his notebook. “Phoenix, Bob, Hangman, Vex—you’re on deck. The rest of you, head to the ready room.” 

Everyone shuffles out, the group splitting down the corridor as half of you head outside and the other half veer toward the ready room. 

You let Natasha and Bob take the lead, half-listening to Jake whine about how much he hates NVGs and how night shifts ruin his gym schedule. 

Then the cart ride is silent—tension so thick that even Maverick doesn’t bother breaking it. 

Once at the hangar, you start gearing up and going through the motions—chatting with ground crew, checking your jet, adjusting your equipment, running internals. You wait until it’s your turn to be taxied out, then climb into the cockpit and try to settle your nerves. 

You take a deep breath and call on every ounce of focus and maturity you have just to stop yourself from shutting off comms. You might be pissed right now, but this is your job. The job you worked way too hard for to let some ridiculously gorgeous lieutenant break your heart badly enough to get you grounded. 

Tonight, the sky is clear but moonless—the darkness heavier than usual. You check your instruments twice—three times—and remind yourself it’s just another hop. You’ve done this a thousand times before. 

But still, your hands stay tight on the controls. 

You fly in relative radio silence for the first twenty minutes, squinting through slightly misaligned NVGs. You’d fiddled with them on the ground until you gave up and told yourself your vision was good enough. It’s quieter than usual, and you’re not sure if that’s because no one has anything to say—or because the night feels eerily still. 

Natasha and Bob are flying point, with you and Jake in the second element. Maverick is out here too, but only observing—watching closely as you run a low-level, terrain-following route meant to simulate a high-risk strike. 

You’ve done this kind of thing a hundred times, even at night. But something about this hop feels off. Or maybe it’s just you, flying like you’ve got something to prove—to yourself, or to someone else. You haven’t decided yet. 

Then Bob’s voice crackles through the comms, steady and low. “Vex, you’re a little wide on your spacing.” 

You don’t answer, but you adjust—barely. 

“Maintain visual, Vex,” Natasha adds, voice firm. “Don’t ride solo tonight.” 

You bite the inside of your cheek and flick your radio toggle. “Copy.” 

You fall back into formation as the terrain-following manoeuvres begin—tight dips, sweeping curves, a mock run on radar targets ahead. You lock in, gripping the stick, head tipped forward, forcing your focus to drown out the simmering frustration. 

It’s not an easy run, but you’ve done it before. You know the tricky spots, and you’re watching out for your team, flying just a little closer than what’s usually comfortable. You’d be flying almost perfectly—if it weren’t for Bob’s corrections crackling through the radio. His voice in your ear every few minutes, low and steady. Commanding. It’s making your skin crawl and your pulse race. 

You know you’re better than this. You’ve trained to handle the worst. To stay sharp pulling 10 Gs, to keep cool weaving through canyons at Mach 2. And yet somehow, Bob Floyd’s maddeningly smooth voice telling you and Jake how not to crash is what’s making you consider pulling the damn ejection handle. 

“Vex, you’ve got a ridge coming up,” Bob says, his tone sharper now, more urgent. “Drop throttle. Adjust heading five degrees right.” 

You hesitate. Your altimeter says you’re good, and your gut says you’re fine. You think—no, you know—you can hold it. 

“Vex—” he tries again. 

“I’ve got it,” you snap, breathless as you press on, trying to hold your line. 

Jake cuts in with something sharp, but you don’t catch it—because suddenly the warning tone in your headset screams. 

Your heart lurches. 

Terrain. Too close. Too fast. 

“Pull up! Pull up!” Bob’s voice slices through the comms. “Vex, you’re too low!” 

You grit your teeth, trying to correct, trying to climb—but it’s too dark, too fast. Everything is a blur. 

“Vex, listen to me—pull up!” His voice cracks. “You’re going to hit—” 

“Eject!” Maverick shouts, raw panic in his tone. “Vex, eject now!” 

“I can save it,” you mutter, voice strained. “I can—" 

Then you see it. A flash of jagged terrain through the cockpit glass—a dark silhouette where there should be sky. And in that split second, the truth hits you like a punch to the chest. 

You’re not going to make it. 

Your hand flies to the ejection handle, pulling it hard. 

The canopy blasts away with a deafening crack, wind slamming into you like a freight train. The violent jolt of the seat launches you skyward, your body wrenched into the dark as the jet disappears in a blur of motion below. 

Then—freefall. 

The sky spins. The world tilts. The parachute deploys with a brutal yank that rattles your spine. 

But you’re too low. Far too low. 

You don’t even have time to brace. 

You hit the ground hard—a bone-snapping impact that knocks every breath from your lungs. The force slams through your leg with a sickening pop. 

White-hot pain detonates through you. 

Your vision flashes. Your stomach turns. You can’t even scream. 

And then… everything goes still. 

Muted. 

Quiet. 

Like the world took a breath—and left you behind. 

- 

You wake to the steady beep of a monitor. Your eyelids are heavy, your mouth is dry, and there’s pain everywhere. It’s not as excruciating as it had been right before you blacked out, but it’s there—dull and throbbing, a bitter reminder of what had happened when you ejected from your jet. 

It feels like it was only seconds ago, but you know better than that. You’re not that out of it. 

The sharp sting of antiseptic hits your nose. There are low murmurs nearby, the shuffle of feet across tile, and the distant sounds of other beeping machines. Even before you manage to open your eyes, you know—you’re in a hospital. 

The white and blue walls are almost blinding, but after a few sticky blinks, your vision finally sharpens. You roll your tongue against the roof of your mouth, searching for moisture. 

You try—and fail—to sit up. Your body is too heavy against the crunchy hospital pillows, and your right leg is pinned down even more by a thick black-and-white brace. 

“Ow,” you mutter, voice hoarse and barely audible. 

There’s a sudden gasp beside you, then a quick shuffle of movement. 

A warm hand wraps around yours as dark blue eyes swim into focus above you, wide and full of concern—rimmed red, with deep purple shadows underneath. 

“You’re awake,” he says, voice rough before he clears his throat, like he's trying to swallow down something heavier. 

“Bob,” you whisper, lips cracking as they stretch into a soft smile. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just looks at you. His face is pale, exhaustion carved into every line, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to memorise it. Or maybe—trying to recognise it. Because whatever softness was there fades fast, replaced by something harder. His lips flatten into a thin line. His hand tightens around yours… then lets go. 

He stands straight, jaw clenched, and turns to the wall to press the nurse call button. 

You frown, but before you can speak—if you even could with how dry your mouth is—a nurse rushes in. 

“Oh, you’re awake!” she says brightly, green eyes lighting up as she stops beside the bed. “How are you feeling?” 

You clear your throat. “Thirsty.” 

She nods and quickly wheels the little table over, pouring water from the pitcher into a small plastic cup. She then hands it to you before using the bed remote to ease you into a more upright position. 

“Thanks,” you rasp after a few sips, your voice clearer now. 

The nurse smiles softly, her eyes flicking between you and Bob. “He didn’t leave your side. Not for a second.” 

You turn to look at him, but all traces of warmth are gone. He looks almost angry, his gaze fixed straight ahead—not at you or the nurse, but at the wall. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense, and his hands are clearly balled into fists in his pockets. 

He’s still in his flight suit, which means he’s been with you since the second search and rescue found you. 

“I’ll give you two a minute,” the nurse says. “I’m just going to grab the doctor, alright?” 

You nod, not even looking at her, and she shuffles out of the room, swinging the door half shut on her way. 

Bob’s eyes flick to you. “Are you in pain?” 

You shift slightly, the dull throb in your leg pulsing back to life. “Yeah,” you wince. “A little. But it’s bearable.” 

He doesn’t move. His whole body is tense, only his eyes locked on you—sharp and unrelenting. 

“You have a hairline fracture in your femur,” he says. 

You glance down at the brace wrapped around your leg. 

“You’re lucky it wasn’t a full break,” he adds. “You’d have been grounded for at least six months—or longer. Probably would’ve had to requalify, if you even got cleared again.” 

You swallow hard. He’s angry—really angry. The way he’s looking at you, it’s like he’s torn between wrapping you in his arms or walking out the door and never looking back. 

“You didn’t listen,” he says, voice cracking as he takes a step forward. “You were supposed to listen to me, and you didn’t. I—I told you just last week that if something happened, it would be my fault.” 

Tears sting your eyes, blurring your vision. “This isn’t your—” 

“No,” he snaps. “It’s not. This is your fault. Because you were reckless, and cocky, and too caught up in your own shit to listen to a perfectly sound call from your WSO.” 

You blink, warm tears slipping down your cheek. “Bob, I—” 

“Don’t,” he says, voice low and raw. “Don’t say my name like that. Don’t look at me like I’m the only person you want to see right now.” He lets out a shaky breath, dragging a hand through his hair. “I’ve been here for two days. I haven’t slept. I haven’t eaten. You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were dead. You went down so fast, you—you—” 

The door swings open and a middle-aged woman with white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun steps in. “Lieutenants,” she greets briskly. “Sorry to interrupt, but there are a few things we need to go over.” 

Bob straightens immediately. “Thank you, Doctor. I’ll be leaving now.” 

Her brows knit together, but she doesn’t stop him as he turns and walks out. 

His footsteps are heavy. Forced. Like it’s taking everything he’s got to walk away and not look back. 

After a whirlwind of doctors, nurses, and a long debrief with the flight surgeon, you're finally discharged. You can’t drive—of course—so they pack you into a general escort car with your leg still in the brace and a pair of crutches tossed in beside you. Fantastic. 

Once you’re home, you collapse into bed and immediately pass out. But it’s not exactly restful. Your brain won’t shut off—won’t stop replaying the way Bob looked at you, the anger in his voice, the exhaustion written all over his face. How he never left your side. How he still hasn’t responded to your text thanking him for staying. Or the one where you apologised for not listening to him in the air. 

You want to talk to him. Need to talk to him. Because you're not planning on staying grounded forever, and when you’re back on your feet, you’re not transferring out. The Dagger Squad isn’t just a group of friends—they’re your family. Bob included. In a completely non-incestuous way, obviously. Even though there are definitely some things you’d like to do to him that would make a family dinner wildly uncomfortable. 

But first, he has to reply. He has to acknowledge that you exist. 

When you wake again, it’s dark, and your phone is lit up with a flood of messages from the team. You take your time replying to each one, then hobble into the bathroom, ditch the brace, and take the hottest, longest shower your body can tolerate. 

The next few hours are spent on the couch, anxiously watching the clock until Natasha finally texts you to say they’ve been dismissed. Which means Bob is off. Which means he has no excuse. 

But still—nothing. You call. He doesn’t answer. Then Natasha texts again to let you know she watched him decline it. 

Great. Another win. 

Two whole days pass, and still no word. 

You’re supposed to be on bed rest for two weeks before the flight surgeon clears you for light duties, but you’re going stir-crazy. With the squad on night shifts and your circadian rhythm completely fucked, you haven’t spoken to anyone but Trevor—once, over the phone—in forty-eight hours. Unless you count text messages, which you don’t. 

All you want is to talk to Bob. Ask him why the hell he came to your house that day. Why he was so pissed at you that night. And why he thinks it’s okay to spend two full days sitting beside your hospital bed and then just vanish like none of it happened. 

At this point, you don’t even care if he professes his undying love for you—though you’d strongly prefer it—you just want an explanation. You want to know what you did to hurt him so badly, and how to make it right. Because more than anything, you need him. And if friendship is the only version of him you’re allowed to have... then you’ll take it. 

Even if it kills you. 

By the third day… or night—you’re not even sure anymore—you decide to take matters into your own hands. 

Your alarm blares at four a.m., an hour before you know the squad will be dismissed, and you wriggle out of bed and into a loose pair of sweatpants before securing your brace over the top. Then you tug on your stupidly oversized U.S. Navy shirt, grab your crutches, and hobble out the door. 

You know where Bob lives—in the least creepy way possible—because you all moved out of the barracks around the same time, and you helped each other move. So, you call an Uber, hauling your injured self into the back seat with grim determination and only a small amount of whining. 

It’s barely a ten-minute drive, which gives you about half an hour to crutch your way up the fire stairs—because of course the elevator requires a swipe card—to his apartment. 

You know it’s ridiculous. You could’ve just waited in the lobby. But you don’t want to give him the chance to run away—again, in the least creepy way possible. The plan is to corner him at his apartment door, and maybe guilt-trip him a little with how much effort it took just for you to get there. At the very least, he’d have to escort you back down to the lobby with his swipe card… and maybe you could ‘accidentally’ sabotage the lift so it broke down. Then he’d be stuck with you. 

Jesus. Thirty-six hours alone and you’re already in full-blown serial killer mode. 

It takes twenty minutes to reach his floor, with plenty of breaks along the way, but eventually, you make it. You hobble down the hallway and lean against his door, dropping your head back with a soft thunk. 

Not even a minute later, Natasha texts you to say they’ve been dismissed—because of course you filled her in on your plan. 

And then you wait. With a racing pulse, a throbbing leg, and about a thousand thoughts spiralling through your brain. You wait. 

At one point, a neighbour emerges from a nearby door, startling you. They give you a deeply dubious look before slipping into the elevator, and you make a mental note to tell Bob that they might warn him about a crazy, broken-legged woman lurking outside his apartment. 

Your breathing picks up as the minutes pass—faster and faster until it feels impossible to catch. You feel dizzy, like you might pass out just waiting for him. But then—ding. 

The elevator doors slide open, and Bob steps out. 

Seeing him for the first time in three days shouldn’t feel like a religious experience—but it fucking does. God, he looks good. Even sleep-deprived, rumpled, and sporting messy helmet hair, he’s a walking wet dream in a flight suit deliberately designed for your destruction. 

“Hey,” you say quietly, not wanting to startle him. 

He jumps anyway—just a little. His feet still, eyes widening behind his glasses, brows pulling together. 

“What are you doing here?” 

You push off the door, steadying yourself on your crutches. “Good to see you too,” you say dryly. “I’ve been alright. A little lonely, borderline insane. My leg’s killing me after a thousand stairs. But hey—you look... tired. How’s the squad?” 

He studies you for a moment. His frown softens, and you swear the corner of his mouth twitches. 

“I am tired,” he says. “The squad’s fine. Also tired.” 

You nod. “Cool. So... everyone’s tired.” 

He pulls his keys from his pocket and starts walking toward you, closing the distance. 

“That all you came to talk about?” he asks. 

You roll your eyes and shuffle aside. “What do you think?” 

He sighs. “I think I’m not going straight to bed anymore.” 

The door swings inward and he steps through, holding it open for you—wide as possible. 

“That would be correct,” you say, flashing a grin as you hobble inside. 

He shuts the door behind you and slides the chain lock into place. 

You try not to appear as awkward as you feel, but crutches aren’t exactly graceful—and you haven’t had much practice. You make your way past the kitchen toward the small living room, where a plush cream sofa waits with perfectly fluffed pillows and a decorative throw draped neatly over the back. You’re just about to drop onto it when a warm hand catches your elbow. 

“Here,” he says softly, his other hand reaching to take the crutches from you. 

He’s so close you can feel his warmth. You catch his scent—clean linen, a hint of jet fuel, and something subtle and spicy that’s so unmistakably him. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, eyes locked on his lips. 

He helps ease you down slowly onto the couch before straightening and setting your crutches aside, leaning them against the wall beside the TV cabinet. 

“Let me just get changed,” he says, already turning toward his bedroom without a second glance. 

He’s gone less than a minute. When he returns, he’s wearing dark blue joggers and a white sleep shirt worn so thin it’s almost translucent. 

“Water?” he asks, detouring into the kitchen. 

You shake your head. “I’m good—but thanks.” 

He’s stalling. You know it. But you can be patient. 

He pours himself a glass, drains it, then pours another before finally making his way back into the living room. He sits at the very end of the chaise lounge—about as far from you as possible. 

“Okay,” he says. “You want to talk?” 

You nod, adjusting your posture even though you're already stiff with nerves. 

“Look,” you begin, eyes dropping to your lap. “I know why you’re mad about the accident—I get it. It was stupid. I was reckless. I deserve to be in this stupid brace. I shouldn’t have ignored you, and I shouldn’t have let personal shit bleed into work. I’m sorry.” 

You glance up, but he doesn’t react—doesn’t move. He just blinks. 

Still, you press on. “If I could go back, I would. If there was anything I could do to make it up to you—or the squad—I’d do it. But we’re here now, I feel like shit, and the accident is on my record. I’m just glad none of you, or Mav, are in trouble because of me.” 

He’s still silent, but you can see it now—his eyes keep flicking down to your shirt, his frown darkening each time. 

“What I don’t get,” you say, your voice tightening, “is why you were already mad that night. Why you came to my apartment that morning but ran off without—” 

“That’s irrelevant,” he cuts in, voice low—lethal. 

You frown. “What do you mean irrelevant? The whole reason I was in a bad mood that night is because you rejected me and then acted like I did something wrong.” 

His eyes widen. “Oh, so it’s my fault now? That what you’re saying?” 

“No,” you snap. “Of course not. God, Bob, none of this is your fault. It’s mine. It’s all mine. I was the idiot who asked you out, the idiot who got mad when you said no, and the idiot who let it affect her at work. I’m not blaming you. I just want to understand.” 

He takes an infuriatingly calm sip of water, gaze still fixed on your torso. 

“You want to know why I said no when you asked me out?” 

You shake your head. “I know why you said no.” 

His brow creases. “You do?” 

You sigh, eyes falling to your fingers as they toy with the hem of your shirt. “Because you don’t like me. That’s it. And I need to accept that. I shouldn’t have pushed it, or forced myself on you, and—” 

He scoffs—sharp and dry—cutting you off. “You’re joking, right?” 

You look up, blinking slowly. “Um… no. Not really.” 

His laugh is sharp—bitter and cracked—so not Bob. 

“You think I don’t like you?” he says, voice rising—unsteady now. “Are you insane?” 

He stands suddenly, running a hand through his hair as if trying to keep himself from flying apart. 

“I have never cared about anyone the way I care about you. You are the only damn thing I think about. I can’t sleep, I’m not hungry, I can’t focus—I just want you. All the time. Do you know how maddening that is?” His eyes are wild when they meet yours. “And yeah, I said no when you asked me out, but that wasn’t because I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to. I wanted to say yes so badly it hurt. But I was scared.” 

He paces now, voice building like the pressure in a cockpit. 

“It wasn’t about your age—that was just a dumb excuse. It was you. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, you’re funny, and you’re so sharp. You walk into a room and everything shifts. And I kept thinking, how the hell does someone like you want someone like me?” 

His voice cracks, and he stops pacing, facing you full on. “So yeah. I panicked. I said no. And the second you walked away, I regretted it. I hated myself for it. And that morning—I came to tell you. I was ready to throw it all on the table.” He swallows hard, jaw flexing. “But then he answered the door. Like he lived there. Like he belonged. And you—” 

He gestures at you, helpless. His eyes—dark blue and burning—shine with the storm he’s been holding back. 

“You just stood there. In his shirt. Like you hadn’t just ripped my heart out and stepped over it. Like I was nothing. Like I’d missed my shot and you’d already moved on.” His voice dips—raw now. “And now? You’re here. In the same goddamn shirt.” 

He laughs again, broken this time. 

“And I know I had no right to be angry. I know it. But Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to look at the woman you love knowing you’re the one who ruined it? Who let her go?” 

He’s panting now, standing between the couch and the coffee table with wild eyes and flushed cheeks. Just looking at you. Waiting. 

You swallow hard, blinking fast to keep the tears from falling. Your pulse is racing, pounding in your ears like a war drum. You can feel your heart hammering against your ribs, threatening to break bone. You can’t breathe. You can barely think. There’s only one word echoing in your head. 

“Love?” you whisper. 

He rubs his hands down his face, letting out a shaky breath. 

“Yes. Love.” His arms drop to his sides as he meets your eyes again. “I love you.” 

Your heart lurches into your throat. 

“But that doesn’t change anything,” he adds quickly, dropping onto the couch—closer this time, close enough that his knee brushes yours. “I don’t expect it to change anything. I let you down, and you moved on. You had every right to. I should never have been angry about it—and for that, I’m sorry. Just…” He sighs again. “Just give me some time, okay? Just let me—” 

“Trevor’s gay,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. 

He blinks. “What?” 

“Gay,” you repeat. “He’s gay. Like, so incredibly gay he’s into Hangman.” 

Bob’s lips part, a soft breath slipping out. 

You lean forward, brows drawn tight. “His callsign is Grinder. I mean, yes—partly because he’s a hard worker—but mostly because he got caught on Grindr before a briefing once and... it just stuck. But—Bob, I thought you knew—” You cut yourself off, eyes going wide. “Oh my God. You were in the bathroom when I told the squad.” 

The room falls into a heavy, eerie silence. 

The air between you crackles—so thick, so charged, the smallest spark could burn the whole damn building down. 

“Hangman?” he whispers, nose scrunching just slightly. 

You nod. “Hangman.” 

He blinks slowly, wide eyes swimming with emotion. “So, you didn’t—” 

“No,” you snap, frustration flaring hot beneath your skin. “Is that what you thought? That I asked you out, and when you said no I just ran off to find the nearest guy who’d fuck me?” 

He cringes—actually cringes. “That’s just how it looked, I—” 

“So you assumed?” you cut in, voice sharp. “You didn’t even ask. You just decided to get all broody and jealous and pissed off, even though you’re the one who rejected me?” 

You want to pace like he did, storm out, slam a door, something—but you can't. Not with your stupid leg. 

“I know I had no right,” he mutters. 

“Damn straight you didn’t,” you bite out. “You think I’d do that? You think I’d throw myself at someone else just because you said no? Jesus, Bob, I’m looking at a decade-long mourning period after you. I’m in love with you. Do you really think I could move on? Ever? Let alone the next fucking—” 

His mouth is on yours before the word leaves your lips. 

It’s not a kiss—it’s a collision. A detonation. A goddamn freefall. 

His hands are in your hair, on your jaw, trembling as they try to hold you steady while his lips crash into yours with blistering need. It’s hot and desperate and unrestrained, all teeth and tongue and pent-up ache, every ounce of frustration and longing he’s carried igniting in a single breathless second. 

You gasp, shocked by the force of it—your lips parting, letting him in. 

And then it’s chaos. Raw, searing, beautiful chaos. 

His touch is everywhere, frantic and reverent, as if he’s trying to memorise you with his fingertips and palms. Your hands claw into his shirt, his shoulders, his hair, dragging him closer, gasping into his mouth like you’re both trying to breathe each other in. 

You feel like you’re on fire. Like this kiss could split you in half. 

There’s a sharp pain in your leg from how hard you’re leaning in, but you don’t care. You’d burn your whole body just to keep this going. 

Because he kisses you like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like stopping would kill him. And you kiss him back with the same reckless hunger—because you’ve wanted this forever. Because he’s yours. And you’re his. And nothing else exists anymore but the way he’s holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your lips. “I love you. I love you. Please don’t go. Don’t ever leave.” 

You press your forehead to his, a breathy laugh slipping out. “I’m not leaving.” 

“Good,” he murmurs, then kisses you again—soft, lingering. 

His lips find the corner of your mouth, then trail down the line of your jaw to your neck. Your skin ignites beneath every brush of his mouth, like your whole body is wired to spark beneath his touch. 

Your stomach flips like you’ve been dropped from a height. Your thoughts dissolve into haze. Limbs weightless, breath shallow. All you can feel is the hot press of his lips and the growing ache in your stupid leg. 

“Bob,” you whisper, broken and breathless, as his tongue traces the hollow where your shoulder meets your neck. “Bob, m—my leg.” 

He jolts back like he’s touched a live wire, eyes wide. The sudden loss of him leaves you cold, shivering in the space he’s no longer filling. 

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps. 

You shake your head quickly. “It’s fine. I’m okay.” 

He looks so heartbreakingly beautiful it makes your chest tighten. His glasses are askew, his cheeks flushed, lips kiss-swollen and wet. His eyes are wild and wide, pupils blown so far they swallow the blue. 

Then he frowns, glancing down at your shirt. “So... whose shirt is that?” 

You blink, then glance down. “Oh. No idea. Barracks laundry mix-up, I think. Makes a good sleep shirt, though.” 

He chuckles softly, the pink in his cheeks creeping all the way to the tips of his ears as his eyes lock on yours. “It looks good on you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “but I think I prefer the short skirts.” 

Your heart trips, racing straight into your throat. “Bob Floyd,” you gasp, eyes wide with faux scandal, “did you just admit how much you love short skirt weather?” 

He rolls his eyes, all sheepish charm. “Only when the skirts are on you.” 

“That so?” Your lips curl into a slow smirk. “Well, unfortunately, I think this—” you tap the brace on your leg “—means short skirts are officially out. For now, at least.” 

He exhales hard, gaze dropping for just a second before snapping back to yours—burning now. There’s a hunger there, dark and open and unfiltered, something you’ve maybe only glimpsed before. It sparks heat low in your belly, your thighs aching to clench—if it weren’t for your stupid goddamn injury. 

Then, low and shameless and deadly serious, he asks, “What about sex?” 

The question punches the breath right from your lungs. Your cheeks flush hot as you bite your lip to hide the grin already threatening. 

“Can you be gentle?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper. 

“I can try,” he mutters, so deep and rough it settles right between your legs and spreads like wildfire. 

Your head is spinning. Logic fading fast. You don’t care how sore your leg might be—you want him. All of him. Finally. 

So you lean in, brushing your lips to his in a soft, teasing kiss as you murmur against his mouth, “Then what the fuck are you waiting for, Floyd?”

END.

[honeytonedhottie]

journal prompts.ೃ࿔*:･🍨🎀

journaling is one of my all time FAVORITE things to do. its so much fun especially since i LOVE to yap and just write to myself. my journal prompts are super unserious and super girly and just so perfectly me, so in this post im just gonna share some of my journal entry titles as prompts for inspo for the other girlies who love to journal…💬🎀

❤︎ ideas - if u dont write ur ideas down i guarantee you won't remember them so its important to jot things down. i write down all my ideas for my blog, business endeavors, even just things i wanna do.

❤︎ shopping lists - especially ones that i use more than once like my essentials shopping list or my seasonal shopping list.

❤︎ lipstick swatch pages - you can swatch some lip liner and do cute little kiss marks on the pages so u can remember what the shade of gloss looks like when ur on the go.

❤︎ tattoos i wanna get and why - i wrote that page like a year or two ago and as im looking back at it, it still rings true.

❤︎ smash or pass - i have a page of my celebrity crushes smash or pass, and then the people i actually know irl smash or passes. or i'll do kiss marry kill or something fun like that.

❤︎ general diary entries - like talking about my day, everything im grateful for etc etc.

❤︎ sweetest inbox letters - because you guys always write sweet stuff to me and i always copy it into my journal so i can look back on it.

❤︎ all about me page - what can i say, i like talking about myself.

❤︎ letters to future versions of myself - and then i dont open them until later dates. sometimes i'll do a video diary entry or something fun like that.

❤︎ notes to my younger self - this one’s kinda healing. write to the little you with love, and tell her how FABULOUS and gorgeous she turned out.

❤︎ dream outfits i wanna recreate - i screenshot pinterest looks or outfits i see in music videos + write down how i’d style them with stuff i already have or wanna thrift.

❤︎ boy toys - i LOVE how juicy this page is. im a super detailed writer and i come with RECEIPTS. i include names, dates, details, the whole nine yards.

❤︎ my designer wishlist - designer pieces that i want in my closet. im super intentional with my wardrobe so i want very specific things.

❤︎ my spicier techniques - idk how in depth i can go about this on my blog 💀 but i write all my techniques in here. use ur imagination.

❤︎ my emergency contacts - not actual phone numbers but more so things that instantly lift me up when im having like a mood swing. like the exact shade of lipgloss i wear when im sad or my comfort movie and comfort soup order from my favorite chinese food place.

❤︎ my perfume wardrobe - i have a matching perfume wardrobe in my beauty binder but i like to have it in my journal too because its just such a fun page.

❤︎ glow up plans - cuz i love looking my best and thinking about how i can get even hotter.

[aajjks]

Truth and Kiss (m)

synopsis. Just playing truth and dare with your roommate, pretty innocent, right? NO.

warnings. 18+, kïssíng, hôrny bèhàvíóúr, cráck, prófáníty.

note. Hi guys, I wrote this because I was missing him so I hope you guys will enjoy this and you know what if this gets positive reactions? I might write a follow up to this and… smut hehe. Thank you please enjoy.

•••

It starts with a bottle of cheap wine and Jungkook’s dumb, smug face leaning across the table.

“Truth or dare?” he grins, eyes glassy from the alcohol, that stupid dimple popping like he knows he’s about to ruin your night in the best way.

You narrow your eyes. “Why do I feel like this is a trap?”

“It’s not!” he protests, way too quickly. “I’m just tryna have fun with my favorite girl.”

Your heart does a weird little skip. But no.

No.

Not falling for it.

You sigh. “Fine. Truth.”

He smirks, tapping his finger against his lip like he’s thinking hard. “Okay. When was the last time you thought about me… like that?”

You blink. “Like what?”

His grin widens. “Like, you know. In a way where you wanted to climb me like a tree.”

You throw your head back and groan. “Oh my goodness. Next.”

“Nope,” he says, leaning closer, eyes sparkling with mischief. “You gotta answer.”

“Never,” you lie through your teeth, but your ears are burning and you know he sees it.

He gasps dramatically. “Liar! Babe, you’re hurting my feelings.”

You snatch the bottle of wine and take a big gulp. “Dare.”

His face lights up like Christmas. “Kiss me.”

You stare at him.

GOODNESS.

“You’re so predictable.”

“Yeah, but you’re still thinking about it,” he says, leaning in just a little, breath warm, eyes dark.

You shove him back with a pillow. “Truth.”

He sits up, hair messy now, still grinning. “Alright. Truth… I’ve thought about you on my face at least—mmm—three times this week.”

You choke on air. “Jungkook!”

He shrugs. “You asked for truth.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you love it.”

You roll your eyes but your lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Fine. Dare.”

He smirks. “Sit on my lap for the next round.”

“You’re insufferable.”

But you’re already moving because the wine’s hit and honestly? You don’t hate the idea.

You settle on his lap, and holy fuck, he’s warm. And solid. And he smells stupid good, like soap and boy and trouble.

His hands hover awkwardly, like he doesn’t know where to put them without risking death.

“Truth or dare, princess?”

You glance at him, smirk playing at your lips. “Truth.”

His voice dips low, filthy. “Do you want me?”

You freeze.

His eyes are locked on yours, no more jokes, no more smirks just raw, open crush, the kind he’s been trying to hide behind dumb dares and dirty jokes.

You gulp, mouth dry, pulse racing. And before your brain can stop your mouth—

“Dare.”

He laughs, loud and real, head falling back, dimples deep, eyes bright. “Coward.”

But he’s looking at you like you just made his whole night.

•••

You’re still on his lap.

And he’s still looking at you like you’ve hung the stars just for him, dumb grin plastered across his face, hair sticking up in every direction because of your earlier pillow attack.

“Alright, since you chickened out on truth,” he says, voice all low and warm now,

“you gotta take your dare seriously.”

You arch a brow. “You already dared me to sit on your lap.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, gaze dropping to your lips, “but you didn’t ask how long.”

You snort, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But you don’t move.

And neither does he.

His hands finally settle on your hips, tentative at first, then a little firmer when you don’t slap him away.

His fingers flex like he’s trying to commit the moment to memory.

Like he can’t believe this is real.

You feel it too. the tension humming between you.

The warmth of him.

The way his heart is racing under your hands where they rest on his chest.

“Truth or dare, babe?” His voice is almost a whisper now, like he’s afraid of breaking the spell.

Your mouth is dry, heart pounding in your throat. “Truth.”

He grins like he just won the lottery. “Are you thinking about kissing me right now?”

Your brain shortcircuits.

You want to say no.

You really do.

But he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists. Like you hung the moon and the sun and all the stars.

Like he’s been waiting forever for you to just see him like this.

And fuck it.

You’re drunk enough. You’re bold enough.

“Maybe.”

His breath hitches. You can feel it under your palms. His grip on your hips tightens, like he’s trying not to lose it.

“Your turn,” he manages, voice rough now. “Truth or dare?”

You grin, wicked. “Dare.”

And oh, the look on his face. Like you just handed him the keys to the kingdom.

“Kiss me.”

It’s not a joke anymore. No smirk. No dimple. Just pure want, right there in his eyes.

You don’t overthink it. You don’t hesitate. You lean in, and your lips meet his— soft at first, testing the waters, but he’s not having it.

Nope.

Jungkook kisses like he’s been starving. Like he’s been waiting a lifetime.

Like he’s trying to pour every filthy thought, every hidden crush, every goddamn dream he’s ever had about you into this one kiss.

His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, closer, until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

His mouth is warm, insistent, teeth nipping just enough to make you gasp, and he groans— low and wrecked, like he’s been waiting forever for this exact sound from you.

When you finally break apart for air, you’re both breathing hard, foreheads pressed together.

“Well,” you manage, dazed, lips tingling. “That escalated.”

He grins, eyes still half-lidded, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Best. Dare. Ever.”

And the way he’s looking at you? You know he’s already plotting his next move.

“DONT GRIND!”

You’re still on his lap. His hands haven’t left your hips. His chest is rising and falling like he just ran a marathon which, honestly, might be true given how hard that kiss hit him.

“Okay okay.”

You blink, trying to gather your thoughts, but he’s still staring at you like you’re the eighth wonder of the world, lips swollen, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

“Truth or dare?” you say, breathless, because you’re not about to let him win this game.

His grin turns downright dangerous. “Dare.”

You tilt your head, thinking, feeling bold as hell.

“I dare you to stop being a coward and tell me how long you’ve actually wanted to kiss me.”

He freezes.

Like full-on, glitching-in-real-time Jungkook.exe has stopped working.

“Fuck,” he mutters, scrubbing a hand over his face, ears burning bright red. “Since the week we moved in.”

Your stomach flips.

“The week?”

He groans, leaning his head back, looking at the ceiling like it can save him.

“You were wearing that dumb oversized hoodie, hair in a bun, yelling at the Wi-Fi. I don’t know, okay? My brain broke.”

You burst out laughing. “Seriously? That’s what did it?”

“I have no explanation for my dick,” he says dramatically, throwing his arms up.

“It has a mind of its own. It saw you and was like yup, that’s the one. End game. Pack it up.”

“Gotta respect your dick.”

You’re laughing so hard you almost fall off his lap, but his arms are around you now, holding you steady, his face buried in your shoulder, giggling too.

When you both finally calm down, you pull back to look at him.

“Truth or dare, Jungkook?”

He smirks, eyes dark, fingers drumming lightly on your waist. “Dare.”

You lean in, lips brushing his ear, voice low and dangerous. “I dare you to do that again.”

And before you can even blink, he’s got you pulled in, mouth crashing into yours like he’s been waiting for permission his whole life.

This time it’s hungrier, messier.

hands in your hair, tilting your head just right, lips parting yours like he owns them.

His tongue traces yours, slow at first, then deeper, like he wants to taste every part of you, like he wants to ruin you for anyone else.

You’re clinging to him now, fingers fisting his hoodie, heart racing so fast you’re dizzy.

When you break apart, gasping, his forehead rests against yours, both of you wrecked.

“This,” he says, voice rough, thumb stroking your cheek, “is the best fucking game I’ve ever played.”

You laugh, breathless. “And you’re still losing.”

He grins. “Oh, babe, trust me. I’m winning.”

You’re both breathless, hearts racing, tangled up on the couch like two idiots who should definitely stop while they’re ahead.

But of course, neither of you does.

Because Jungkook’s looking at you like you’ve just given him the keys to heaven.

His thumb is still tracing lazy circles on your waist.

His knee is bouncing slightly because this man?

This man is literally buzzing with energy, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself now that his wildest dream is happening in real time.

“Truth or dare?” he rasps, voice still wrecked from kissing you like he was trying to memorize every inch of your mouth.

You grin, feeling reckless. “Dare.”

His eyes flash. “I dare you to let me kiss you somewhere that’s not your mouth.”

Oh.

Oh.

You know you should say no.

You should laugh it off, shove his dumb face away, remind him that this is just drunken game chaos and not Real Feelings.

But instead?

“Where?”

Jungkook’s lips part, and for a second he looks absolutely stunned that you didn’t shut him down.

His cheeks go pink, ears turning red, but that cocky smirk returns fast.

“Neck,” he breathes. “Right here.” His fingers brush the spot where your pulse is thudding like crazy.

You should stop him.

But when his mouth meets your skin, you forget how to think.

It’s slow at first, just a soft press of lips, then a warm drag, and then— oh God, the tiniest scrape of his teeth.

Your breath stutters, fingers tightening in his hoodie.

You feel him smile against your throat, feel his grip on your waist firm up like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

“Jungkook—;” you gasp, but it comes out sounding way too much like a moan.

And that? That breaks him.

His head snaps up, eyes blown wide, looking at you like you just handed him the entire universe on a silver platter.

“Oh my God, you liked that.”

You glare, trying to regain some dignity. “No I didn’t.”

“Liar,” he grins, dimples out in full force, smug as hell. “You so did. I felt you shiver, don’t even try me.”

“Fuck.. my dick is like throbbing right now..”

You shove him lightly but you don’t move off his lap. Because god help you, this is fun.

Too fun.

“Truth or dare?” you challenge.

He leans in, grin turning filthy. “Dare.”

You smirk. “I dare you to shut up for two seconds before you embarrass yourself more.”

Jungkook gasps, hand to chest like you stabbed him again. “Babe. That’s cold.”

But he obeys. For about two seconds. Then—

“You know, I read somewhere that making out burns calories. We should, like, consider our health.”

You snort. “Oh my God. You’re impossible.”

“And hot,” he says, wiggling his brows. “Don’t forget hot.”

Your face hurts from grinning. You’re still pressed together, still tangled, still too far gone to untangle without admitting to what this is now.

And when his gaze drops to your lips again?

Yeah. This game is far from over.

[rabbitindisguise]

I feel li- sorry I just looked at the time stamp and took psychic damage when I realized it was June, 2025 when I thought it was may still

Anyways I feel like these are some of the best writers not because they're Old (reductive, trite) but because these are hella long canonical works that take forever to get caught up on, which mean absurdly complicated emotional threads to manage while writing. RPF means they're willing to hunt through 10 interviews from like, 2010 on internet archive or email the library or something just for one line that talks about the street they grew up on to align the star charts and see what flavor of cinnamon roll they at down the block on the friday weekly special or whatever (that's been closed for 8 years). Long comedy shows mean watching episodes they might not find funny ten times for A Single Look, and long legal shows mean juggling a complex cast of characters + understanding real life subjects enough to keep pace with the canon or go beyond that. These are all incredibly challenging things to write fic for, and if you write 20+ of the equivalent of running around like Rock Lee with the weights on- even if those fics aren't your best work the fics where the weights come off are going to be stunning. I mean, the project management skills, the research, the noting down essential canon info, the skill at picking up subtextual cues, and the awareness of multiple nuanced relationships between the cast all contribute to emotionally resonate fanfics. That's discarding the fact that they wrote over a dozen fics which is more than a lot of writers on ao3, too! Practice to completing a full project matters a lot in the final execution of it- editing skills, summary writing, formatting, etc.

Also it means they're like flamingos with the salinity resilience to endure hell and somehow make calories out of it so like. Fear them a little I guess. That's not something you just get from being old, they're just fandom (episodes of show per year) georg.

I think there are so many fic authors like this specifically because it's what happens when you run out of new stuff. Like I started watching weird, low rated sports anime after going through basically everything that was released for three straight years and wrote three fics for a fandom 1) no one is in 2) I don't know why anyone would be in them 3) I don't even know why I wrote the fics. Probably what happened is they played all the metaphorical tv show genshin impacts of the world and settled on the thing with the longest canon run because they didn't want to hunt for recs anymore. It's like knowing all the major videogames and instead of writing for undertale you write for minecraft youtube.

(I should have just said this last bit to begin with I feel like it makes this point better than anything else. Like ofc, the emotionally moving mcyt fic, we've all seen it. Also Supernatural, dr. who, sherlock, etc)

my favorite thing about navigating fanfiction is finding a really good one and being all “oh boy this was good, I hope they have more!” and literally every other story they’ve ever written was for like Miami Vice 

[solarstranger]

bakugo growling and griping about your video game 'husband'

so you teasingly ask him if it's because he wants to be your husband instead

you were just joking! so you're kind of taken aback at how his eyes widen and he. just doesn't say anything

i should be asleep but instead i wrote this. thanks a lot, rachel nonie. thanks a lot 😒 (but fr though, thank you. i ran to write as soon as i got your ask. i rarely am motivated enough to do something on the fly. so). this one’s set a week or so after part 1.

navigation. part 1, (you are here)

you blink.

it all happens in slow motion—realistically, you know that’s virtually impossible and would require grossly violating the laws of physics—but it sure feels like it does.

the hitching of his breath, the stiffening of his muscles, and perhaps—worst of all—the almost imperceptible but sure widening of his bright, crimson eyes—

—followed by complete silence.

you wait with bated breath for him to say something—anything—but nothing comes.

fuck.

you shouldn’t have made that joke.

in your defense, your guard was lowered. probably lower than it should’ve been, knowing that it was only you and bakugou in mina’s living room, with everyone else in the kitchen busy going through the acid hero’s pantry; although you guess that whatever discomfort being alone with bakugou usually brought was dampened by your attention being divided—partly trained on your game that required more cognitive energy than older boomers would like to admit.

your game that you’ve noticed he’s been stealing secret glances of from where he typically sits beside you—in your assigned seats for weekly movie nights at mina’s.

you tried not to think much of it—after all, you’d rather shoot yourself in the foot than start deluding yourself about bakugou being interested in anything about you, even if it’s merely in a self-indulgent dating sim you play. you kept to yourself, stifling the giggles that fought to escape your lips at every cheesy yet heart-fluttering line.

that is, up until bakugou suddenly pipes mid-cutscene.

you can’t remember what exactly it was he said to you—something about how he can’t believe you invest so much time and energy into that ‘husband’ of yours.

you scoffed, attention admittedly still halved (a romantic scene with your fave was playing, for fuck’s sake), and ended up regrettably blurting out a half-baked comeback.

a half-baked comeback which might have been along the lines of: “you just wish it were you.”

you blink again, your gaze refocusing on the pro-hero.

“you, as in y-you being treated this way,” you finally force yourself to say, “by a woman. or man. whatever floats your boat,” you finish with a stilted laugh.

you then rip your eyes away from the frozen ash-blonde, staring down at your device.

yeah, you definitely shouldn’t have made that joke.

a/n. can't you just picture him staring at you with slightly parted lips and wide eyes and dusty pink cheeks and a heaving chest. gfjskfjskfj gnawing at my enclosures you are a genius, nonie

[toriaaniin]

A Blob and a Synchronicity

Decoding the Stroller Photo, June 17 energy, and the truth that refuses to stay hidden.

When I made the case the other day that last week’s loud social media activity was a deliberate misdirection — a strategy to pull eyes away from Luke, Nicola, et al. — I briefly mentioned the Stroller Photo. I assumed the image, which had just started circulating the night before (June 19), was already familiar to most of my readers. As it turns out, it wasn’t. I received many comments asking, “What stroller photo?” (link to my June 20 post is below).

Since I initially planned to not write about it, I directed readers to a few other blogs where I understood some thoughtful commentary and analysis could be found.

But after reflecting on the interest — and in response to your questions — I’ve decided to publish the photo here, along with some macro-level thoughts from me. Be aware that what I think might differ from others who are also analyzing this image. And yet, there will likely be overlaps too. Take what resonates. This is a photo that invites multiple interpretations — and that’s part of what makes it so compelling.

A perfect example of a differing viewpoint can be found in my friend ZombieGirl’s excellent post McGuffin or Chekhov’s Smoking Gun?, where she suggests that Nicola’s stylist Aimee is pictured. Me? I don’t see it. Hmmmm??? Let me think on that.

It's always a good idea to read multiple opinions before forming your own!

Here’s the original photo, which was posted as part of a carousel by Mariead Tyers on June 7, 2025. We know that Nicola liked the carousel of images, however we don't know when. While we can only assume that she saw this particular images (second in the carousel), I personally believe that she did.

Our group chat — led fearlessly by ZG — discovered the image on June 17, ten days after it was originally posted. We were honestly amazed that the Lukola FBI hadn’t picked it up and circulated it earlier! As a group, we chose to hold onto it, take our time analyzing and researching, and allow the photo to surface organically within the fandom. That’s also why I didn’t write about it at first — I wanted it to breathe without my take influencing people’s initial reactions.

But here’s something I absolutely love: we discovered the stroller photo on June 17! You might recall that I wrote a post last Thursday about Luke’s new Instagram profile photo — which originally appeared on his grid on June 17, 2024. Why is that date special? Because Nicola’s current profile photo also comes from a grid post she shared on June 17, 2024. How incredible is that synchronicity?! Never — and I mean never — ignore patterns like this. They are not coincidences. There is meaning here, especially for Luke and Nicola. I just know it. 💙💙

Here's my blog post about June 17 💙💙

Zooming into the photo reveals why we call this the Stroller Photo. A few elements to note:

Location: This was taken in Dún Laoghaire, Dublin.

Louisa Harland was tagged in the image, and I believe that’s her on the right side of Nicola, partially hidden by Alice. I could be wrong; she could be the person taking the photo. The depth perception in this image is tricky (likely due to distance and zoom), which makes the man bending over and the woman on the far right holding a phone appear closer than they are. It's very possible they aren’t part of Nicola and Louisa’s group. As for the woman to Nicola’s left — her gaze seems directed at the phone-holder, but again, hard to say. Nicola is looking toward Louisa. You don’t have to agree with me.

Alice is the woman in the green swimsuit. Other blogs have identified who she is relative to the group (primarily Mairead & Louisa) — I recommend visiting those blogs for details. They’ve done the work and deserve the credit.

The photo (bottom-right) is from Alice’s IG account and suggests this photo was taken on March 18. Personally, I’m not planting a flag in the sand here, but Alice’s post compellingly supports that date.

Jake was busy with his play in Sheffield on March 18, which fits with him not being in the photo. Works for me!

There’s also been some speculation that this setting was too public for Luke to have been present. I’m open to that theory, too.

And then there’s the photo directly above. The pink outline shows where an edit was made: before (or as) Mairead posted the image, she selected an edit tool and created a black blob directly over the stroller — effectively masking the baby inside. The blob even overlaps a portion of Nicola’s hair. To me, this wasn’t accidental. It was a purposeful choice to hide what was there.

I’ve seen some say the child might belong to Louisa, or perhaps Nicola’s sister Clodagh (who wasn't even present in this image). As I’ve said multiple times: take in what you find here — and elsewhere — and draw your own conclusions. That said, I’ll add this: if the photo was taken on March 18, then BN would have been around 1.5 months old. At that age, a stroller is usually in the cot position, facing the parent — in this case, Nicola. Louisa and Clodagh’s children, by contrast, are older and would face forward in a seated position. If this was their child, a black blob to mask the stroller’s contents wouldn’t have been necessary because the contents wouldn't have been facing Nicola.

So that’s what I’ve got for you.

A photo found ten days late. A synchronicity tied to June 17. A black blob where a baby might be. Whether you call it a breadcrumb, a quiet reveal, Chekhov's Smoking Gun, or heck... even a McGuffin, one thing is clear: this story isn’t over — and neither is the truth waiting beneath the surface.

Aaniin Xxx

[earlgreytea68]

I get that doing fic for free comes from a place of privilege that I have a job that makes me enough money to live on. I TOTALLY get that. What I want people to consider is that that's how jobs SHOULD be and there's a problem with the world generally that we all can't get that. And it's a bigger problem with the world that capitalism wants to reach its greasy tentacles into every moment of our lives (I was going to say every waking moment but I bet they'd find a way to sell ad space in our dreams if they could). Anyway I say it constantly but PLEASE WRITE FANFICTION BECAUSE IT'S FUN AND YOU ENJOY IT AND YOU LIKE IT.

I have been a published author. In fact I'm always supposed to be publishing more lol and I'm SO BAD at it because once I *have* to do it it becomes more like work and I don't want it to be work! I want to have fun! It's okay to have fun!!!!!! I remember when I published my very first novel and I was trying to make friends with the other novelists (allll of my best friends come from fandom, I thought of course these people would want to make friends!!) and I suggested we write Advent drabbles in December like I have been doing for fics forever, and their response was, "Why? Do you have data on how that spurs sales?" I was like, .....no, we would do it because it's fun?????? And then I was like, maybe publishing isn't for me lol

ANYWAY fandom has already become so much more commercialized than it used to be. I blame social media influencer culture with the way it's made everyone thinks everything you do with your time needs to be a side hustle that makes you money. In the old days nobody took a commission for fic. If someone wanted a particular fic, you wrote it and you gifted it to them. Wow, that makes me sound impossibly old but I promise you, kids, that's what we did. A lot. Really often. We'd be like "give me some prompts!" And then we'd fill the ones that inspired us. That was a very usual thing to do.

So I know we old people sound pathetic when we beg you to do something in your life just for fun and don't bother doing fandom if you don't enjoy it (and for God's sake stop loudly watching videos and having FaceTime conversations on your phones in public). It's okay. In twenty years I will accept your DMs on Tumblr being like, "egt, you were right, the things we do for fun to bring us joy are the most important things we will ever do in our lives." You, too, will get old like me.

[danidrabbles]

well.

this is why fiction is so important because i am never writing letters to people in prison but i am very interested in reader-insert-me's choice to do so

really love the characterization throughout this, how they kind of match each other's obsessive freak right off the bat. it's so sweet that she goes to the beach to write that first letter, it's so funny that his reply starts with "thanks for the sand"

the way he detectives himself to her is so... so him, i really liked how you wrote his almost like internal monologue, how he sees it as a puzzle, how he doesn't even know what she looks like but can close his eyes and dream about her to the point he envisions the colour of her apartment, and how he cuts himself to get into the emergency room.

really enjoyed how their interactions were so.. stiff but also laced with familiarity, and how you intwined their more at ease conversation with kisses. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.” “you think i’m nice?” “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.” and omg all the colours being yellow just like he pictured. GOD. feeling sooo normal about it. this line also killed me :') and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

smut had no business being so soft. the introspection from his pov was so nice, how he thinks so much about how it is vs. how he imagined it, and that it's better and he can't quite believe it, and he just wants to give her everything.

the ending made me laugh so hard. her being scared about his reaction to her naming her cat after him and him being like, “do you think we should get married?” they're perfect for each other!!!!!!!!!!!! made me laugh, made me swoon, which isn't something i thought i'd say about a you send a letter to a man in prison fic, but you really pulled it off wonderfully. thanks for writing and sharing!!!!

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 — 𝐚.𝐜.

summary: against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

pairing: prison letters reader x andrew cody

word count: 12.4k

tags: reader is silly and does things i do not recommend. kids do not write letters to prisoners and fall in love with them. unless it's andrew cody obviously. lots of context no one asked for. nurse!reader, descriptions of wound (andrew cuts himself to get into your work because why wouldn't he!), descriptions of wound handling, smut (oral - f receiving and mating press and the tiniest hint of breeding). takes place in season one, but just imagine he's got season two's hair. you have to fully immerse yourself in the fact that it's andrew cody and then ask yourself—wouldn't you take him home too? it's not her fault!

author's note: here she is! thank you for the patience ♡

you honestly had signed up as a joke. the club was known through your campus to be run by a couple of bleeding hearts. no one had thought the school would approve their activities—letters to prisoners. it was a recipe for disaster.

you should have known better.

but a friend of a friend was involved, and you knew it would make your nursing school application look better, and honestly, you didn’t think anything would come of it. a couple of letters here and there. you had thought it’d be all anonymous, messages of motivation and prayers signed with a first name only.

until your friend—bleeding heart and hopeless romantic, trying to appeal to those very same qualities in you—had shown you the website. that’s when you should have realized it wasn’t just a recipe, it was going to be a disaster.

the prisoners recorded videos—thirty seconds, short and sweet. a name, a couple of sentences about them, hometown and hobbies. underneath the video you could see what they had been arrested for. only the ones who were in for petty crimes—drugs and robbery, things where no one else had really gotten hurt, were allowed to partake. that was good at least. didn’t need any murderers sending letters to pretty co-eds.

your friend picked the guy she thought was the cutest. you watched his video—he was handsome, you couldn’t deny it. but the more videos you watched, the less you wanted to write a letter. you could almost see it, the desperation behind their eyes. it seemed like every man had nefarious intent. like your prettily written letter would not be used for motivation and prayers of a better life outside.

you decided not to send one. you’d rather have an empty slot on your application than a bad feeling in your gut for the rest of the semester. it’s not like the prison was across the country—it was just a couple of hours away.

she asked you to give it one more chance, watch a couple more videos. just pick a cute one, she’d told you. when you’d made a noise of disapproval, she had rolled her eyes.

“okay, pick whoever seems the nicest, then.”

so you had.

the video had been labeled andrew cody. first degree robbery.

the man in the video had been incredibly genuine. you don’t remember exactly what he had said—just bits and pieces. you knew he was from oceanside, born and raised from the way he sounded. he said he had a lot of brothers and a sister back at home. that he spent his time working out and reading books to distract himself from how noisy it was inside. the first thing he’d do when he got out was go to the beach and listen to the waves and breathe in the clean salty air.

and deep down inside, you knew you were just as much of a bleeding heart as the rest of your friends. you had folded instantly.

but it wasn’t just that. you spent the next several nights thinking about him. sad eyes, a singular half-smile at his own joke and then a real one when he mentioned going to the beach once he was released. he’d followed it up with—not that it’ll be any time soon. that made you sad, in turn. you thought about what he was like before prison—did he smile more? was he always so sad?

you thought about a lot of things. more than whatever your friends did, telling you how they had sent their letters, flirty yet inherently professional, so as not to get in trouble with the advisor.

you took a while to send yours. first you couldn’t think of what to write—everything felt so stupid compared to what he must be going through. andrew would hardly want to hear about the mundaneness of your daily life, or the struggles of trying to get into the nursing program.

you thought about not sending a letter at all after the first few times you tried to put pen to paper.

and then you thought about how sad he must feel, how lonely and scared, how terrible it would be to see all the other prisoners get letters besides him.

so you drove to the beach. you surprisingly had more in common with andrew cody than you even realized when you selected him. there was nothing you loved more than the beach, which is why you had even picked your college to begin with. and now, four years later about to graduate, you couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

you caught the sunrise. you brought your little notebook with you to the water after setting your bag down on the bench. the seagulls were flying around, a couple of other beach-goers walking along the border where the sand met the ocean. it was a day like any other.

there were two sides of you—a hopeless romantic inside of an inherently logical girl. one side argued how stupid it was to send letters to a stranger. the other wondered if this would be the day that changes your life. you push away the thought and focus on writing the damn thing.

you thought andrew might like if the letter smelled like the salt-water. the stupid idea felt a lot less silly when you were attempting it, bringing your notebook all the way down to the water and hovering it. a slightly bigger wave caught you by surprise, the corners getting wet where it splashed up.

cursing to yourself, you walked back to the bench with sandy feet. and then you started writing.

dear andrew, and then you paused. fuck. you got out some of the introductory stuff—your first name, that you were a nursing student. it took a while to get the rest of the page filled, until you stopped for a moment and thought about what you would tell the man with the sad eyes if he was sitting next to you.

i came to the beach to write this letter. i’m sorry if the corners are wrinkled when you get it, i almost dropped it in the water trying to get it to smell like the beach so you had a little piece of home with you. i’m not near oceanside but it’s still the pacific.

i can’t imagine how hard it must be to grow up near the water and then be so far away for so long. but at least you know it’ll always be waiting for you when you get released. they want us to write motivational things but i’m not sure how motivating it would be for you reading this letter about my silly life. so i thought i’d write about the beach instead.

it’s about seven in the morning. the weather isn’t too cold and sky is pink and orange right now. the waves were calmer an hour ago when i got here but now it’s getting more intense. there’s a couple with their dog, and another man running on the sand. i’m on a bench writing this, but i’ll walk along the water again before i leave. i would try to send you a shell but i’m sure they’d take it away. maybe sand?

i love the sound of the waves too. my school isn’t close enough to hear it, but i have one of those machines that makes the noises. it helps a lot when i’m trying to sleep. maybe you can get one when you get out too.

you fill up a page, and then another page. when you fold up the letter and slip it into the envelope, you take a couple grains of sand and drop it in there. a little piece of home for him.

then you mail the letter, and think that was that.

+

two weeks later, you get a letter in the mail. you’d heard some of the other girls had also gotten responses—some had been mildly wholesome, while others had been more along the lines of what are you wearing?

but you weren’t worried when you opened yours. andrew didn’t seem the creepy type to you, it felt more like… like he would be glad to have someone to talk to.

you read it in bed, holding an old stuffed animal tightly. his handwriting is stiff and neat, the evenness of the letters and dotted i’s and crossed t’s makes you smile. the way he wrote your name, with bleeding ink like he had pressed too hard into the paper while doing so, made you smile wider.

the first line—thanks for the sand—made you laugh.

andrew writes of the book he’s just read, how the beach you described sounds just like the one in his hometown, and a request that you tell him more about your life in the next letter. his letter isn’t as long as yours, which makes sense to you. he couldn’t have that much to write about. but the last line is what really gets you—thank you for the letter. it’s nice to talk to someone.

you blink away tears, unsure when you had started crying. you reread the letter twice over the next day and a half, deciding to head back to the beach early in the morning to write the next one.

and you’ve always been bad at this. your friends have always called you a hopeless romantic—but maybe you’re just in too deep. it was the product of having been alone for your entire life, not having the dreamy, intense love that so many of your friends had already gone through once or twice at this age. the result had manifested in how you treated the world around you. every door someone held open, every nice response, every lingering gaze could mean something more. that this could be the person, that this could be your soulmate.

you knew it was stupid. nothing could be stupider than assuming that a prisoner, for god’s sake, would be anything more than just that—a prisoner you write letters to. but your heart still beats faster each time you reread the letter, and when you think of his pretty, sad eyes and earnest expression, the urge to write another letter haunts over your entire body.

dear andrew, thank you for writing back. thank you again for writing back and not being creepy (like the responses some of my friends got). i could tell you more about my life but i really wasn’t lying—it’s pretty silly and mostly boring, but since you asked so nicely i’ll try for you. right now i’m getting ready for graduation. i bought a white dress last week. i’m waiting to hear if i got into the nursing program here. i majored in nursing so I just need to do one more year and then after that i can go work in the hospital. i’m thinking about labor and delivery since i think it would be so nice to see babies all day, but one of my friends said the emergency room is always hiring. she thinks it would toughen me up. but I’m not so sure i want to be tough. just incase all of this school talk is boring you, i’ll just tell you about my day on the condition that you'll tell me about yours. yesterday i woke up early and went on a walk. i made breakfast and went to class, and then studied in the library. my friend showed me a creepy response from one of the fellow inmates (by the way, thank you again for not being creepy.) i walked to get a chai—i don't really like coffee. and then i studied, watched the bachelor. it was terrible! my favorite contestant got sent home :(. and had dinner, then I went to sleep early because i woke up early to come to the beach today to write this for you. so i went to sleep thinking about this letter and woke up thinking about it too.

you add a little bit more about your routine this time, just so he has something to read about. you try to make yourself sound interesting where you can—but you’re really not. and you don’t want to force it, make your letters sound grand and full of lies.

you don’t know why—it’s not like you’ll ever meet him. but lying to andrew feels wrong, you guess.

stupid. you’re stupid for adding the last part—but something in your heart flutters reading the line again, because you did. andrew’s sad eyes are in your mind all the time, and you know it’s just a silly infatuation, that he’s a prisoner and you’re a random student and more likely than not, he’s not going to respond to this letter. but you still keep it in.

and so you send the letter. and what’s worse—the one you get back makes your heart swell. he says that you describe your routine so well he can almost see it happening in his head like a movie. he says that he could describe his day-to-day but that it might make you sad. you’re sure it will. he seems to know a lot about you from just a handful of letters.

you reply. he sends another. you reply. and before you can even discern what’s happened, this has been going on for the better part of a year and a half.

andrew gets all the life updates—your nursing school acceptance, how the first year goes. early morning clinicals, the mean preceptor who made your life hell for a month, the baby you got to help deliver, the cat you’re thinking about getting. and the not so great stuff—despite the nursing shortage, it seems the only available job at the hospital you like is in the emergency room.

you don’t give him names but he figures it out well enough. the program you sent the letters through was smart enough not to include the university’s name in the return address, but dumb enough to use a p.o. box in the same city. and in that city, there’s only two colleges, and only one of those has a nursing program.

these are the things he uses to figure out where you are after he gets out—not that you need to know any of that just yet.

after you get the job, the letters are stamped with the mark of the local post office. you must not know that they’re doing that, now that you can’t send the letters through the school anymore. that’s the last piece of the puzzle, figuring out which emergency room you had been working in.

he keeps those letters. they’re his sanctuary—pages and pages about your life. the highs and lows of an innocent girl who thought it would be a good idea to send letters to a prisoner. letters where you asked about him, how he was feeling, how he was doing. how much time he had left, how he thinks the next parole meeting will go, how that annoying guard has been recently. how’s your family, andrew?

if he closes his eyes, he can almost see you. you’re a faceless entity, a glowing angel with a halo hovering in his mind when he really needs you. you’re too perfect to be real—and he knows you would be outside too. if you can care this much through letters, go out of your way to send them even after you graduate, he can only imagine how you’d be if you stood in front of him.

the other students who sent letters stopped after one or two. he’s likely the only one who’s still getting them, and when someone questions who they’re from, he tells a story about his girl, waiting for him outside. a nurse—smart and pretty and devoted and who never fails to send him a weekly update. lives too far to drive up here but he’ll be there one day.

and then he gets sent to solitary.

he doesn’t like to think about it, if he can avoid it. sometimes the noises of the world get to him, brings him back to days and hours he wish he could wipe from his memory. the sound machine you recommended in your very first letter helps some. but the day he goes free, there’s only one sound he knows will calm him down—your voice, the first time he’ll get to hear it.

he has to go home first. he needs a car, the internet, a couple of phone calls to make sure he’s going to the right place.

days turn into weeks. unfortunately—very unfortunately. the only thing andrew wants is to finally see you in person, to finally hear what your voice sounds like. what color is your hair? what color are your eyes? he knows you like yellow—what would he find if he saw you? yellow hair clips? painted nails? how about your apartment? would the walls be yellow?

no, probably not. you rent. you wouldn’t do anything that wouldn’t get you your security deposit back. you’re too good for that, too safe.

yellow sheets, maybe. blankets, pillows. if he closes his eyes, he can imagine himself in it.

he tries to leave after the first job but there’s too many watchful eyes, too many moving pieces. he needs to get everything together—his truck, cash and some cards, a plausible excuse. he needs to make sure no one comes following him, needs to make sure that in his quest to come find you, he doesn’t get you tangled into the web of his family instead. he’s stuck somewhere between figuring out how to keep you safe and the realization that the safest you’ll ever be is right now, before he comes for you.

but fuck, if it doesn’t haunt him. the fact that he’s finally so close to you. that you’re a car ride away. that somewhere out there is the girl who, one day, realized another letter wouldn’t be coming.

had you cried then? been upset? wondered what had happened? bothered to find out if he was dead or freed or living without you? he hates that he couldn’t get you another letter to explain himself, but he figures explaining in person would be easier, and better. in all those years, you never once wrote him about a date or a boyfriend or anything in that realm.

the way your last few letters were, it were almost as if he was your boyfriend. (he lets the thought linger inside him for a few seconds, if that. any longer and it would possess him like a demon and he’d be rendered useless. unable to work, unable to think, unable to breathe. just him and the idea that he was that important to someone else.)

+

and then one day, a couple days after a job and after being fed up with the entire world being scared of him, he leaves to find you.

that’s just the thing—no one understands him. all his life, he’s been the unstable one, the one others are worried about, frightened of. but no one understands that there’s nothing to be afraid of.

no one, except maybe you.

so he says he’ll be back in a week, and he drives down to the hospital where you work.

he hasn’t gotten a real look at you yet. he spent the first night in the parking lot of the emergency room. he watches hordes of nurses go in and out, and no one stands out. he spends some time doing research—nurses only work three times a week.

his odds of seeing you for the rest of the time he’s in town are fifty/fifty. it feels like he should be able to pick you out from a crowd, with the way he knows you so intimately, but he can’t. he keeps an eye out for yellow water bottles or shoes or lunch bags, but he doesn’t see any for two days.

so he decides that he needs to get inside.

pope keeps a pocket knife on his person, and another one hidden in the car in case of emergencies. that’s what he uses to slice his palm open so he has an excuse to get inside. not too deep—he’s not stupid. just deep enough to need stitches, shallow enough that he can still feel all his fingers and wiggle them around.

and then he goes inside, and he waits.

each time the doors open, a different nurse steps out. some are too old, others too young. no one has anything yellow on them, or the personality that he knows could only belong to you. cheery, but serious. empathetic to a fault. you would probably cry if you saw a kid crying, just like how you used to write to andrew, telling him you had cried thinking about a patient you lost and their family, cried thinking about him alone in prison.

you’ve shed tears for him. a man you’ve never even met. he has to recognize you when he sees you. he knows he will—the two of you are bonded in more ways than one. through ink and blood and tears.

“david?” a voice calls out. so lost in his thoughts, he’d not realized the doors had opened again or the name he’d given them. he looks up, making eye contact with the nurse, his nurse, and she walks closer. “david?” the voice repeats, and he raises the non-bloody hand.

you are just like he thought you’d be. your hair is pulled back, which is a shame. he wants to see what it looks like when it’s down, what it smells like when you get close enough. pieces in the front fall out from behind your ear. his finger twitches momentarily.

and, he thinks with a pleasant sort of smugness, there is yellow—the plastic band around the stethoscope, the badge reel with a smiling cartoon on it, the pens tucked neatly in your scrub top pocket.

“hi david, i’m going to be your nurse today,” you start, looking at him in the eyes. your eyebrows furrow a little, like you’re trying to remember why this man looks so familiar—it’s not like he had expected it. his hair isn’t the same anymore, longer than the video you had seen of him. if that was your benchmark, he certainly looked somewhat different. he doesn’t fault you for not recognizing him right away. in fact, it’s better this way. “if you’re ready, i can take you back now.”

you smile at him, beautifully. a bright, wide smile, like there’s nothing in this world you’d rather do than take david back, and have a look at whatever’s bothering him. it’s genuine, it’s safe, it’s warm. how do you do it? he thinks briefly to himself, how do you make everyone feel like they’re the most important person in the world? just with a smile and a couple of sentences you must say a thousand times a shift.

andrew’s not one for many words, but his thoughts run rampant—he’s always thinking. he can’t get his brain to turn off, not now, not ever. even putting pen to paper was hard for him, even for you. but you seem to understand him, just like you did back then. without words, without talking, without touching or knowing. you just know him.

you take him to a bed behind a curtain and start rattling off a list of rehearsed questions. first name, age, date of birth. the more he says, the more you seem to get a step closer to recognizing him, but he doesn’t push it.

you come closer to the bed and gesture to his wrapped up, bleeding hand.

“may i?”

“yes. yes,” andrew says, unsure of how it’ll be to feel your hands on him for the first time. you start slowly, unpeeling the layers of gauze that he had brought with him from home as a just incase. he doesn’t flinch or wince, but you still speak up.

“i’m sorry, i know it’s not very comfortable.” you apologize without needing to, and he’s sure it’s because you want him to feel better about it. “how did this happen again?” you ask, staring at his wound closely. you’re not very far from his face. he can feel your breath even against his skin.

“accident. was cutting something.”

“well, you should be more careful, david.” his middle name has always felt foreign to him, though somehow, it doesn’t seem that way coming from your lips. andrew briefly feels like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be than here, no one else he’d rather be than david, getting his hand tended to by you.

“yeah. i should.”

“well i’m going to go ahead and get this cleaned up. just to be sure, any drug allergies?” he shakes his head. “great. we’re gonna clean it and then the doctor will be in here to stitch it up and we’ll get you on your way back home. does that sound okay?”

you look at him earnestly. as if on the off chance he said it didn’t sound okay, you’d have an answer ready to go. nothing to shame him, nothing to make him feel bad. just to comfort him and make him feel better. like there’s nothing more important than getting him back home with aid instructions for the rest of the week.

memories of your letters wash over him like a warm wave over soft sand. you’ve known from the jump that you were meant for this, but it all suddenly makes sense. how kind you are, how gentle you are with him, how you’d be with anyone.

you were meant for this, just like how you were meant for him.

“that sounds okay.”

you sit on a stool at the level of his hand. you dab with the cleaning solution and tell him you’re sorry about the sting. it’s half a dozen apologies in the short time he’s known you, and he sits and wonders, staring at your pretty hair and the undoubtedly smooth skin of your neck, that he’ll have to work you out of that habit.

you shouldn’t be apologizing for anything, much less helping people the way you do.

he stares at you while you think of another question to ask him to distract him from the pain of cleaning his wound.

and your patient is nothing if not a starer. when you got up to add something to the chart and stopped to chat with a fellow nurse and friend of yours about how long it might take the doctor to see him—calling him by his nickname, mister sliced hand in bed four—she interrupted you half way through the conversation.

“the one who’s staring at us right now?” you turned your head too quickly to see what she was talking about, and were faced with sliced-hand david, looking at you and the other nurse.

not in a creepy way, like some other past patients of yours. he’s just…looking. like he’s waiting for you to come back. his gaze doesn’t leave you, you notice. he watches your friend as though he’s watching over you.

the thought is almost… sweet.

and then you shake your head and turn around, breaking the eye contact. you have a bad habit of doing this—turning every interaction, every look into your eyes and held-open door into something more than it was.

your new friends at the hospital also call you a hopeless romantic. you knew that you were just sort of an idiot when it came to these things. it was the long-standing result of still never having been in a real relationship. you’d never felt the fireworks, never known the rom-com sort of true love and happy ending. you had never even gotten to the angst-filled third act breakup.

so maybe you were still a bit of a projector—projecting every single interaction into something more than it was. a patient with a staring problem became a man who was looking out for you, worried for you, love at first sight.

and you shake your head again. snap out of it. you had a problem, seriously.

the closest you’d even come to anything remotely related to love at first sight was the insane amount of letters you’d written to a prisoner a few years ago, and even then—

stop. it. you barely knew what the guy looked like, and yet, you found yourself wondering all the time what had happened to him. if today would finally be the day you’d find out. he could be the stranger next to you in the coffee shop. the person buying fruit next to you in the grocery store.

for all you know, he could be the next guy who walks into your life, and yet—

“you are seriously such a goner,” she says with a laugh, playfully shoving your shoulder.

“what? i-i just got lost in my thoughts.”

“a guy could blink at you and you’d be imagining your embroidered towels and baby names-”

“that is not true-”

“right, i know. you’re right. you’re just gonna hold out for mister prisoner until you’re an old lady with a bunch of cats-”

“hey! i have one cat and he is adorable, okay-”

“yeah, yeah. that’s how it always starts. one cat.”

“i’m going to go take care of my patient now.”

“don’t let him blink at you.”

you roll your eyes and make your way back to bed four, where david stares up at you with pretty, sad eyes. eyes that seem a little familiar, but it’s hour eight of twelve and you’ve taken care of half a hundred people so far. your tiredness seeps through your pores but you still smile and sit on the stool.

“sorry about that, david.”

“are you okay?” he asks, incredibly earnestly. you blink at him dumbly. once, then twice.

“yes?” you reply slowly, unsure of what he means. maybe you’re more tired than you thought. “is everything okay?”

“i saw her push you.” you blink again.

“oh. oh. no, no, she’s my friend. that was just, um-” you blank momentarily. his concern is so palpable you can feel it in the air. “-a joke. she was joking.”

“oh. okay.” david goes silent but his eyes are still on you. you decide the best course of action is to change the subject.

“so! david. this might be hard but no going in the water for at least a couple days. maybe more, depending on what the doctor says.”

“sure. can i.. can i still go sit on the beach?”

“yeah. that should be fine.” you clean out the wound further, but he doesn’t wince. “do you do that often?”

“yes. it calms me down.”

“me too. something about the sand and the waves. the air is just-”

“cleaner.” for the first time that night, david interrupts you. your eyes leave his hand to look up at his face.

“yeah,” you agree, slowly, wondering why his words feel so familiar to you. “cleaner.”

there’s a brief pause, and david doesn’t say anything. you look back down at his hand, continuing your work. but something inside of you stirs, curiosity poking and prodding at your memories. you’ve heard that before, somewhere, and even then you had thought about how no one had ever used that word to describe the ocean air before, when—

“i thought you wanted to deliver babies. do you not want to do that anymore?”

as if it was in slow motion, you retract your hands away from his. you move your head to look up at him and your jaw falls open a little—you had known david looked a little familiar, but when you had seen that thirty second video of him, his hair had been short and his skin had been a little paler, and the man sitting in front of you now—

well he wasn’t cute anymore.

he was handsome now—dark brown curls grown out. he looked like he’d spent some time in the sun, recently. his eyes—sad and pretty as they were—seemed a bit softer now. and your gaze on him made them even softer, like he was trying his best not to frighten you. how someone takes care of a skittish animal, ready to bolt at any second.

you swallow, and then bring your hands back to his, keeping the piece of soaked gauze on top of his wound gently

“i-i do. want to. this was just the only job opening when i-” you pause, sucking in a deep breath. he already knows about this—andrew. it was in one of your letters. “when i finished school.”

you feel his hand move under your touch, and then his other hand, the unwounded one, over yours. his grip isn’t tight, but it’s tense. hard. like he wants to make sure you can’t just disappear like sand between his fingers.

“i thought you might have found another job by now.”

“it-it’s hard. you get used to something and it’s hard to leave.” you pause again. there’s a million and one questions storming through your mind, but you stare into hazel eyes and they all go quiet, one by one. “you said your name is david-”

“i wanted to see if you would recognize me.”

“i’m sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize.” andrew, like his letters, speaks concisely. you should have guessed. you would send him pages just to get a few paragraphs back—and he would always say it’s because he didn’t have much to talk about, that learning about your day to day was much better than whatever he could tell you.

it was the first time your heart fluttered with the knowledge that out there, somewhere, is a man who wants to hear about your day. the closest you had ever gotten to the semblance of a real relationship. a man who cared about you, even if he never said as much. it was always clear to you, through his carefully chosen words and the things he wrote you about and how much he said he liked hearing about you.

he used to ask you questions about things from a dozen letters ago. remember to follow up after some big exam or a really hard week at work. asked you what you did to feel better. tell you what he would do to help you feel better—nothing creepy, never creepy. if you were supposed to be scared of him, you never were. he never gave you any reason to.

“are you okay?” andrew asks, and you blink yourself out of your thoughts.

“yes. yes, sorry. i just-” it’s a little ridiculous.

you’re a smart girl. you’ve always been a smart girl. you don’t do stupid things—you don’t drink yourself silly at bars and go home with random men. you don’t say yes to dates with strangers, despite how much you believe that a stranger can become a soulmate in an instant. you don’t put yourself in situations you can’t get out of.

but when it comes to andrew, you haven’t listened to a single one of your own rules. you sent him letters for ages after the other girls in your class had stopped. you had opened up about your life and wanted to learn about his life in exchange.

and despite every greater instinct, you had fallen asleep for years thinking about the day he might walk back into your life.

“did you ever get my last letter, andrew?”

you’re not even sure where the words came from—that’s the last thing you should be saying right now. how did you find me? when did you get out of prison? why are you here right now? should have all come before.

but something inside you burns, like it has for years, with the knowledge that he never sent you another letter. and you need to know why.

andrew sits up a little straighter, taking heavy breaths and staring at you. it’s the first time he’s heard you say his name, his real name. you two haven’t moved an inch, his hand still on yours. he blinks slowly at you and you don’t realize it, but you’re holding your breath.

“i did. i-i was in solitary. they don’t let you write letters there.”

“oh. i’m so sorry,” you say, and it’s second nature. you hate what andrew went through, and seeing him in front of you brings you back to the first letter you ever got back from him. how polite he was in it, how sweet the whole thing seemed. it was never meant to get this far, but it had, and you—

you are nothing if not a believer of soulmates and fate.

“that’s okay. not your fault.”

“but still. that must have been really hard.”

“i wanted to write back. i-” he stops, pulling out something from the pocket of his button-up shirt. he unfolds a piece of white notebook paper—and the breath you were holding leaves you quickly. that’s the paper you used to write him letters on.

“is that my last letter?” when andrew moves to look at you, he’s expecting it. a nervous lilt to your voice, fear in your eyes. like he’s crazy, like you’re scared.

instead he glances over hesitantly and you’re beaming up at him.

“you carry around.. my last letter?” the words come out as a smile forms on your face—pretty and genuine and sincere. you stare at him expectantly, and he doesn’t know how to respond.

“i…” the words falter. “i just wanted to ask you about it. did you, did you get that cat?”

“i did!” it comes out louder than you meant it, drawing the attention of some other nurses around you. you turn briefly, using your free hand to push the curtain so it’s closed around you two. “sorry. i did, yes. he’s so cute. i don’t have my phone or i’d show you the pictures-”

“that’s okay. you-you can show me later.”

“but i didn’t say i was getting a cat in that one. i just said i was thinking about it,” you feel breathless.

“but there was another one before that. you mentioned it then too. i figured you’d get it since you were thinking about it so much.”

“yeah. yeah, exactly.” your brain can’t seem to compute what’s going on. any fear that had been in you, if there was any of it to begin with, has completely melted away, replaced with a warm, glowing feeling in your chest, slowly spreading out to your limbs.

you had been thinking about getting a cat for ages—a thought you had mentioned to andrew maybe twice. and your justification had been just as andrew said, because you were thinking about it so much.

how did he know that?

and then the curtain opens behind you, and the doctor comes in to stitch up andrew’s hand. you have to pull away from his hand and andrew thinks you’re leaving, eyes following you and his expression shifting, but you don’t leave. you go to the cabinets to pull the supplies and help the doctor and and keep your eyes focused on the wound while his hand gets stitched up. eight stitches and not a single wince of pain or discomfort.

and though the thought makes butterflies emerge and fly around your stomach, when you finally look up at andrew, he’s been staring at you the entire time.

+

you have a tiny apartment in a shitty neighbourhood. it doesn’t feel safe at all, save for the fact that one of the houses down the street is owned by a rookie cop and his wife. there’s not that much crime, but the area inherently feels bad.

maybe it’s just that way to him—since he doesn’t want you living in a place like this.

it’s fine for now though. he’ll get you a better place soon enough. it’s by the water, and when he closes his eyes, he can hear the waves crashing on the sand. the sound alone might be enough to justify why you’d live here.

he keeps his eyes shut, just for a half dozen heartbeats, when he pulls up against your curb. he just wants to hear it before he says goodbye—it’s getting late, almost dark, and you must be exhausted. you’ve been at work all day and though you act like you’re completely fine, he knows how intense it is. there’s other letters, safely stored away, where you told him about how breaks are far and few in between, how you barely get time to drink water and eat a snack because of how busy it gets. he offered to stop and pick you up something to eat but you refused, saying you had food at home that you shouldn’t waste.

you sit in the passenger seat of his truck, staring around it as if you’re looking for some more information about it. anything would help you—half-empty drinks or gum wrappers or extra clothes in the backseat, but there’s nothing. the truck looks like he just got it yesterday, no sign of use or anything branding it as andrew’s car.

“can i walk you to your door?” you snap out of your thoughts.

okay—maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea in the world to let a virtual stranger drive you home. but when his hand was taken care of and you give him the paper instructions with way too many sample packets of antibiotic gel, all he said was that he’ll wait for you.

“wait for what?”

“to make sure you get home safely.”

and, really, what are you supposed to say to that? no, i’m good, thanks. you’d be even stupider than you already are to say that to someone who is just trying to be nice to you.

(he’s more chivalrous than any guy you’ve ever talked to, and probably more than any guy your friends have ever complained to you about. and more than that, it’d be rude to say no, especially once he realized you wait for a shoddy-at-best bus to get you home because you don’t have a car and it’s too dark to walk. he wouldn’t take no for an answer after that.)

and more than that—he waited another two hours for you to get home. every time you’d step out to bring back another patient, you’d see him, sitting there, waiting patiently for you. glancing up when the door would open to get a glimpse of you, of the small smile you shot his way before taking back whoever’s turn it was.

and he’s not a real stranger, a voice in the back of your head keeps reminding you. you’ve known him for longer than some of your coworkers have known their fiancees and husbands. and in all the time you’ve known him (meaning all the letters you’ve sent and received), you’ve never gotten a creepy word or even a fragment of a sentence that frightened you.

so you think the least you can do is let him drive you home and walk you up the two flights of stairs.

“of course. thank you, for-” your sentence gets interrupted. andrew gets out of the car and you turn to do the same, but then you see him—walking around the front of his truck, coming to your side and then opening the door for you.

oh.

your heart thuds dully in your chest at the very idea of andrew opening his car’s door for you to get out. after driving you home and politely asking to walk you up. whatever inhibitions you had melt away and you briefly think that whatever he asked of you, you’d do it in a heartbeat, no questions asked.

if that made you stupid, then so be it. you’d gladly be the stupidest girl on the planet if you get to feel whatever it was that andrew cody has made you feel for the last couple of hours.

his truck is jacked up tall, and he gives you his hand, the one without the cut, to help you get down, and you accept. he closes the door for you and lets you lead the way up the stairs.

silently, you two walk up the creaky steps together. hands brush together for all of seconds and he briefly wishes seconds lasted longer, until you’re standing in front of your door.

you’d once had a cute spring-themed wreath on the door, bought on clearance from the local store after easter, and a matching door mat. your elderly neighbor had told you to get rid of it because it was basically an invitation to criminals that a young girl lived here alone. you’re stupid, but not that stupid.

and now your front door looks barren and empty. there’s a few plants you can see from the window sill but the curtains are drawn and there’s an extra dead bolt a fellow nurse from the hospital’s husband had helped you install.

you look up silently at andrew and he looks back at you. this is it—it’s supposed to be goodbye. any normal girl would know that this is where the night needs to end, that you need to process what all of this means and if you had any friends you trusted with this information, calling them and asking what to do.

but you don’t want to call your friends, because you know what they’d say—to lock your door and get a restraining order and burn andrew’s letters, the ones you kept in a cute box under your bed and reread much too often for anyone’s comfort.

and you’re not a normal girl.

“do you want to stay for dinner?”

there’s not much to study on andrew’s expression—he keeps it stern and serious for the most part. his eyes are soft when they look at you and they soften even further when you say those words.

“yes. yes, thank you.”

you think maybe he wasn’t expecting it. you think that you weren’t expecting it either, not exactly sure where the words had come from. but you still lead andrew inside, showing him the only slightly comfortable couch you had to get delivered since you didn’t have anyone to help you lug a used one up the stairs. the squeaky door that leads to the bathroom, the tiny space you called your kitchen. your bedroom is behind a closed door and andrew stares at it when you go inside to change out of your scrubs and come back out in the kind of clothes that you sleep in.

and then he stares at the shut door even after you leave, before realizing that you’ve already made your way to the space between the living room and kitchen, a narrow expanse with a small round table and some placemats with flowers on them. you set down your backpack and take your hair out of the clip that holds it back for you at work and suddenly, he’s staring again.

it’s just a little too close to everything he’s been dreaming about for years.

“i’m really sorry. i was supposed to go grocery shopping but i hate bringing everything up-”

“don’t apologize.”

“also, i’m-i’m not really a good cook. i’m sorry-”

“i don’t think anything you make can be worse than prison food.”

“i really doubt that. you’ve never had my cooking.”

you glance back him and he meets your eyes at the same time, and you both start laughing. it’s nothing crazy—andrew didn’t seem like the kind who laughs easily anyway, but he cracks a smile and the noise is indelible—all you can think of is how you can get him to laugh again.

“do you like spaghetti?”

+

if someone had told you yesterday that this time tomorrow, andrew from your letters would be sitting across from you at your dining table, eating spaghetti that you made while rushing, looking so in place in your tiny home that your heart hurts, you think you would have passed out.

you watch him while he eats, absentmindedly swirling your own noodles on the plate, unable to focus on eating when he’s really in front of you. after countless dreams and days spent wondering what had happened to him and if he was okay and if he ever thought about you. he’s… bigger than you thought he would be. shoulders broader than you had realized from that tiny video. his mannerisms interest you more than they should—how quiet he is, but how he seems to latch onto every word when you go on and on. just like the letters, it seems he’s still a listener.

(it doesn’t help matters when he tries to clear the table and wash the dishes after—you have to wrestle the plates out of his hand and tell him to go sit down, that he can’t get his bandage wet. jostling against his iron-hard body was not on the list of things you thought you’d get to do today, and the very realization that andrew is twice as strong as you on his worst day does…things to you. things that do not need to be named or explored right now. he’s still a stranger, you try to remind yourself. no he’s not.)

but it seems that he can’t sit still. he wipes down the counter and then comes back to help you dry your yellow dishes and when you both finish up, with you still smiling at him and unsure of what excuse you can conjure to get him to stay, he finds it all by himself. you tell andrew to go sit on the couch while you finish up and he does, and when you follow him out there, he’s standing in front of it. he turns his head to look at you and then back at the couch.

your cat is perched on his usual spot, and you go over to him, scratching the top of his head between his ears and making extremely childish, stupid-sounding noises at him.

“andrew this is wardy,” you say, picking him up and bringing him closer. “he’s really friendly. i promise.”

“hello, wardy.” when he says it, you look up at him with a look he can’t find words to describe. as close to love as you can get it when it’s a technically a stranger. the way he greets your cat and helps you clean and knows more about you than some of your friends and coworkers do.

there’s no words for it. it just is.

so you sit on the couch next to andrew, your cat between the two of you, and you wait for him to tell you that he wants to leave. you flick on the television, settling for whatever silly romance movie is playing on your netflix account, sitting in the almost-silence with andrew and wondering why still, it doesn’t feel necessarily uncomfortable.

eventually andrew reaches out to pet wardy, and he curls up into his touch, settling comfortably against his forearm. (his huge, thick, veiny forearm, you think briefly, before chasing the thought away with a broom. and then another one—no wonder he had bled so much at the hospital. with veins like these.)

“this area’s not the best,” andrew says, speaking as though you need to be reminded of it, to know that he doesn’t approve.

“i know. but it’s cheap and it’s near the beach.”

“but you live alone. it’s dangerous.”

“but-” you glance over at him. he takes up most of your couch, wardy’s head resting against his thigh now, while he continues petting him. he looks over at you and it’s clear—this isn’t an argument. “you’re right. but i mean, how bad can it be? if you’re here now?”

you pause. stupidly, you’ve just revealed whatever thoughts have been rattling around in your head. like the fact that you’re assuming he’s going to be here more often, when the truth is that you have no idea if that’s true.

why would it be true? you tried, in earnest, to make sure your life never seemed anything more than it really was in your letters. but andrew drives a brand new truck and wears an expensive watch and you have absolutely no idea what he was robbing or why he was doing it—and you never asked. the assumption that just because he found you, meant that he was going to keep you was completely insane. a misgiving on your part, because surely, whatever’s waiting for him back home is better than your crappy cooking and a tiny apartment and a cat that you—

“sorry, i’m sorry. that’s such a jump. we just met. i’m so sorry, i can-” you stand up, and so does andrew.

“why are you apologizing?”

“because i just.. i don’t know.” you try to pace around your apartment but you only get a few steps away before you have to come back. “this is crazy. we’re both crazy.”

you feel it in the air before you hear him say it. it gets tenser, quieter, more serious. like what you’ve both been dreading for the last few hours is about to happen.

“do…do you want me to leave?” you turn to face him quickly.

“no! no, i don’t. that’s why this is crazy. people are going to think we’re insane. i don’t want you to go. i want you stay. i want you to tell me everything i missed in the last year and a half. i want to know what you did with my letters. i want to know-”

and when andrew reaches forward to grab your forearm—gently, not meant to hurt you—you freeze in your tracks. staring up at him, all the words in your brain, every stupid thing your friends ever told you about this make-shift relationship you had concocted in your head melting away.

“i want that too.”

“oh. well, i just thought-”

and this time, he doesn’t let you finish, leaning in for a kiss that makes your knees give out. andrew’s mouth—wet and hot and on fire—kisses you like you two were made for each other.

as cheesy as the thought feels, you swallow it and wrap your arms around his neck. it’s every stupid romance movie you’ve ever seen coming to life, your life. all because of him. he doesn’t break the kiss, not even to breathe. you feel his tongue poke into your mouth and you accept it gladly. you fall back on the couch and the movement of it makes wardy scamper off, and you move your head just for a second to see where he runs off too, but andrew doesn’t stop. he lines kisses along your cheek and your jaw until you turn back and he gets your lips again.

you feel his weight on top of you, and briefly, you wonder if you should tell him.

countless nights spent wondering what this would feel like, how he would kiss you, all the things he would do to you. you have to keep reminding yourself, you’re just a stupid girl—it’s not your fault that a few nice letters was enough to make you head over heels for the last few years.

because somewhere deep down inside, you knew. you knew that it would be like this, that it would be perfect, that it would be everything you wanted. that he would take care of you and want you as badly as you want him. your crown title of hopeless romantic had finally paid off.

another thought stirs as he keeps kissing you. it’s feverish and hot and makes you warm all over—how long it’s been since he’s had someone, how he kisses you like he’s out of practice. his mouth is so hard against yours it almost hurts, but you welcome the pain. it’s like he’s proving to you that he’s really there now, that nothing can tear him away from you.

but then he does pull away. you catch your breath, hands traveling to his face and running your fingers through his hair. andrew’s pretty eyes close and you cherish it—that you made him feel like that. he leans into your touch, head resting against your hand while you both take long, heavy breaths.

andrew leans in, pressing your foreheads together.

“i-i’ve wanted to do that,” another breath. you feel butterflies continuously emerge and flutter around your chest and your stomach, all the way down to between your legs. “since your first letter.”

and then you can’t resist—leaning back in for another hard, wet kiss. you feel him shift, strong hands on your hips, but staying firmly there, not traveling despite how much you wish they would. he’s been polite again, you think. waiting for you to give him permission.

“you can-” you start, but andrew keeps pressing kisses against your neck that make it hard to finish your sentence. “you can touch me.” you expect his hands to spread—grope and grab and tease until you’re begging for more. for him to be impatient and hungry and not stop until he’s inside of you.

“i can’t believe you’re real,” he says quietly, one hand moving up to your waist and touching the soft skin there gently. he traces up your arms and then down before intertwining his fingers with yours. you stare up at him, stupid as ever. every time you think you know anything about andrew, he proves you wrong.

“i can’t believe you are, either,” you say, tilting your head up for another kiss. a short, chaste one this time. “you’re just as nice as i knew you’d be.”

“you think i’m nice?” he asks, voice low. you nod in response, words escaping you. you settle to answer with another kiss, hands going to his shoulders to steady yourself, tugging and pulling on his bottom lip with your teeth.

you push up until he understands, and he uses two huge hands to get you into his lap, sitting up with his back against your couch. you straddle him, trying your hardest to not lose your train of thought as you realize how hard he is against you.

“i think you’re too nice,” you tease, unsure where you’re finding the confidence. under you, andrew looks spacey and flushed and all kissed out, but you don’t plan to stop. you lean in to press kisses to his cheeks and work your way to his jaw and neck. when you stop to look at him again, he looks hopelessly up at you, and you think he’s waiting again, waiting for permission to do something. “i think you’re so nice that you’re not telling me everything you’ve wanted to do to me these last few years.”

the way andrew looks up at you after you said that—god. you wish you could engrain it into your memory. you’re not someone who does this often, but you might just be good at figuring out how to get andrew to crack. he looks up with some of the hunger you’d imagined there’d be, and it makes something stir inside of you.

it feels strange to be wanted the way andrew wants you right now. you’re just not used to it, not entirely sure that you’d ever feel this way. that someone would ever make you feel this way.

your thoughts are wiped again when he pulls you into another kiss, and you deepen it, moaning into his mouth. you’re being so loud that your older neighbor might be able to hear you, but you can hardly bring yourself to care right now. andrew is quiet, like you thought he would be, but each soft grunt and heavy sigh is enough to make your entire body tingle.

you think you’re being better at staying quiet yourself when andrew scoops you up into his arms, carrying you like it’s nothing for him. you yelp loudly, forgetting everything for a second, realizing how lovely it feels to be carried by him. he leads you two to your bedroom, setting you down gently on the bed.

you stare at him, hovering above you, wondering how you’ll get to do this. how you’ll get his clothes off and watch out for his hurt hand and that you’ll finally get to feel him inside of you—when he just stops moving.

andrew looks up and around your bedroom, craning his neck to take in all of it. you’re not sure why, stuck in a position under him that forces you to just watch.

“is everything okay, andrew?” when you say his name, he turns back to stare down at you.

“yes. yes, it is. it’s just-” he pauses, looking back up and then down. the room is decorated with lots of pretty frames. there’s yellow curtains on the windows and your sheets are yellow under you too, just like he’d suspected. seeing it in real life almost sends him back to years ago—the first time he’d wondered what your bedroom looks like. the place from where you write your letters, the place you read them. “it looks just like i thought it would.”

and just like every other part of tonight, your reaction continues to surprise him. you smile and then laugh, holding onto his shoulder even tighter.

“spend a lot of time thinking about my bedroom, huh?” you tease, and he remains just as confused as ever.

you are such a conundrum. andrew thinks that he wants you so badly he can’t form a proper thought—and then the thoughts merge and blend and anger at the very idea that you’re so trusting of him. you should be more careful. you shouldn’t trust anyone how much you’re trusting him right now—inviting him inside your home, letting him into your bedroom.

and then you pull him down for another kiss and it all washes away like letters in the sand.

eventually he does pull away—though it takes an enormous amount of self control. the words you said on the couch haven’t completely left him yet and he still needs to answer you. you claw and pull at his shirt so he lets you take it off of him, you trace a hand down his chest, stopping at his heart and pressing your palm flat against him.

you’re staring, he thinks, but you’re really just admiring. taking in every detail, every scar and bruise so you can ask him about it later, moving your fingers down his abs and biting your lip while you stare daggers at his chest.

he moves away from your touch though, as sad as it makes you.

“you wanted to know everything i’ve thought about you?” andrew says, and the words make you tense up—thighs clenching, walls fluttering just from words alone. your fingers tighten around his bicep where you’ve been holding on, and you nod up at him dumbly. “can i show you?”

your head falls back onto your pillow with a thud. you nod again.

you let andrew set the pace—he peels off your clothes and you lift your hips and raise your arms in compliance. he starts with a kiss to your stomach that makes you whine, fingers leaving his skin and grabbing onto your sheets instead just to have something to hold on to.

you’re embarrassingly wet—you already know you are. it’s almost painful how badly you want him, even against better judgement that tells you that you could have, at the very least, taken things slowly.

you guess andrew just brings it out of you.

his kisses move south and you brace yourself, every muscle tensing up in anticipation. andrew is silent except for his deep breaths and somehow, with each one deeper than the last, they make your entire body shudder in anticipation. when he finally gets to your leaking cunt, you hear it. a strangled moan, sounding painful and from the depth of his chest and filled with want and need. just from looking at you. you can’t imagine what he’ll sound like when—

“this is what i thought about. this is always what i thought about.”

and then andrew licks down the length of your cunt with the flat of his tongue, and you can’t think about anything else anymore. he’s relentless, exploring you with his mouth like he’s a man starved. you can hear the noises, obscene and sloppy and wet as they are.

and then you feel it—his mouth around your clit while one finger prods at your tight opening. your back rises off the bed but he holds you down with one huge hand over your stomach. his finger slips inside you more easily than he thought it would. though you’re wetter than he imagined, he doesn’t stop teasing your clit.

your wetness coats everything—his tongue, his lips, his chin. your thighs are wet too, and he’s sure he can get your yellow sheets soaked too if he could tease you long enough. but he’s been incredibly patient all these years, unsure if he can wait any longer to get what he’s wanted.

his hand keeps you pinned down while his mouth stays on your clit and then andrew adds another finger and you thrash up against him. it’s useless against the weight of his hand holding you down, but your body moves anyways, hands wrangling into his brown curls, likely making a complete mess of them. you keep pulling and he moans between your legs and the vibration makes you thrash harder, a completely exhilarating cycle.

when he finally releases you from his grip, you think the other hand will explore up and down your body, but true to form, you’re wrong. andrew finds your hand and holds onto it, lacing your fingers with his while he keeps going.

when adds a third finger, you realize that he’s saying something against you. you can’t quite make it out with your heart thudding in your ears and how loud you’re being, but then it becomes a little clearer—

“you taste even better than i thought you would-” and you can’t stop it, the tension in your stomach winding tighter and tighter before it snaps altogether. a white hot heat washes through your body and makes you shake even harder, but andrew’s hold on you keeps you completely grounded. he works you through it, not stopping even once, not until you’re trying your hardest to pull away from him. you try to catch your breath but it’s useless. your head feels completely empty.

incoherent, you grab at andrew, murmuring something about inside, please, and he really tries to stay level headed. but one glance at your naked, writhing body and your expression while you beg for him is enough to tip him over the edge.

resisting you requires a level of self control that he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to have.

andrew doesn’t think he’s ever had any self control when it comes to you. it’s why he did this, isn’t it? showed up at your hospital with your sweet letter folded up and somehow convinced you, without saying much of anything at all, to trust him and let him back into your life. he doesn’t even know how he did it—he can’t recall most of what he said to you. it plays in his head like a movie, like how your letters used to.

he doesn’t know what he did to deserve your trust, just knows that he’ll do whatever he has to in order to keep it forever.

andrew’s thoughts about keeping you cloud him while he lifts up your legs, manhandling your body while you squeal under him. he pushes your knees to your chest and lets your legs hang in the air while he hovers over you. all he can think about is getting inside of you—-giving you exactly what you’ve been begging for, fulfilling every fantasy he’s had about you in the last three years. the noises you’ll make. how tight and wet and warm you’ll feel around him. how you’ll look with his cum dripping out of-

“andrew, please, please,” you plead, and he’s not sure that you understand exactly what you’re asking for. it’s good that it’s him you picked for those letters, good that he’s the one who tracked you down.

someone else, well, he thinks, lining himself up with your soaking wet entrance, someone else might have had bad intentions with you. not andrew, though.

his intentions for you are only good. intentions to keep you happy and safe and move you away from this tiny apartment and make sure you get the job that you want, no matter who he has to threaten in order to do so. intentions to keep everything taken care of so the only thing you ever have to worry about again is him, just like you’d done for all those years when you wrote to him.

and as he slips inside, he knows those letters are in this bedroom somewhere, that this bed is where you read them, that these were the pretty hands that held his letters and these were the pretty eyes that read them.

you stare at him while he hovers over you, not pushing in just yet. andrew’s dick is just like the rest of him—thick and broad and so wide that you don’t know how you’ll be able to walk tomorrow. there’s veins too, just like his arms, and it’s all you can think about with him enclosed over you.

when he pushes his thick head past your fluttering walls, you make a noise like nothing he’s ever heard before. pure want and heat wrapped up with pleasure and pain. you keep begging for more but he’s not sure you can even handle it—but who is andrew to deny you?

he pushes further inside of you, now half way, and you cry out. andrew leans in to kiss you again, swallowing the noise and letting you moan against his lips.

another thrust and he’s almost all the way in. he pulls out and pushes back in, and then he starts his rhythm. your tits bounce with every thrust and he watches entranced, until his eyes go back to where you and him meet. in this position, on his knees with you folded underneath him, he can see it perfectly.

it’s enough to make him finish instantly. you look completely fucked out under him, crying out with each push of his hips.

your open your wet eyes and glance up at him. through wet lashes and blinking eyes, you get out a few words, stopped by each thrust.

“is it-” you gasp, words getting caught in your throat because andrew is so deep inside of you that you can feel him in your stomach and your chest. “is it what you imagined, andrew?”

“god, yes,” he says, and the sound is so perfect to you. it comes out broken, in the form of a gasp and a moan combined, and you want to hear it again and again. he says your name like it’s a prayer grounding him to you and you keep your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close to you and bringing him in for another kiss. you can feel andrew’s pace start to stutter, his moans getting louder and his grip on you getting tighter. you hold his face in your hands, locking eyes again.

“inside, andrew, please, i want it inside, please, please,” and again, andrew thinks to himself, like some besotted fool, who is he to deny you? he releases whatever inhibitions he had left and fills you up with his cum—rivulets almost never ending. it leaks out around his dick, messing up your sheets and staining your thighs and making a mess of everything. he hears your heavy breaths and looks to see you smiling sweetly up at him.

and then he collapses next to you.

“hi andrew,” you say quietly next to him. your hands go to his, playing with his fingers and running the pad of your thumb over the veins on his hand. “was it how you thought it’d be?”

“it was better,” he says, breathless. you giggle and lean in to press a kiss to his cheek—and for a moment, he forgets everything. the circumstances of your introduction and the way he’d discovered you long forgotten for a few heartbeats. just you and the sound of your laugh and the promise of the future he wants with you before him.

“there’s still some things i thought about that we didn’t get to yet,” you tease, and he wonders, briefly, what he’s going to do with you.

and then you two hear it—scratching at your closed bedroom door.

“oh god,” you say, sitting up in bed.

you groan a little since your thighs are sore and it’s a wet, sticky mess between them. andrew keeps his hand on your arm and helps you sit up, and joins you in the position, like he’s preparing to help if you need something.

“warden, stop,” you say, but he doesn’t listen. you turn to andrew. “i’m gonna get him.” you try to move your legs and put weight on them, but you feel your knees buckle immediately, with andrew rushing to your side to help you back into bed.

“oh my god. you broke me.”

“i’ll get him. just-just sit down.”

andrew opens the door and picks up your cat like it’s second nature, bringing him to you on the bed before getting in right beside you. your cat is sweet but there’s not many people over at your apartment, and you worry for a moment that he won’t be nice to andrew when he wants your attention. but wardy doesn’t move from his position, staying curled up again andrew’s chest and arm, completely at ease.

“he likes you. that makes sense,” you say, smiling up at him, leaning in to pet wardy’s head.

but andrew doesn’t understand.

“warden. i thought you said his name was wardy?”

“that’s just a nickname.”

“why warden?”

“oh well. it’s silly, um-”

“tell me.”

“well, uh. well, warden is just the letters in andrew. uh, rearranged.”

“oh.”

“i’m sorry. i’m so sorry, is that creepy? i was really projecting, i guess, when i got him. i just loved your letters so much and i’ve never had a boyfriend or anything like that-”

“do you think we should get married?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[synity]

Hiii I really love your works ! So when hoshi said in his birthday live that people who went through a break up will relate to his new song 'i want you back' can you write some heavy angst about break up with hoshi ? Like why him and reader broke up and their POVs and how they reconcile ( if it's a happy ending ) You can decide whether it is a happy or a sad ending . Thank you so much for reading ! Have a great day ❤️

ALL THE STARS

(Kwon Soonyoung x FemReader)

*Heavy Angst | Two Months Post Break-Up*

It had been 64 days.

Sixty-four days since you last saw Hoshi in person. Sixty-four days since the door to your apartment shut quietly behind him, leaving only the faint scent of his cologne and a coffee mug still half-full on the kitchen counter.

You thought the pain would dull with time. Instead, it crystallized. Clearer. Sharper. The kind of ache that visits you in the silence between songs or in the laugh of someone who doesn’t look anything like him, but reminds you of the way he used to throw his head back when he found something truly funny.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch his birthday live. But there he was, on your screen. Bright smile. Bed hair. Holding a cake with candles that melted wax too fast.

Then he said it:

"People who have gone through a breakup might relate to my new song."

Your heart stalled. It wasn't just a song. It was a confession. A time capsule. A letter folded too many times.

I want you back.

You couldn’t breathe.

Two Months Ago

You’d been unraveling for weeks.

Missed calls. Short replies. Cancelled dinners.

"I feel like a placeholder. Like something you visit between your real life." you say "You know how much is on my plate. I’m trying." he says exhausted

"Trying isn't loving."

He stared at you, eyes not angry, just... tired. Then he left.

No slamming door. No dramatics. Just the sound of absence beginning.

He never stopped checking your page.

You hadn’t posted. Not in weeks. The last one was a blurry sky and the caption "Still learning how to breathe in storms."

He stared at it often.

He poured every ounce of ache into his solo. The bridge broke him. Vocals cracked. His producer called it authentic. He called it embarrassing.

But he didn’t delete it. Just like he didn’t delete the folder in his phone labeled with your name.

When the fan-sign ended, he stepped off stage exhausted.

Then he saw you.

You. Hoodie on. Bouquet in hand. Hair slightly damp from the rain. Every nerve in his body went static.

"Why are you here?" he asked, voice low.

You swallowed. "Happy late birthday."

He didn’t move. You stepped forward, gently holding out the flowers. He stared at your trembling hand. His own reached out before he could stop it.

"You’re shaking," he murmured.

"I’m terrified," you whispered. "But I needed to say everything I didn’t get to say that night."

You sat across from each other. A table between you, too small to carry the weight of everything left unsaid.

"I was selfish," you started, voice barely there. "I wanted more of you than you could give."

He shook his head slowly. "I gave you leftover seconds, thinking they were enough. That wasn’t fair."

Silence again. Not sharp. Just... quiet.

Then

"Do you still love me?" he asked.

You looked up, eyes glassy. "That never stopped."

His breath caught. "Then can we try again? Slowly. For real this time."

A blurry Instagram photo: your hands, holding a coffee mug. His hoodie sleeve visible near your elbow.

"Sometimes storms clear, and the sky is worth waiting for."

Or...

You didn’t bring the flowers home. You left them in his dressing room.

A note tucked inside:

"You gave me your best. I just needed your whole. I hope the world loves your heart like I did."

That night, during his solo stage, Hoshi looked directly into the crowd.

He sang the bridge like it was goodbye.

And maybe... it was.

Before anyone comes at me or feels disappointed, I just want to be honest: I'm also not proud of what I wrote here. I know it is short, underwhelming, or even boring compared to what you expected or compared to other stories I’ve written in the past. I really debated even posting this, but I decided to share it anyway because I believe that not everything we create has to be perfect or groundbreaking to matter. Sometimes, writing is a way to process emotion, even if the outcome doesn’t live up to our own standards or your expectations. I promise I’m not trying to waste your time, and if this piece didn’t reach you the way you hoped, I truly apologize. Please be gentle. I’m still learning, still growing, and I’m doing my best to create a space that’s open, kind, and safe for everyone who finds their way here. Thank you so much for reading, for understanding, and for being here with me even in the moments when I stumble a little

[tojisteddy]

hi! i wrote the 141 fic and i just wanted to address this with as much grace as possible. I am half Black.

I didn't include Gaz in my fic because I don’t know him, that is LITERALLY it. My entire exposure to COD comes from Tumblr. I genuinely had NO FUCKING IDEA Gaz was part of 141. I thought he was like König or Keegan, who pop up in other parts of the fandom.

I KNEW THE OTHER THREE WERE A PART OF IT FROM CLIPS ONLINE (IE. GHOAP INTERACTIONS) AND OTHER TUMBLR FICS.

To accuse ME (black woman) of racism for that is not only unfair, it's harmful. your supporters have been bullying the fuck out of me and i've had to delete anon submissions and block people.

i'm not going to include someone just for the sake of optics, esp if I can't write them well. there are tons of other gaz writers. was i wrong in tagging my post 141 men? sure! did i know gaz was in 141? no. i know nothing about him. i would not do him any justice.

in the nicest way possible, i can write who i write. my blog is self indulgent and i write who i know best. gaz is SUPER HOT, yes, BUT i wasn't particularly inspired to write him in this particular scenario. just as i wouldn't write someone like bruce banner from the avengers in an "avengers men with a fussy wife" fic bc idk anything about him. i dont think people would get on my case if i did that, if it makes sense?

and i would love to learn more about gaz, but i'm not obligated to write about him. getting on your blog to spread a false narrative to your followers is kind of unkind, especially due to your big following. but i just wanted you to know i'm not some white girl with an agenda.

hope that cleared everything up! :) xx

I wanna say first and foremost, my intention was not to send people to spread hate, bully or maliciously attack you and in no way do I condone that. Especially since I myself am a fully black women. That’s my fault in every way and I should’ve been more careful with my wording and should watch myself because of my following moving forward. Im sorry.

Secondly, I do understand only knowing cod characters via fics and edits on this app/tiktok and it’s not anyone’s job to have to look everyone up when you get interested in one singular character. You also don’t have the obligation to write every character known to man in every drabble/fic. That’s fine.

The conversation to be had though would be about exclusion and micro aggressions.

I’m not expecting you to know the ins and out of cod fandom especially when I see you do write for different fandoms (as do I). But exclusion towards Gaz on this app and in edits and the like, is a major issue in the fandom because of his race. And it’s probably a reason you didn’t know Gaz was apart of the 141. This is something that happens to many characters that look like you and me (black people).

And yes, I see (and again I apologize) that excluding Gaz was not your habitual intention. And sure, not all characters fit a certain scenarios.

But you not realizing Gaz was apart of the 141 was a micro aggression in itself, that’s what micro aggressions are.

The unconscious actions. 

The unconsciousness of excluding ppl who look like you and me just because of our skin color, facial structure and builds, the constant need to make black ppl look like aggressors even we don’t do anything wrong, being “scared” of black ppl having “too much” fun.

And those who are white, those are POC and those who are even half black, tend to do it a lot. Same thing with black men and colorism and how it’s ingrained in society’s culture. It’s done Unconsciously. (Not all the time tho) And I’m definitely sure for the white/poc ppl who follow me, it flew over their heads. They just see racism and that’s surface level. Yes, maybe that’s on me for not explaining it further. But that’s something that me and you have to live with till the day we die. And you should understand that.

Lastly, I want to reiterate, I know you did not mean it. I know you don’t have to write for Gaz if you don’t want to. I know Gaz doesn’t fit for some scenarios, same way that Soap doesn’t or Price doesn’t.

But I am saying to watch your actions towards ppl who look like you and me because they pan out at the end of the day.

[darlingdaisyfarm]

The idea of Stan (or Ford) having a praise kink and Reader having a degradation kink (or vice versa) is kind of humorous to me. Just getting off by saying wildly different things to each other, you know?

I feel like that's confusing wording, so to clarify: I mean this in a StanxReader or FordxReader way.

-🫶

oh my god yes ok ok so as someone who very much has a degradation kink but like selectively you know? only when it’s laced with praise otherwise it gets too real and i simply will cry, i deeply love this concept

like...unhmhm i need Stan to tell me “good girl for taking it like a dumb little whore”

anyways omfg i wrote too much, i just really liked it SORRRYYY

nsfw

just the idea of Stan or Ford earnestly trying to say smth sweet, genuine while you're beneath them just cooing out shit like “ugh shut up you fucking old man!! make yourself useful, stop talking and fuck me harder.” <33

you getting wet over being called a dumb little toy at the exact same moment as Stan is saying “you're doing so good for me” but then you go “no, no, be mean to me!!” and he just full stops and blinks like what the fuck do you mean mean???

let me talk about mullet Stan again cuz there's never enough of him. so imagining this with mullet stan please. please. listen. i think that bastard would lean toward degradation by default. not necessarily because he means it, but uhh somewhere deep inside, he thinks that's all he deserves. he’s lived his life on the back foot, always “screwing things up”, being the one who gets left or loses, so if he says “stupid baby” or ”dumb little fuck-toy” while he’s got his cock deep in you in some motel off the highway, it's because he thinks that’s what he is too. and if you praise him while he’s doing it, cup his jaw and whisper “you’re so good to me, you’re the best, no one fucks me like you do” (btw i think this is the phrase that he really likes) while his hand is around your throat? ohhh he might scoff or call you a liar. but he’s so soft for it. gets off on it against his will.

he's the one who doesn’t deserve tenderness. he can’t believe you’d want him for anything soft or sweet. and god help him the first time you whimper and ask him to praise you. ”you want good words?? from me??”

but also!!! also!!! and hear me out. you degrading him back. especially when he’s being all cocky with his chest puffed out and hands on his hips, AYGHYHH “yeah you like that, don’tcha.” and you just roll your eyes and “jesus christ, you’re such a slut for me.” game over. he’s gonna ruin the sheets. i’m so sorry but he lives to be called out, just a little. it's an honor to humble stanley pines with your filthy mouth. <3 need to write hate sex with him

AND OLDER STANNN. oh he thinks he’s got it handled until you start talking mean!!

he’s got you bent over a bed, calling you baby and sweetheart, kissing your shoulder and saying dumb stuff like “you’re so tight for me, fuck, ill never get enough of you” and you go “ugh you’re so easy, bet you’d cum just from me grinding on your lap in public. you that desperate for my attention, old man?” FUCK!?

but then, THEN. he matches your filth. if your kink is degradation, he learns it fast. starts growling in your ear “yeah? you wanna be used, that it? want me to treat you like trash? you’re nothin’ but a filthy little tease, huh? well get ready baby” but then a second later he’s worried “did that sound okay?? too much? not too mean?” wiping sweat off his brow and trying not to cry from being too turned on <3

as for Ford, where do i begin. you know this man has a praise kink deeply coded into his psyche right? he was raised on academic validation, on approval from elders, teachers, peers. he’s constantly been rewarded for being the smartest, the most innovative, the most competent. of course he wants to hear you say “you’re so clever, you’re the only one who knows how to touch me like this, fuck me with that genius brain,” while he’s buried to the hilt inside you.

and yet. and YET. i too must confess i want to call him a whore. i don’t know why. i love him, i do. but the mental image of looking down at Ford Pines, totally blissed out, stuttering, face flushed behind his glasses, and just telling him “look at you. you’d let me use that big genius mouth of yours for my pleasure, wouldn’t you? mm, all those degrees and still my perfect little toy.”

but anyways i mean this man has never been able to healthily express affection. so the second he’s finally in a position to touch and adore someone he actually loves, he goes full throttle tender mode, especially if it's established relationship. “you’re brilliant, so beautiful, you know that? you’re my darling, my love, my sweetheart” and you’re just underneath him with your lashes fluttering, dragging your nails down his back and moaning “ugh you’re such a fucking nerd, bet you’ve never even made someone cum before me. guess im the first pussy you’ve ever made a mess in, huh” WAAAAAHHH

and the worst part, he’s still into it. he cannot handle it but he’s so fucking into it. Ford starts blushing. sweating. stammering. but his hands are still gripping your thighs harder. the contrast between his praise & your degradation makes him insane until he’s literally groaning through his teeth and saying “you’re awful, you know that. . .disrespectful. . .but you feel so good, i can’t stop, im gonna” oh he'll cum soo fast

yes reader degrading Ford now that’s theatre. he’s expecting praise. he’s braced for “you’re so smart” and instead he gets “aw, are you gonna cum like a dumb little bitch for me?” like he’s offended lmao but also wildly aroused because his logical mind wants to protest but his body has never felt better

i love ittt. like Stan’s being mean to you but melting inside the moment you tell him he’s good and Ford’s trying to be praised and you’re calling him a brainless toy. everyone’s cumming and no one knows why....oh well

[icarianlibrary]

Oh yeah, some more for y'all (QUICK TW!! Literally all of these quotes are said by 12-17 year olds. They're gonna be unhinged, and some of them may be a bit offensive if you squint. There are also mentions of suicide, WW2, domestic abuse, & homophobia. None of it is meant in malicious intent, middle/highschoolers just don't have a filter)

Nico: "You aren't invited to my Serbia themed birthday party"

Will: "His weakness is being a liberal"

Nico: "They need to raise the price of monsters dawg I’m buying it every minor inconvenient assignment"

Leo: "It's okay, I can say that, my cousin's autistic"

Leo: "Yaoi is magic"

Piper: "I submitted five page Genshin smut to my creative writing teacher, got an A+, and said "I can imagine the characters saying this"

Leo: "I love Batman, he's my baby girl"

Percy: "Batman would adopt spiderman the MINUTE he found out he's an orphan with superpowers"

(The next three are from the same convo)

Leo: "God is always with us" 

Annabeth: "I thought you were a scientologist"

Leo: "Oh- Uh I mean our glorious diety, he is always with us. I mean- Uh They- They/Them is always with us"

Magnus (I know he isn't, but I feel like he would say this) "Oh yeah!! You thought, you thought you could discriminate against me because I'm straight"

IDK HELP??: "The people who weren't Nazis in Germany were the minority, and were they wrong??"

Random Hermes Kid: "I wrote the poem 'The Raven', and cut out the last two lines because my dad died, Edgar literally copied me"

Percy (Before his amnesia wearied off): "Who's Leo, who's Annabeth??? I'm a Gemini??"

Will: "That's like colonization, and that's kinda wrong" - *This was said in an actual PF debate in Speech & Debate)

Alex: "We'll like cut open their brains and go "Why is it rainbow in there??" - My friend watching me read Webtoon

Leo: "I am Kanye West's campaign president"

Leo: "What's it called? PRIDE and prejudice?" - My friend after asking what my book was about and I said "Gay people"

Alex: "I need her to get diagnosed with seasonal depression, it's BAD"

Lester: "There's no way anyone in this story is straight" - My friend talking about Jackson's Diary

*The next three are in the same convo)

Annabeth: "Nevertheless is a conjunctive adverb-"

Percy: "THAT'S SO GAY."

Leo: "Do you want to know the three most prideful words in the English language? Gay, Homosexual, Nevertheless."

Any demigod coming from a house with a different belief system: "I'm like a bisexual when it comes to religion"

Piper: "I was having social anxiety over Ao3"

Percy: "Burning question: do bi ppl exist irl?😭💀 or is it just me💀"

Leo: "And on the 3rd day, God created homosexuals"

Percy: "If I took AP or IB, which one would colleges think are more sexy?" - (I have to emphasize that this was TO A TEACHER.)

Leo: "Math is like a dystopian society"

Piper: "boys are supposed to ruin your lipstick, not you mascara”

Leo: *Touches his friend* "Now you have an STD"

Gabe: "I downloaded an AI girlfriend app and started beating women"

(The next two are in the same convo)

Leo: "Brodie, let's makeout together under the sunset"

Jason: "Stfu gay boy"

Piper talking about Percy: "Saw a guy earlier go to serve in volleyball and yell out to his girlfriend "this one's for you!" then proceed to serve the ball straight into the net"

Leo (Ifykyk): "He's in LOVE with superman?!? And I'm not judging, I am too"

(The next two are in the same convo)

Frank: "What's your 6th & 7th period?" 

leo: "Beatboxing" *Proceeds to beatbox so horriblly, eminem could make a distract to it*

Nico: "Never thought they could make suicide hot, but here we are"

Frank: "My birthday wish is being Amish"

(The next two are in the same convo)

Percy: "And you have crendle disorder" (Talking about the character from clarence)

Nico: "You're not allowed to say that word Infront of me anymore :("

Piper: "Literally every man in a 200 mile radius is the reason I'm not bisexual"

Some hermes camper probably: "Spider-Man makes me jerk"

PJO characters as stuff me & my friends have said

Piper: "I'd marry canes if they were a person"

Leo: "Dang it! I was crossing my d-"

Percy: "For the longest time I thought British people were a ploy to get us to be grateful for our seasoned food"

Jason: "Leo, we're not that stupid" Leo: "Well I am! I am stupidity!"

Reyna: "I am going to commit an Achilles." Nico: "Date Patroclus?" Reyna: "I was more thinking killing ten thousand Greeks, but that works too"

Leo: "Jason is alpha"

Piper: "LEO SUPPORTING WOMEN IS NOT OKAY"

Will: "Mr bean is a slay queen"

Piper: "Don't worry, Jason, I accept you and how gay you are for literally everyone in the MCU" [OG quote was about me w/ PJO…]

Annabeth: "Well in that case I love being manipulative?"

Hazel: "Henry Cavil is like 45 but I'd get on my knees"

Will: "Every fine guy is old"

Octavian: "How tf are you bi and aroace??" Leo: "With gods, everything is possible"

Piper: "Now I'm a homewrecker slut"

[ashwhowrites]

Hi, I’m so happy to see you back. I requested this before you left and I would love to see you write this. My idea is an Eddie x reader with ‘different universes/a timeline clash’ so for example Eddie and reader have never met but in the future they get married and have kids. Well one of their kids somehow (you can pick) got into the timeline of when Eddie and reader were in high school. The kid sees Eddie and is all like ‘dad! dad!’ And Eddie is very confused and thinks the kids is just mistaking him for his dad and offers to help find him. But the kid is like no ur my dad and then reader walks by and is like see and moms right there. Eddie is then very confused cus him and reader have never even talked to each other. Eventually Eddie catches on and tries to help the kid go back into his normal timeline without messing up his timeline so nothing changes in the future that way he still ends up with his happy life with reader. Also could you be able to do it from eddies pov. And if possible somehow do a part at the end where high school Eddie meets future Eddie and they have a little funny talk or something. If not that’s fine. I just love ur writing and think you’d be able to do a great job and I’m so happy to see you back on here and writing

Eek! Finally finished! I wrote this over 2 months so I apologize if the story gets mixed up, but I think I got it. I hope this is what you wanted and you enjoy it! Thank you for requesting ❤️

Time jump

Jay looked around the random town he appeared in. He had no idea how he got there. One second, he was at a garage sale trying to find a used baseball mitt, finding this random machine that seemed to be built out of clocks. He made the mistake of touching it, and now he was lost.

He walked around the quiet streets, nothing ringing a bell. The further he walked, the more he noticed his high school was down a few miles. He headed in that direction, hoping to find a teacher and find a way home.

He walked in and immediately noticed this wasn't what his high school looked like. None of the students looked familiar, and they all seemed to be dressed the same way. The school building was the same, but the inside was different, and none of the teachers sounded familiar.

"EDDIE MUNSON! NO RUNNING!"

Jay was confused as he heard his dad's name being yelled at from down the hall. He quickly sped up to the stranger who was running away. Jay followed until he stopped.

Eddie turned around as a younger kid stared at him. Weirdly, the kid looked somewhat like him. But he was positive he didn't have a kid out there and it would be impossible he'd be this old.

"What are you looking at, kid?" Eddie snapped. Jay flinched at the harsh tone. But Jay knew this was his dad. He's seen the photos in the yearbooks, the long hair, and the hellfire shirt. He remembered his mom showing him their senior yearbook, which meant Jay somehow ended up back in time. Was that possible?

"You're Eddie Munson?" Jay asked

"Who's asking?" Eddie asked as he clearly looked the young boy over. "You aren't old enough to buy from me."

"Buy? What do you sell?" Jay asked

Eddie ignored the question, starting to walk away from the random kid.

"Wait! I'm lost, and this is going to sound crazy. But you're my dad! I think I went back in time. What year is it?"

Eddie laughed as the boy looked at him, offended. "Back in time? Not possible, kid. It's 1986 and impossible for me to have a son. So I don't know what's going on in your head, but I'm not who you're looking for."

"I did! I was born in 1990, and back home it's 2003! I need help getting home!"

"Did you hit your head or something?" Eddie asked as he became concerned. "Do you know where you live? Let me give you a ride home and hopefully find your parents."

"You're not listening!" Jay stomped, frustrated, "You are Eddie Munson, my dad! You are in a band, one that helped you win over mom. You like Dungeons and Dragons, that was the theme of my fifth birthday. I know Uncle Wayne!"

Eddie tried to take in all the information. He was a little scared by how much this kid knew about him. Eddie was all for having an imagination and even believing in the unbelievable, but this seemed too impossible.

"I don't think time travel is possible, but you weirdly know a lot." Eddie was puzzled.

"I should've found mom first," Jay sighed as he looked around.

"Well, hey!" Eddie whined. "Who is your mom?" Eddie was curious. If somehow everything this kid said was true, he had a happy ending.

Jay didn't answer right away as he looked around the school building, as kids were exiting. He pictured how she looked in the yearbook.

"THERE!" Jay yelled as he pointed across the parking lot. Eddie followed his finger, and he couldn't help but stand in shock.

"Y/F/N is your mom? As in, will we get together? And we have sex?" Eddie questioned out loud as he took her in. "She has no idea who I am, how do we have a kid?"

Jay gagged at the idea of sex but tried to brush it off. "I don't know! But that's her, I'm positive."

Eddie was stunned. He didn't have high hopes for his future but apparently he hit the gold mine. He ended up with the girl of his dreams? He didn't want to chance that opportunity.

"Alright. Well fuck, let's do this then I guess!" Eddie cheered. Jay gave him an unimpressed look.

"Mom doesn't like it when you swear," he crossed his arms and gave Eddie a glare that he had seen Y/N give to many people.

"Right, sorry."

~

Eddie had no idea what he was supposed to do or where to start. But in every movie he saw, the library seemed to have all the answers.

After he and Jay read almost every book, he realized it was something that only happened in movies. He sighed as he closed the book. He took the time to take in Jay as he read. Eddie could see parts of himself in the young face. And the more he watched him, the more he noticed Y/N's mannerisms.

"I have some questions," Eddie said as he reached over and closed the book. "Are we happy? Like your mom and I?"

Jay nodded as he looked up. "I would say so. You guys miss all the time," he said as he shivered in disgust.

Eddie couldn't help but smile to himself. "Are you the only one?"

"No, I have a little sister, Spencer. She's about ten."

"Am I a good dad?" Eddie was nervous about the answer. Two hours ago he figured he'd never have kids since he was already a deadbeat. But apparently now he had a whole figure ahead of him.

"Yes, Spencer is a big daddy's girl. My friends think you're really cool since you know dungeons and dragons and can play guitar."

Eddie beamed with pride. He spent many years not caring for his future, never bothering to become anything. He figured he'd die young and not accomplish anything. He couldn't help but feel excited about his future. He was married, happily, to a girl he had liked for years, and he has kids. He had a whole family with her and he was jealous of his future self. He wanted to be in his spot, he wanted to skip right to the good part.

"Do I still have good hair?" Eddie asked, and Jay rolled his eyes at the question.

"I'm going back to reading," Jay said as he grabbed the book.

"Fine," Eddie said as he moved on. "Well, do you know which house you found the clock? I wonder if they have it right now sitting in a basement or something!"

Jay gasped at the idea, "That might work! Yes, I know the house!"

With a lead, they left the library. Since it was night, they didn't want to barge into someone's house. So, they headed to Eddie's for the night.

"And well, Wayne is out so it's just us," Eddie said as he got out of the van. Jay followed him into the trailer. He took a look around, spotting things that he knew. Like the guitar in his bedroom.

"I know that guitar," Jay said as he walked over, his hand reaching out. Eddie was fast to smack his arm down, with a deathly glare.

"Then you know not to touch it?" Eddie questioned. Jay stepped back, understanding his dad never messed around with that guitar.

"You taught me how to play. I'm nowhere as good as you but we play," Jay shrugged. Eddie frowned, feeling guilty for his outburst.

"Oh um," he wasn't sure what to say. He started to feel that this wasn't much of a prank anymore. "Let's get you to bed, yeah?"

Jay nodded, moving on from the awkward conversation. Eddie ignored the heaviness on his chest as he grabbed a shirt and some sweatpants.

"It'll be a little big but it'll work," he said as he handed him the clothes. Jay thanked him and took the clothes to the bathroom.

Eddie took the moment alone to sit on his bed in his thoughts. For the first time ever, he had someone following him around everywhere. Someone was attached to his hip throughout his whole day, and he enjoyed the company.

Jay came out and tossed his clothes into a corner, unintentionally adding to a pile Eddie had already created.

"Alright, so here's my bed. I'll sleep on the couch," Eddie said as he stood up. Jay moved over to the bed, peeled back the blanket, and crawled in. Eddie watched him get settled in before he turned off the light and walked into the living room.

~

Eddie drove around the block, following Jay's slightly wrong directions.

"Kid, you're killing me," Eddie groaned as he took a left down another street.

"I'm trying here! Everything looks slightly different in the olden times."

"OLD? This ain't even old times!" Eddie argued. "I'm not old."

"THAT ONE!" Jay yelled out, Eddie stopped his van and put it in park. They both ran to the house, rapidly knocking on the door. They waited a few seconds and the door opened.

"Hello?" The stranger said. Eddie didn't recognize who it was, slightly disappointed.

"This is going to sound crazy, but do you have a clock that has more clocks all over it?" Jay asked

The lady gave them a weird look, slightly closing the door a few inches. "What is this about?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am, I wish I had an explanation that would not sound insane. So, I'm going to give the straight truth. This is my son from the future. He went to a yard sale you will be having in a few years, touched it, and got thrown in the past. Now, I'm trying to bring my son back to his original timeline." Eddie gave the friendliest smile he could.

The door closed in his face, and he dropped the smile. "Alright, plan B."

Jay watched confused as Eddie began to sneak around the house.

"Dad! I don't think we should be doing this," Jay hissed as he crouched under a window.

Eddie clapped in his head as he found a basement window. "You stay out here, let me look first."

Jay barely knew what that meant, but then he watched Eddie crack open the window. Eddie let himself into the house, looking around for the clock.

"Oh my god, I was right!" Eddie exclaimed as he spotted the clock on a shelf. "Jay, get in here. I don't want to touch it."

Jay nodded and nervously crawled through the window. He grabbed the clock and closed his eyes.

But nothing happened.

Jay cracked open his eyes, seeing Eddie's unimpressed face.

"Let me see it!" As Eddie grabbed it, a heavy wind passed around them. Within seconds, they found themselves standing in a yard.

Jay looked around, recognizing the yard sale. He looked at Eddie with shock and excitement.

"We did it!" Jay exclaimed. Eddie frowned as he looked around.

"Well shit, now I have to go back," he said as he reached for the clock. Before he could, a name was yelled for Jay.

Jay turned and smiled, "Dad!" He quickly ran to the older Eddie. Grateful to be back in the correct timeline. Younger Eddie stood uncomfortably as he watched the two interact.

"I've been looking everywhere for you!" Older Eddie said as he pulled away from the hug. Still unaware his younger self was a few steps away.

"I got trapped in a different universe! Look, I met you in high school!" Jay said as he dragged Eddie over to the other Eddie.

Older Eddie looked at the younger version of himself, both confused.

"Yeah, it's not easy to explain. But the kid is honest." The young Eddie said. He took himself in, proud of who he was going to become.

"So you're me? In high school?" The older Eddie asked as he stepped forward. "That shit is crazy."

"Can I ask you something?" The younger Eddie asked, needing wisdom from his future self. "How do I make sure I get the ending you have? When does Y/N come into my life and how do I ensure I don't lose her?"

Older Eddie moved forward and planted a comforting hand on younger Eddie's shoulder. "Trust me, kid. You did everything the way you were supposed to. I believe you'll have the same gut feelings. Some days I don't understand why she's still with me but she loves us, I promise you that."

Younger Eddie smiled, a little less nervous about fucking up his future. He had to trust his gut because that's what got him there in the first place.

"First date is the night of graduation, and I suggest," older Eddie coughed as he leaned in to whisper, "bring a condom. Saves the headache of an argument with Wayne."

Younger Eddie blushed but nodded. He shook his older self's hand, in awe of who he was.

"Alright, Jay. We gotta go before mom comes searching for both of us."

Younger Eddie was a little disappointed he didn't get much time with older him. And he was curious to see how Y/N looked in this timeline. He knew she'd be just as beautiful.

Jay walked over to the younger Eddie and gave him a tight hug. "Thank you, Dad."

Younger Eddie smiled as he hugged the boy back. "I can't wait until I get to meet you in my timeline."

Jay smiled at his words, wishing him a farewell as older Eddie waved goodbye. Eddie watched as the two walked down the driveway.

Eddie grabbed the clock, with a full heart and promising future, he couldn't wait to go back home.

@bmunson86 @mxcheese @ladymunson @michaelfuckinglangdon @z0mbie-blah @biittersweet @mirrorsstuff @somethingvicked @micheledawn1975 @ago-godance @magnificantmermaid @tlclick73 @hargrovesswifee @cityofidek @silky-luxe @lokiofasgard616 @loving-and-dreaming @eddiemunsonsbitch69 @ashlynnkennedy @strangerthingsstories5255 @harringt8ns @pleasinghellfire @whoscamila @stusdollface93 @gretavankleep37 @bellaisswagger @arlxt @ineedmentalhelp123 @emxxblog @meetmeatyourworst

[screamingintotheneverendingvoid]

Dear John xx

John Carter x nurse!reader (Sunny)

Summary: John’s in rehab and you are unsure of where you two stand with how everything went down. Since he can’t take calls, and with some urging from your psychiatrist, you decide to write him.

Warnings: drug addiction (mention) cause John is in rehab, Carol being the reader’s honorary big sister, very sappy, a little sad, so many uses of Sunny instead of y/n, cliffhanger ending, I think that’s everything.

A/N: based on a suggestion by @omgbrianab <3, I hope I did this justice!!! Takes place between seasons 6 and 7.

—

It had been three weeks since it all went down.

You knew John had gotten there safe thanks to Peter, but since then it had been silence. You know they didn’t allow phone calls while someone was in, but he could’ve sent a letter. There was nothing against those, then again, you could’ve sent one too.

If you were honest, you were terrified to. The way he left was less than ideal and it left your relationship a big question mark.

What if he was done? You knew it made you a coward, but the limbo you resided in right now at least meant you had a chance.

Even after everything, you knew where you stood. You wanted to be with him, that hadn’t changed and you didn’t think it ever could. John Truman Carter had buried himself too deeply into your heart and soul.

You knew it wouldn’t be an easy road ahead but you never just wanted his good days, you wanted the bad and hard days too. As long as he was the one by your side through it all.

“Sunny, are you there?”

Your eyes shot up to look at Dr. Deraad on the other side of his desk, looking at you with some concern as to why you had gone so quiet.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry. All this talk just got me thinking. Do you think I should write him first?”

You asked with the pit in your stomach that hadn’t left since he had.

Kerry had gently suggested seeing Dr. Deraad after everything went down and with how blindsided you had been. You had been a little reluctant to talk to someone, but that was part of the reason why you were in this position in the first place, so you agreed.

It turned out maybe Kerry Weaver was right because it had help you sort through thing's you weren’t sure you could’ve on your own.

“If you feel ready, yes. He could use the support, and it opens that line of communication.” Deraad drops the pen he was using on his desk, “I know you said you’re worried about writing, but the only way to face that fear is to just do it. Write it 100 times if you have to, write just one paragraph, whatever you’re able to do.”

You took a deep breath and nodded your head, “Okay, I’ll do it as soon as I get home.”

—

You sat on the couch with a glass of wine, staring at the blank paper in front of you. It felt like it was mocking you, you can’t even write to him, what does that say?

There was just so much to say, how did you pick where to start, or what to even mention right now? Most of these things felt like they needed to be a in person conversation.

Dr. Deraad’s words echoed in your mind, write whatever you’re able to.

Maybe that was the point, you didn’t have to figure out all the big shit right now, John just needed you being you.

You sat your wine on the table and picked up the notebook and pen, it was glittery and purple, you thought he might get a kick out of that. He’d picked on you when he found some of your old notebooks from nursing school and seen everything that could be done in a glitter pen, was. You tried telling him it was just a small way to make it more fun and cutesy when school didn’t have much of that but he’d just kept teasing you anyway.

It made you smile at the memory and your heartache with how much you missed him.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself before you started to write.

Dear John,

I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re doing well.

I’m sorry I haven’t wrote until now, if I’m being honest, I’ve felt a little lost for words… and scared you wouldn’t want to hear from me. That’s silly, isn’t it? A silly reason not to write but I’ve been seeing Dr. Deraad for therapy and he said the only way to face that fear is to just do it.

So here I am, writing to you.

Maybe you’re feeling the same way, just as scared as me.

That’d make both of us goofs for waiting this long to write then, huh?

I just want you to know we don’t have to have everything figured out right now. I love you and I don’t take those words lightly. I’m here and I’ll always be here.

What else… your grandmother contacted me, for good reasons I promise!!

Your grandfather might still think I’m a gold digger but your grandmother had me over for tea, and wanted to check in on me.

It was very sweet and we’ve been talking on the phone every few days.

I’ve gotten a letter with pictures and multiple phone calls from Carol and Doug from Seattle. The girls are settling in well, they miss me, of course, but Carol seems really happy. She’s asked about you every time we talk. I thought you’d be happy to know she’s been asking.

You have so many people who care about you and we all miss you.

Sorry, I got carried away with this. I hope you’ll answer, John. I love you.

All my love,

Sunny

—

You sent out the letter that night. You didn’t want to wait anymore. Plus the sooner you knew if he’d write back, the better.

You went work, and well, that was a lot of what you did. Nothing else seemed quite as fun anymore, and now with Carol in Seattle and John in Atlanta, you just didn’t feel like doing much with anyone else.

Kerry did manage to get you over to her place a few times for dinner, and that was nice. Mark checked on you constantly while you were at work, which was sweet but you didn’t need him to ask every fifteen minutes.

Otherwise the days just passed. You honestly started to think you weren’t going to get a reply until you got home from work one evening, threw your bag by the door while you took off your shoes.

You looked through the mail. Bills, ads. Nothing too exciting.

Until you saw a Georgia address on something addressed to you. It took it a second to really hit you, but once it did you tore open that letter without a care.

Dear Sunny,

I miss you too, more than I can put into words.

I’m sorry I haven’t wrote either, it’s not been easy here. Not that I thought it would be, but they really fill your days here.

And I’m sorry this will take a while to get to you, I’ve rewrote and scratched everything out at least 10 times, trying to find the right words. My brain feels a bit fried in general but in everything I’ve fucked up, the thought that I’d pushed you away for good…. well, I don’t know if I can find all the words I need right now to let you know that I know I messed up. Plus, those conversations are probably best saved for in person anyway.

If you would be willing to write me again, I’d love to hear about your day, how life is going. I’d let you know how my days are going but they’re mostly the same. Breakfast, individual therapy, lunch, group therapy, a little free time, more therapy, dinner, sleep. Do it all again.

I’m glad you and Gamma connected, I guess some good can come out of this.

Tell Carol, Doug and the girls I said hi and that I’m doing well, they don’t need to worry about me.

You could write a hundred pages worth of letters and I wouldn't think you were getting carried away.

I love you too,

John

You ran your fingers over the writing, picturing John in your mind as he wrote it.

His tall frame hunched over a desk as he tried to find the words but ended up not liking them and starting all over again.

It brought a little smile to your face and for the first time in a while, you felt a little lighter.

—

Dear John,

A letter with how my days are going, I can do that.

I could start with work, since Carol left someone had to step up (temporarily) as charge nurse, and you know how much everyone hated filling for Carol when she was gone. Well… she did train me once upon a time, and I do love a good challenge. So I volunteered. I’m not sure how it’ll go, having to do normal duties on top of everything else but until they can find a permanent fit, I’ll try it.

Speaking of Carol, Weaver and Greene insisted I go on a vacation of some sort. I wasn’t in the mood for it but they said I deserve the break. A very sweet and stern way of telling me I’d been going too hard lately.

Well, instead of some gorgeous beach somewhere in the tropics, I decided to go visit Carol, Doug, and the girls in Seattle. Not ideal destination wise, but I miss her and the girls terribly… and I guess Doug a little too. So when she suggested it, I jumped at the chance.

I’ll be there for two weeks, so if you want to send a letter there next I’ll include the address. I’ll let them know you send your love.

Yeah, it’s been nice having your Gamma around to talk to. It’s like having a little piece of you with me, and getting to hear stories of a chubby cheeked baby John Truman Carter are priceless.

We’ve bonded in our love for you.

I’m so proud of you, John. What you’re doing isn’t easy, and you’re getting up every day and choosing to do it anyway. Keep it up, my love. You’re stronger than you’ll ever give yourself credit for.

I love you more,

Sunny

You wrote the letter the next morning after you had gotten his. Excited to have some connection to him right now.

Everything was complicated, but for now you could write to each other like it was simple, and that could be enough.

You even got ready early for work so you could hand deliver it to the post office. A skip in your step that hadn’t been present much lately.

—

Dear Sunny,

I don’t think they could’ve picked a more prepared or ambitious person for the job.

More importantly though, kind. You have a way with patients that makes them all love you, even the grumpy ones.

I know you’re going to be amazing at it. I don’t even need to wish you luck, that’s how confident I am.

They weren’t wrong, you do deserve a vacation and though the thought of you on a beach somewhere is definitely something I want to revisit, I think visiting Carol is perfect. With everything that’s happened… I know her moving on top of it didn’t help. I don’t even have to be there to know how much you miss her.

I think you’ll love Settle too, make sure you give it a chance. Make them take you on a beautiful hike somewhere, that’ll be your favorite part, I know it.

Please don’t tell me what embarrassing stories Gamma told you, other wise I might have to stay in Atlanta and never show my face in Chicago again. I don’t want to think of what pictures she might’ve shown you.

I don’t feel very strong right now, but everyday gets a little better. Everyone is nice here. Dare I say, to a sometimes annoying degree, but that’s probably the ongoing chip on my shoulder talking.

Not remotely possible,

John

The summer sun shining on your skin, the water stretched out in front of you, and hearing the girls laughter as Doug played with them in backyard.

This trip really had been a balm for your soul.

Currently you sat on the edge of the pier attached to your friend’s land, a cheesy grin on your face after getting through the letter.

“Was it from Carter?”

You pulled the letter to your chest and turned your head as Carol came to sit down beside you.

“Yeah, he sends his love, I’m surprised he didn’t tell me to tell you not to worry about him again.” You pulled the letter back down from your chest to scan over it again.

“Probably because he knows better than to say it again. You think he would know by now people care about him and that doesn’t just stop.”

You sighed heavily as you looked out over the water, “I think he knows or I hope he’s realizing it. From what he said, he’s got plenty of time to reflect on things while he’s there.”

The two of you sat in comfortable silence for a moment, you finally laying your head on her shoulder,

“Is it bad that I’m scared for him to come home?”

Carol puts her arm around you and pull you in tight to her side, “No, not at all. Him coming home means the two of you have to confront everything. It won’t be easy, but I think you two are stubborn enough to not go down without a fight.”

Her words drew a small laugh from you, “You’re right and I mean, look at you and Doug. You’ve been through a lot and always found your way back to each other.”

“Yeah, we have. It’s why I know you two can work it out.”

Carol pulled back so you could look at her, “You know you’ll always have a place here, right? If anything ever happens, you have a home with us. Any time, any day. We’re here.”

The sweet gesture nearly made you tear up, but you hid it by pulling Carol in for a hug.

She was the big sister you never had, and damn it why did she have to move so far away?

“I know. I love you, Carol.”

“I love you too, kid.”

—

This letter came with a Polaroid picture of you with Kate in one arm and Tess in the other. Tess cheesing it up while Kate started to have a breakdown.

Dear John,

I’ve been in Seattle for a week now and it’s even more wonderful than I could've imagined. It’s not because of the city, which is plenty nice, but getting to spend time with Carol, Doug, and the girls feels like it’s rejuvenated my soul in a way that was desperately needed. I knew I missed Carol but this really brought it home how much I do. This was the longest I had gone without seeing her since I started at county.

We’ve done so much. We’ve gone on two hikes, one we had to leave early because Kate was not having it, but we still manage to find the fun in every situation. We’ve been on the boat a few times, just stayed at the house and talked, walked around the city. It’s all been amazing because of the people I’m with. I’m excited to get back to Chicago but my heart is already aching with the thought of having to leave them behind.

Don’t worry, Gamma only showed me one or two albums. For now, at least. She’s not embarrassed you, I promise. She’s a very lovely and intimidating woman.

(Any picture of you on a horse is my favorite, by the way)

John Carter with a chip on his shoulder? Perish the thought.

All you can do is take it day by day, and I’ll happily be here to remind you whenever you need it: you are strong, John Carter.

You want to bet?,

Sunny

You wrote the letter late at night after a day with everyone on the water. It was in the comfort of the guest room, as you sat crisscrossed on the bed.

You are happy you took plenty of pictures today, and included the one with you and the girls. You thought maybe he’d enjoy the picture, it was by far the cutest in the bunch, which is why you tucked it in the envelope with your letter and sent it out early the next morning with a run to the post office.

—

Dear Sunny,

Thank you for the picture, it’s nice to have a touch of something personal here.

I’m glad you’ve been having a great time, and all you can do for the ache of missing them is spend as much time with them while you can.

I only have two weeks of the program left. It feels like everyday drags out longer and longer. I feel better, I do. I'm just ready to get back to my life. Back to my job, back to you, back to everyone. They keep us pretty busy here but it’s not like I particularly like being mentally pulled apart by therapist to some degree for most of the day. I spend most of the little free time I have reading, I think I’ve been through almost their whole little library.

Lovely and intimidating are definitely ways to describe Gamma. The fact she showed you more pictures than just the ones hanging on the wall doesn’t bode well for me. I beg of you, please don’t make copies, let them stay buried in the Carter family archives.

I don’t deserve you. I don’t know if I ever did. Thank you, Sunny.

Sure. What are you going to wager?,

John

You read the letter leaned on the wall beside the doctor’s lounge. Two more weeks. The thought brought butterflies to your stomach. He’d be home, but oh god, he would be home. You couldn’t help but be torn between excitement to see him and dread at the conversation you’d have to have. Everything that needed to be sorted out.

You hadn’t even told him you had moved yet! Into Carol’s old place. She had put so much work and love into it, you couldn’t let her let it go. Maybe with the wishful thinking that one day they would come back to Chicago and the house would be waiting when they did.

The house felt big and empty, though. It was bigger than any space you have ever had, without Carol and the girls there or John, you couldn’t stand the silence.

So you’d got a cat. Something you also hadn’t mentioned in your letters, because you weren’t really sure how to bring it up.

You also hadn’t talked about going to therapy either but you two did agree that you didn’t have to talk through it all right now. It just meant more to talk about when he got back.

“Sunny? Are you okay?”

You looked up from the letter, which you were still staring at while you got lost in thought, to see Abby standing in front of you.

“Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just reading a letter. Did you need something?”

“Dr. Greene told me to grab you to get trauma one ready for an incoming GSW, the ETA is 10 minutes.”

You stuffed the letter in your scrub top pocket.

“Okay, I’ll go do that now.”

—

Dear John,

You’re welcome. I figure Kate and Tess’ faces can make anyone’s day. Even if poor Kate looked less than happy in it.

I’m back home now, I get why no one wanted to take over as charge nurse, it’s not for the weak. Also the paperwork can be very boring. I’m enjoying it though. I wasn't sure I’d be up to the task, if I’m honest, I’ve had a lot of doubt. It’s been going good though. It’s definitely chaos, and you have a lot of people relying on you, but I feel so proud of myself.

Now that I’ve got your letter, it’s more like one week. You’ll have to tell me all you’ve been reading, I expect a whole book report, sir. I know I’ve probably said it before, but I know this isn’t easy for you. It’s not fun work, but you’ve stuck to it and you’re getting through it.

See, when you say don’t make copies, it makes me want to get copies just to hang on the wall. Maybe above the fireplace. Just a blown up picture of you riding your horse.

It would definitely bring me happiness every time I looked at it.

Well, we never did get to go to our picnic on a boat… so I raise you, we go on the picnic still, and you can take me to the Art Institute sometime. I’ve never been and I’ve always wanted to go. Better brush up on your art history because I want you to tell me all about each painting. If you win, we still do the picnic but we do whatever you want to do instead.

That’s my wager,

Sunny

You wrote the letter in between working, adding to it when you could. You got asked by almost every single person working what you were writing, you just shrugged them off and just said paperwork. As if paperwork ever made you smile that much.

—

Dear Sunny,

Well, here’s the last letter. I’ll be home in a few days, so no need to write back.

I promise to tell you about every book I read, and to tell you about everything that’s happened in the last few months.

I’m so proud of you. You might’ve not thought you were up to it, but I told you that you were made for it. You’re the best nurse we have, your heart is unmatched. County is lucky to have you, but more importantly, the patients are lucky to have you.

I would do anything to make you happy. Except hanging those picture anywhere I have to look at daily. They’ll haunt me for the rest of my life, I accepted that, but I should at least able to avoid them everywhere except at Grandpa’s and Gamma’s.

We never did get to do that, did we? How about this: I wave the white flag and say you win, we do all of that, and we can do what I want to as well. What I want to do will be a surprise though. I have to keep you on your feet somehow.

I can’t wait to see you,

John

You know you had a goofy smile on your face as you read the letter walking up the front steps. You weren’t sure what day he’d exactly be back, he had failed to mention that, but maybe it was supposed to be another surprise.

You stuffed the letter into a pocket on your bag while you fumbled to unlock the door.

It took you two tries to get it open, you’d get use to it one day.

Walking in, you dropped your bag to the floor and toed off your shoes by the door.

“Cher, where are you?” You walked only a few more steps.

“Cher?” You called again, scanning for your tortie cat who usually ran right up to greet you when you got home. The second call of her name must’ve done the trick because she strolls up a second later, rubbing up against your leg.

“Hey beautiful girl, how was your day?” You scooped her up in your arms, burying your face in her fur.

She meowed at you, nuzzling into your touch.

“That’s good. My day was kind of shit, literally and figuratively, but that’s the hospital for you.”

You walked towards the kitchen to put her food down, but a knock came at the door before you could even make it. Your brows furrowed, you weren’t expecting anyone and it was late. You debated if you wanted to even open the door but the knock came again. You sighed heavily, planting a kiss on Cher’s tiny head before putting her down,

“If I get murdered and you feast on my body, I’m going to be so pissed.” You pointed at her playfully when she meowed at you, “Yeah, yeah. Go ahead and act like you wouldn’t jump at the chance, who knows what you were doing on the streets before you found me?”

A series of meows had you rolling your eyes and walking off, the cat close on your heels.

You grabbed the door handle and looked down at Cher, who rubbed against your legs again, “Maybe they’ll think I’m crazy for talking to my cat and just leave us alone, how about that?”

You pulled the door open annoyed and ready to curse out whoever chose now to knock at your door.

Your expression immediately became one of shock, confusion, surprise. Some swirl of those emotions because standing on your front porch was John Carter.

[qinnyanimation]

No word needed

My favorite moment of Oinops and Pathoseus is the week after their break up… A continuation from the break up.

Oinops came to the art room the next morning to apologize, but ended up worsened the situation.

The Ariadne thing came from Pathoseus calling Oinops the embodiment of Dionysus…Oinops called him Ariadne back and promised to find him when he needed him most no matter if he was abandoned on a shore.

5 days and nights.

Pathoseus was so mad. He tried his best to keep his act together but couldn’t do so. He tried to do all the things he loved, he painted , he crafted but nothing worked. The frame is completely empty.

He kept on repeating Oinops words. All the meaningful things he needed to hear for all his life. He tried to seek him out but Oinops was nowhere to be seen. He ran away from the academy. Pathoseus was all alone once again.

But when he finally realized how both of them are scared to face with their feelings, he dropped everything and ran.

Oinops was no different, he ran away to the cult he used to drown himself in (Cult of Dionysus, yes this man used to be WILD) but he just stood there, in the middle of all the madness. Drowning in his own feelings, he tried to write down his apologies. But everything turned out like a cheap play script. Days and nights trying to find the right words.

He realized once again, that forgiveness is not what he wanted. But to let Pathoseus know he cared. He dropped everything, and ran.

( Me and moot wrote a whole one shot on each of their perspectives on those 5 days, here’s mine! I’m too tired to translate all those so… uh if you really want to read it I think a translator might do the trick? )

Return to each other’s arm

The closer to the academy, the faster Oinops’s paces is. The further from the art class, the faster Pathoseus ran.

They saw each other again. In front of the academy. In the middle of the center field. No word needed, Pathoseus ran into Oinops knocking both of them on to the grass field.

Oinops having been knocked to the ground, he just laughed. His voice was dry from all the cries and breakdowns but he laughed. Pathoseus just hugged him so afraid to let go once again. Bawling his eyes out crying like a wet puppy.

(The bottom pic was by @aungcha Oinops’s creator!)

They had there moments…after both calm down, Pathoseus mentioned his sister again. But with Oinops telling him that Apatheinia will most likely visit TOMORROW. Giving Patho peak anxiety but this time he had his love cheering him on…

On the other side, a ship slowly reaching Athens. With a girl ready to mourn the loss of her brother for one last time.

[defectivevillain]

cooking up a storm

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's pronouns are he/him and he's written to be gay; otherwise, race is ambiguous and no physical descriptors are used.

summary: You start a new job as a cameraman for the show Kitchen Nightmares, featuring award-winning chef Hannibal Lecter. Every day brings something new—often something disgusting, uncomfortable, or otherwise baffling. But, hey, that’s what you signed up for. Hotels and bars, on the other hand… You didn’t expect to add those to the list.

word count: 7.7k | ao3 version

warnings: cursing, suggestive humor & themes, partial nudity from an unnamed character, alcohol consumption.

notes: this is an absolute beast of a fic, just because i wrote it in narrative/script hybrid format. so it's a LOT to scroll through. you've been warned!

I was watching Kitchen Nightmares/Hotel Hell/Bar Rescue as I wrote this. I took inspiration from them, but I’m not writing about any of the real people. Hence why this is a Hannibal fic.

enjoy!

Kitchen Nightmares is infamous for… well… kitchen nightmares. As foolish as it may sound, some of the restaurants on the show are completely and utterly disgusting. Health violations, animals like rats and raccoons running through the restaurants, fruit flies in drinks, raw chicken stuck together in a greying sludge… The list goes on. None of it is appetizing. Watching the show religiously would probably give a person enough reason to swear off restaurants forever. 

Why you apply to be a cameraman for the show, you’re not exactly sure. You did want more action and adventure—your previous jobs had been too monotonous and boring for your liking. But going from a simple advertisement agency to filming Kitchen Nightmares… It’s a full 180. Still, you know you’re good at what you do—so you go through the interview process with confidence. You get through the first phone interview, and then a digital interview. Your final interview has you entering the studio and filming some promotional material. The supervisor assures you that you’d be out filming at restaurants more often, but he wanted to get a sense of your abilities. And apparently, all of your demo footage wasn’t enough. 

It’s stressful, but when you receive the call a few days later informing you that you’ve gotten the job, you’re ecstatic. It’s a well-paying job; not to mention, you’re sure there’s never a boring day. Combined with good benefits and generous vacation time, you’re convinced you’ve made the right decision. 

Your first few days aren’t very eventful—namely because you’re confined to the studio, where virtually no filming occurs. The show is always on the road, as Chef Hannibal Lecter visits restaurants across the nation. Producers comb through submission tapes and choose what restaurants he’ll visit. Then, Lecter will stop by to inspect things and get a sense of what he’s working with. After that comes extensive training, menu refinement, and sometimes even interior design and renovations. Safe to say, Lecter has his hands full. While it may seem like the work on the show is easy and smooth, you recognize that he’s a lot more involved than people may think. 

You haven’t met him just yet, but you’re sure you will once you’re on the road. You don’t expect to be bustling through the studio one day, only to nearly crash into the man himself. You reel back a bit, righting your balance. 

“Sorry,” you say quickly. That wasn’t necessarily the first impression you were hoping for. But oh well. There are rarely any other people in the studio, so you don’t necessarily blame yourself for nearly colliding with him. Lecter doesn’t seem too bothered about it either, instead waving off your apology with a kind smile. 

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he hums. “Hannibal Lecter. Pleasure.” 

You extend a hand for a handshake; he returns the gesture and places a free hand on your shoulder, before leaning in and kissing you on each cheek. When he pulls back, you’re flabbergasted. It takes you a moment to remember to introduce yourself in return. You’re a bit flustered. But, then again, you’re probably reading into it. The guy’s Lithuanian and frequently in Europe, so that was just a European greeting. Right? 

Fortunately, you’re spared from any further embarrassment by the production assistant, who grabs you and starts briefing you on the next restaurant the crew is going to visit. As you walk away, you feel like Lecter is watching you—but when you turn around, he’s engrossed in conversation with someone else. 

INTERIOR – Confessional. 

A short individual interview with you. On a banner near the bottom of the screen, your name and role (“camera crew”) are displayed in white font. You’re seen pinching the bridge of your nose, shaking your head in disbelief before looking at the camera.

You I’ve never smelled something so foul in my entire life. Some of us were wearing face masks when we were filming.

The camera then cuts to a behind-the-scenes shot of another cameraman, who can be seen nearly gagging as he places a hand over his mouth.

You (sighing) Yeah… Not fun. 

Twitter

judasjudahahas who’s the hot camera guy on Kitchen Nightmares???? And can we see more of him??? Asking for a friend. #KitchenNightmares

→ upsidedownapple: yesss omg his confessionals were so funny

→ gratattata: we stan him fr

INTERIOR – Chef Lecter’s car. Mid-day, rainy weather. Hannibal sits in the driver’s seat; you’re seated in the passenger’s seat, behind the camera as you film his reaction to this restaurant’s “Soup of the Day.” It was served to him through the drive-thru, which isn’t exactly promising. 

Hannibal holds a styrofoam cup in his hand, and he glances down at it with a mildly disgusted expression. 

Chef Lecter (sarcastically) Wonderful. Smell this. 

You (quickly) No thanks. That’s your job, not mine.

Chef Lecter (laughs) Fair enough.

A beat of silence.

Chef Lecter But look, at the very least. (tilts the cup down)

The camera zooms in on the soup served in a styrofoam cup; the texture is chunky and there are weird orange bits in it. 

You Ew. 

Chef Lecter This looks like one of those McDonald’s desserts. 

You A McFlurry?

Chef Lecter Yes. That. 

You (restrained laughter)  Pffft. You didn’t even know the name of it? 

Chef Lecter That’s not my job. 

You Right, fixing mediocre mom-and-pop restaurants is your job. 

Silence. Hannibal’s lips quirk at the edges, close to smiling. Then he shakes his head to refocus. 

Chef Lecter (grimacing at the camera)  Here goes. 

You’re quiet as you film him. Hannibal dips the spoon into the mixture, picks some up and looks at it. Chunks fall from the spoon and back into the cup. You shudder.

You’re watching Hannibal expectantly. He’s entirely silent, his face almost completely devoid of emotion. You’re not sure how long you sit there in complete silence. Hannibal just isn’t saying anything. 

Chef Lecter (diplomatically) …Well then. 

You  (bursting into laughter) I’m so sorry— hold on— 

The screen goes dark as you place the camera in your lap. For a few moments, all that can be heard is your laughter. Then you regain your composure and pick the camera back up again, pointing it at Hannibal. 

Chef Lecter (smirking slightly) Ready now? 

You (still fighting off laughter) Yes. Go ahead. 

Hannibal repeats the same actions as before, dipping a spoon into the mixture before bringing it to his lips. 

Chef Lecter (contemplative) Hm. Cold. 

You (sputtering) I’m sorry— That was—!

A few more moments of laughter. Then, you take a slow breath. 

Chef Lecter (fighting off a smile)  You’d better straighten up soon. I don’t think my body will tolerate much more of this soup. 

You  (pulling it together)  You’re right, my bad. Okay, last time. Go ahead. 

Chef Lecter tastes the soup, pulls a face. He describes the abhorrent flavor profile and cold temperature; you watch on silently. Eventually, it’s clear you’ve gotten the shot. 

Chef Lecter Finally. I’m starting to think you did that on purpose. 

You (with faux-innocence)  Me? Never. 

INT. – Confessional.  A voice from off screen speaks: So, you were the one to find that hidden freezer in the preliminary inspection. 

You (shuddering) Unfortunately. 

The camera cuts to black-and-white footage of a door hidden behind piles of boxes. From behind the camera in the flashback, you reach and open the door. The camera shakes a bit as you evidently grasp what you’re seeing. 

You Chef Lecter wasn’t pleased to see that. But I don’t really blame him. I mean, that’s gotta be several health violations. And a secret freezer? Their walk-in freezer was huge and it wasn’t even full. Very suspicious.

INT. – Jack’s Pub. It’s a rowdy dinner service, with waiters and guests bustling around the far too small space. 

You’re filming some B-roll when you’re suddenly jostled by a passing guest. You’re thrown off balance for a second before you manage to steady yourself. 

Chef Lecter (turning to look directly at you) Are you all right?

You (blinking) Yeah, I’m good.  

Chef Lecter (looking at the tight space around you) Ridiculous. Completely and utterly ridiculous.

You (jokingly) Maybe us crew members need camouflage or something. Like those National Geographic photographers.

The chef laughs. You’re surprised by the gesture—you’re not sure you’ve ever heard him express such amusement before. 

Chef Lecter Yes, that would be beneficial. It is somewhat akin to photographing wildlife, isn’t it?

You (scoffing, before lowering your voice) Yeah. But without, y’know, the dignity and respect. These places are dumps, so even the best shots look completely shitty.

Chef Lecter (lips quirking at the edges)  True. But you’re making me look good. 

You That isn’t exactly difficult to do. 

You don’t realize the gravity of what you’ve said until you see Hannibal’s eyebrows climb up his face. You immediately look away, trying to pretend as if you hadn’t said anything. 

EXTERIOR – Dumort Hotel. A gaudy hotel with bright pink walls and pastel yellow shingles looms over you. This is one of the first few episodes of Hannibal’s new show, Hotel Hell. After four successful seasons of Kitchen Nightmares, the network is deciding to expand and give him another program. 

You pay a disbelieving glance at Hannibal as you stand in front of the garish hotel. 

You  You’re really a masochist, huh? Was all the food poisoning and filth not enough for you? 

Hannibal  (huffs in amusement) I suppose it wasn’t. Now we’re adding crumbling wallpaper and burnished antiques to the mix. 

Hannibal heads up the steps and you follow after him, filming the whole way. When you reach the front doors, there’s a comically large door knocker that he pointedly ignores. He holds the door open for you and you murmur a word of gratitude quietly, before stepping into the space. 

The lobby is just as much of an eyesore as the exterior of the building. There’s a complete mess of colors: each as bright and dizzying as the last. There are furry armchairs and leather sofas scattered around the space. You zoom in on the cushions, which are tattered and look stained. 

The owner of the hotel, Maxine, steps out from behind the desk. To your surprise, Hannibal doesn’t kiss her on the cheek—instead opting for a more formal handshake. This only reminds you of your first meeting. You take a deep breath and focus on the conversation as you’re filming. 

Maxine Chef Lecter, I’m so thrilled to see you! 

Hannibal  Oh, please, call me Hannibal.  

Maxine Very well, Hannibal. I just know that you’ll enjoy your stay here. 

Hannibal I’m sure I will. 

The smile on his face is ever so slightly sarcastic, as if he knows just how much of a nightmare this place is going to be. Maxine doesn’t seem to notice this, instead looking at the camera. 

Maxine (curiously) And who’s this? 

You’re hiding your face behind your camera at this point. But she doesn’t relent, and eventually you’re forced to show yourself. 

You (awkwardly) Oh. Um… hi.

Maxine Hello! Enchanted to meet you, darling. 

She holds her hand out pointedly. 

You (hesitantly kissing the top of her hand)  …Nice to meet you too. 

That’s strange. She didn’t do anything like that with Hannibal. You frown, hiding the gesture behind your camera as you continue filming. 

Maxine Now, shall I lead you to your room, Hannibal?

Hannibal Please. 

His tone is almost imperceptibly clipped, as if he’s slightly frustrated. 

INT. – Confessional. Hannibal recalls his first impressions of the Dumort Hotel lobby. 

Tell us about the lobby. 

Hannibal There was a veritable mess of colors. Way too much neon. And I believe the chandelier in the center was broken, which is a safety hazard. 

And the owner, Maxine, seemed quite…

Hannibal (tersely) Friendly. 

Overly friendly, some might say. 

Hannibal I would agree. If that was her attempt at buttering us up before we explored the hotel… Well, it didn’t exactly work in her favor. 

EXTERIOR – Dumort Hotel hot tub. 

You’re standing on the deck, where an above-ground hot tub rests innocuously. Hannibal left briefly to change. Upon his return, you quickly tilt the camera down,

Hannibal (curious) What are you doing? 

You Just figured you wouldn’t want to be shirtless on national television. 

Hannibal  Ah. That is… a good point.

You (stammering)  Not like you have anything to be ashamed of! I just mean— 

Hannibal  (with a fond huff)  I understand. I appreciate the gesture. 

You (attempting to recover your dignity)  Good. 

It’s quiet as Hannibal steps over to the hot tub. You still have your camera pointed down. He eventually crouches and manages to step in. 

You Ready? 

Hannibal Sure. Care to join me?

You (shaking your head) No thanks. I don’t even like regular hot tubs. Let alone… whatever that is.

Hannibal  A shame. 

You You’re not supposed to be talking to me, you know. 

Hannibal Oh? 

You I mean, the viewers aren’t supposed to know I exist. 

Hannibal  You filmed some confessionals for Kitchen Nightmares , no?

You You know what I mean. 

Hannibal (teasing) And what am I supposed to do by myself, hm? This hot tub is depressing enough; this situation is completely undignified. 

You lock eyes with him over your camera and roll your eyes. 

INT. – Your room at Dumort Hotel, later that night. 

You open the door and are immediately hit with a nauseating wave of stench. It’s thick enough to give you a headache right away. For a moment, you’re just frozen in the doorway in shock and horror. This is where you’re supposed to sleep for the night…?

Then you sigh and pull out your camera, turning it on. 

You (briefly turning the camera to yourself, before showing the room)  So… this is where I’m supposed to stay. And it smells like death. But, hey, at least we’ll get some good footage. Right? Haha… 

You explore the room in search for the source of the smell. Eventually you find it: it’s the mattress. You almost don’t want to look. The last thing you want to find is an animal or fungus and mold. You pull the mattress back in what feels like slow motion. 

…There’s nothing. You frown and put the mattress back down, only to feel something hit your arm. You look down in confusion, finding a drop of water running down your forearm. You pan the camera up slowly, unable to hide a choked gasp as you see the hole in the roof above. Zooming in on it reveals a consistent flow of liquid.

You (to the camera)  It’s supposed to rain tonight too. Great. 

You pause the camera and watch the ceiling for a moment, before confirming that it’s still leaking. Damn it. You’ll have to find somewhere else to sleep. There is a sofa a ways down the hall… You could just sleep there.

You’re sitting on the sofa for no more than a few minutes when Hannibal exits his room and heads down the hall, pausing when he sees you.  

Hannibal  What are you doing out here? 

You Um… nothing important. 

Hannibal  (astutely) What is it?

You  (sighing defeatedly)  My room had a hole in the roof. And it’s raining, of course. 

Hannibal (with a sympathetic smile)  Of course. 

Hannibal …I’d be happy to share my room with you. 

You (politely) No, it’s fine— 

Hannibal  I insist. Can’t have you getting sick—it’s drafty out here. 

Hannibal’s soon helping you to your feet and guiding you with a hand on your shoulder, leaving you no choice but to share his room with him. 

INT. – Hannibal’s hotel room. Early the next morning. You’re wearing a simple shirt and sweatpants; Hannibal is wearing a cardigan and slacks. His version of a casual outfit, you suppose. 

Hannibal (looking at the camera)  So we were roused— 

You  (interjecting, briefly panning the camera down to the floor)  Wait, wait, wait. You should probably just say “I”.

Hannibal  Why?

You Otherwise, y’know. We shared a room, people will think… 

Hannibal I don’t mind. 

You (surprised) Oh. Okay. Then… start over, I guess. 

Hannibal  (staring at the camera once more)  We were roused this morning by an ear-piercing shriek, which proved to be a rooster outside… 

Twitter

Trending Hotel Hell Related tags: #HotelHell, #HotelGayHell, #ChefLecter

spaghettihands what am i watching and why do i love it SO MUCH #HotelHell

imeankingggg Production is WILD for keeping the whole Maxine/Camera Guy interaction in the show #HotelGayHell

→ grrrrr8ate: RIGHT????? 

→ fuygieri: hannibal seemed lowkey jealous

→ greenhamneggs: LOWKEY??? Bitch he was so snippy with maxine after

→ ooglyboogly: trueeee

drhouseapologist that shit was so gay. They stayed there OVERNIGHT. TOGETHER. IN THE SAME ROOM??????????? #HotelGayHell

→ bananananana: lIKRRRRR i’m in shamblessss

→ crystalmegs: and judging from the clip he filmed, the camera guy had his own room!!! I think his was the one with the hole in the ceiling 😭

→ grianbriffin: ^i just know that mildew smelled so rank 

→ yagamilightoh: YES BECAUSE HANNIBAL SAID “we were roused” 

→ yugylimaf: WAS THERE ONLY ONE BED????????

→ thespudhutmanager: LORDDD the people need to knowwwwww pleaseeeeeeEEE

yopapa anyone else think it’s funny that hannibal dresses so nicely to go to these absolutely awful hotels and restaurants

→ user39751: yes lolllll

→ toucanscram: he’s so charming that i think people forget he’s there to tear them apart

→ tropicannotdothis: **help them. supposedly. hahaha. 

INT. – Sylvie’s Bar and Grill. Noon.

What was a relatively peaceful lunch hour is quickly interrupted by the sound of loud music. Dancers draped in gaudy, revealing golden fabric weave their way through the tables. Everyone is immensely uncomfortable. The display is entirely unnecessary and inappropriate—there are children eating at the restaurant.

You’ve had plenty of memorable moments throughout the seasons you’ve been filming, but this one easily takes the cake. It doesn’t help that one of the dancers locks eyes with you (or the camera, you’re not sure) and advances on you, to the point where you’re backing away from her. Her hand grazes your arm and you can’t scramble back nearly quick enough for your liking. In your attempt to escape, you bump into someone behind you. 

A sudden hand on your shoulder makes you flinch. Fear races through you.

Chef Lecter (reassuringly)  It’s just me. 

His hand slips from your shoulder. You’re barely paying attention to the shots you’re getting, at this point—too wound up from what just happened. There’s a displeased expression on the chef’s face. He clears his throat pointedly. 

Chef Lecter (firmly) Please do not touch my crew. 

The air falls silent. The music is paused. The entire restaurant seems to be holding its breath. The diners are uncomfortable, and the dancers are still. Eventually, they retreat and return to service. 

You (turning to Hannibal) Thanks.  

Hannibal Of course. Are you all right? 

You Um… yeah, thanks. 

Hannibal (imploringly) Take a breather, please. I can’t imagine we’ll need any more footage of… that.  

He looks disgusted, annoyed. Repulsed, even. It takes you a moment to comprehend his offer, but once you do, you nod jerkily and head out the side door of the restaurant. You pause your camera and take a deep breath. Within a few minutes, you’re composed enough to return to the restaurant. Seeing Hannibal berate them in that sophisticated diction of his is all you need to feel better. 

YouTube

kitchendreamsfan1

chef lecter simping for the camera guy for six minutes gay 

featuring some moments from hotel hell!! if you haven’t watched it, then you should. episode 5 at Dumort Hotel has a shit ton of gay moments between these two. mwhahahha… 

Comments: 

diefrownhate: you are a SAINT

→ broombroommm: a POPE

→ keonlennedy: a BISHOP

→ poppyistired: pope is better but alright…

→ keonlennedy: shut up i don’t know christian mythology leave me alone

→ poppyistired: christian mythology? i’m stealing that lolol

saphael4L: lecter putting his hand on the camera guy’s shoulder at 3:04 !!!!!!! and the fucking look on his fucking face!!!!

dokidokidookie: do you think they’ve explored each other’s bodies

→ charizander: do you think you could log off for me

→ dokidokidookie: never

→ charizander: ok well i’ve done my civic duty idc anymore

INTERIOR – Colby’s Restaurant. Morning. 

Chef Hannibal Lecter has a reputation for being cool, calm, and collected. He never lashes out at people, never even reacts to their insults. And most people, they’re able to recognize that—and respect it. But there will always be morons. 

This particular owner, Colby Smith, is a piece of fucking work. He’s been a complete and utter asshole to his staff, his customers, the crew, and even Hannibal himself from the very beginning. And while Chef Lecter has a commendable amount of patience, it isn’t limitless. 

Colby is going on another tirade, hurling insults left and right. He’s cursing so much that practically every other word will have to be censored. And the target of his ire? Hannibal. That’s right. Hannibal Lecter, the angel who gives people second and third chances when they don’t deserve them. 

All it had taken was a simple question from Hannibal for Colby to go ballistic. Suddenly he’s spouting off about being emasculated, manipulated, used for profit, forced to play a role, painted as the villain. He goes on and on and on. 

Hannibal is… uncharacteristically silent. Usually, he attempts to reason with people. Today, he is silent and nearly frozen in the face of this owner’s criticisms. And even as you keep filming, you can’t shake the feeling that something’s genuinely upsetting him. 

“Cut!” the director yells. 

Hannibal is tense. His shoulders are drawn tight. His posture is perfect as always, but it almost looks rigid now. He hasn’t budged since the cameras stopped rolling. 

You’re moving before you can think better of it. 

You  Audio’s a bit spotty. Hannibal, mic check, come on.

The audio’s fine. You just needed an excuse to get him away. And you get the feeling he wouldn’t want to be asked after in front of the entire crew. So you lead him through the restaurant and to the alleyway outside. 

You (considering him for a moment)  Are you okay?

Hannibal  (without hesitation)  Of course.

You don’t believe him. 

You  Just take a few minutes. 

You can’t help but sneak concerned glances at him. Hannibal is quiet, much too quiet. The blank expression on his face would fool most, but you’ve been working with him long enough to recognize when it’s a facade. 

Hannibal is still silent. You feel compelled to speak, to reassure him somehow.

You You always want to help people. You see the best in them. And I’ve always respected that about you.

More silence. 

You (gaining more confidence)  But you need to know when to draw the line.

Hannibal is looking at you now. 

You You don’t owe these people anything. They’re fucking dicks. And if they can’t accept your help, then they sure as hell don’t deserve it.

There’s a pause. Neither of you try to fill the silence. You study Hannibal. There’s a harsher pull to his lips now. His mask is cracking, slowly but surely. 

You (slowly) You can’t help everyone. I know it sucks, but it’s the truth. 

Hannibal  (exhaling in a measured breath)  You’re right. 

You  (jokingly)  And I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but there’s no shortage of bad restaurants in this country. 

Hannibal (a hint of a tired smile rising on his lips) I am beginning to realize that, yes. 

Twitter

Trending Kitchen Nightmares Related Tags: #ChefLecter, #CameraGuy

wildonesare oh the camera people were SO SHADY for filming that convo between hannibal and the camera guy… not that i’m not grateful, ofc 😏 #KitchenNightmares

→ torturedpoetrydept: IKR

→ phineasferbfanfic: they made that shit as dramatic as possible

→ boo_briangriffin_boo: right??? no video, just audio?? and the subtitles were crazy too. “loaded silence” ????  like, helloooo??

grapesouda did we really just find the one restaurant that even hannibal lecter couldn’t save? #KitchenNightmares

→fourthpowerpuffgirl: lord i think we did

→ nerfornuthin: the owner seemed like such a fucking dick, hope he rots <3 

→ fourthpowerpuffgirl: supposedly he’s in prison now, so… i think he probably is rotting

→ nerfornuthin: …oh! oh! i didn’t know that LOLLLL

→ fourthpowerpuffgirl: ahaha you’re good, dw abt it. i think it was pretty recent. 

thatsnotbullying the camera guy was so sweet i’m sobbing

→ kissmya33: hannibal probably appreciated it so much

 

asstutes I HAVE A THEORY THAT THE RUSTLING CLOTHES AT THE END OF THE CONVO WAS HANNIBAL & THE CAMERA GUY HUGGING #KitchenNightmares

→ potatoh_: GENIUSSSS

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. Jack Crawford, the host of Bar Rescue, has invited Hannibal and you as guests for the episode. He’s visiting a bar in Virginia called Sadie’s. 

Hannibal and you enter the car. You’re nervous, your chest practically stewing in unease as you hop into the backseat. Maybe you can just sit here quietly, and everyone will forget you exist. 

Jack Crawford Welcome, you two.

Hannibal We’re delighted to be joining you.

Jack Crawford Chef Lecter, you’re an expert on food. And you’re— (he turns to glance back at you)

You (quickly) I’m not an expert on anything. 

Jack Crawford That’s not what I was going to say. 

Hannibal (chidingly)  Don’t sell yourself short, dear. Besides, if there’s one thing these people are lacking, it’s common sense—something you have in spades.

Jack Crawford Very good. There we go. 

A few beats of silence. 

Now, before we get started, I have to ask: are you two close?

You decide to wait for Hannibal to answer. 

Hannibal We’re good friends, yes.

You blink in surprise. Truthfully, you thought the same—but you didn’t want to make any assumptions. Plus, Hannibal isn’t exactly the type to make friends. You’re happy to hear he sees you as a good friend, though. The two of you have been working together for a few years now, after all. 

Jack Crawford Excellent. Just asking for the fans. (he winks at the camera)

Twitter 

Trending Bar Rescue Related tags: #ChefLecter, #JackKnows

mikuhatsunemikukuuuu LMFAO Jack wasn’t slick 🤣 “asking for the fans” yeah right… #JackKnows

→ corporatepridemonth: i mean he was brave enough to ask to their faces so

→ byebyebyeeee: right???? he said what we were all thinking. the voice of the people. 

→ waitin4u: sry… what is it we’re all thinking

→ user9191: that hannibal and the camera guy are dating!

→ waitin4u: ohhhh! well duh 

→ user9191: lmfao exactly 

boomboompowww the camera guy was so self-deprecating 😭😭 which, i mean, mood. but also SIR YOU DESERVE TO BE IN THAT CAR 😭😭 

→ therealjoeyjoe: yeah he’s probably more familiar with crazy people than hannibal and jack. just because of his crew job on the shows. 

→ tyyoufish: i just know he has some wild stories…

→ witharakemom: and then hannibal noticing he’s being quiet and encouraging him to talk after😭😭 

→ comeonbeverly: omfg i didn’t even notice that until now!!!!!

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. Some time has passed since you both first entered. The three of you watched the bar through the hidden cameras for a while. 

Jack Crawford (determined)  Now, I have a bit of a special assignment for you two. You’re going to join me for recon. We’ll go in and pose as customers. Are you ready? 

You Ready as I’ll ever be.

Hannibal nods in evident agreement. 

Jack Crawford Good. Let’s go.

The three of you exit the car and enter the restaurant. You’re seated at a table, Jack Crawford next to you and Hannibal across from you. 

You It’s weird being on the other side of this. 

Waitress Hi, folks. What can I get started for ya?

Hannibal Do you have a drink menu?

Waitress No.

Jack Crawford Alright. He’ll get a Manhattan and I’ll get an old-fashioned. And he’ll have—

Oh, and she’s walking away already. 

(laughs disbelievingly, staring after the waitress before shaking his head)

You It’s okay; I’m fine with water, actually. 

Jack Crawford Your liver thanks you. 

You laugh. 

Jack Crawford And apologies, Chef Lecter, for ordering without asking you first. I’m sure you’d prefer wine, but judging from the look of this place…

Hannibal (nodding) They don’t have it. 

Jack Crawford Exactly. Now, let’s take a look at the menu. I’m going to defer to Chef Lecter here for some of the specifics. 

Hannibal (humming) This is a strange menu for a bar. These items aren’t exactly… affordable to the standard bar patron. 

Jack Crawford I agree. $30 for a burger is highway robbery. But we’ll be ordering it, of course. When our waitress remembers to come back.

Five minutes pass… then ten… then fifteen. 

Jack Crawford I suspect she’s forgotten about us. Not great service.

Hannibal No. And I believe I see the bartender sneaking drinks over there. 

Jack Crawford Great. Just great. 

The waitress returns after around twenty-five minutes, which Crawford times on his watch. 

Jack Crawford (greeting her) Ah, so you do remember us. Where are our drinks?

Waitress (motioning back to the bartender) He’s making them.

Jack Crawford Well, in the meantime, we’d like to order some food. Let’s do… the nachos, the bison burger—medium, please—the mozzarella sticks, and the pepperoni pizza.

Waitress Got it.  (walks away)

Jack Crawford I tried to simulate the dining experience with that one. Sometimes, we have recon order the whole menu. I have a feeling we won’t need to do that here.

Hannibal I suspect you’re right. 

The bar is, safe to say, a complete and utter mess. Most of the staff is drinking and messing around. Some aren’t even behind the bar. And the owner, as Jack points out, is taking shots and flirting with the customers. One bartender passes by another, calling her a “messy bitch” and “whore.”

You  I can say I’ve been in the trenches too. My first job was working for a fast food place—I did headset for the drive-thru. Minimum wage, close quarters, busy lunch and dinner hours, rude customers… I get it. But that’s no excuse to be talking to coworkers like that. 

Hanniba I agree.

Jack Crawford I’ve noticed these things often happen because of a lack of management. The owner or manager doesn’t have any credibility, so the employees get comfortable. They do whatever they want because they can get away with it. And the blame lies with both parties there: the owner and the employee. 

You Also, I don’t think people realize that having a bar means having a business. It’s not a playground or a hang out space for your friends. So many of these people just buy a bar because they think it’ll be fun. Free drinks! But it sinks them every time. 

Hannibal and Jack are both quiet.

You (self-consciously) What?

Hannibal (sincerely) I couldn’t have said it better myself. 

Jack Crawford (nodding in agreement) Yes, that’s what this often boils down to, isn’t it? These owners never consider the practical parts of running a business: food and drink costs, labor costs. They don’t enforce any kind of standards; they let their staff get away with whatever the hell they want. And then they wonder why they’re failing. 

You I don’t envy you, Jack. 

Jack Crawford (diplomatically) Oh, I’m sure you two can relate. You’ve seen hotel and restaurant owners of the exact same breed. 

Hannibal Yes, we have. 

You Hannibal definitely has the harder job. I just have to film it. 

Hannibal (politely) We’ve both had our moments. You’ve been nearly stampeded by chefs before, if I recall correctly. 

You Oh, yeah, that’s true.

The waitress returns with the drinks. 

Jack Crawford (muttering) Right on time. 

Hannibal frowns down at his drink. Jack does too. 

You I’m not an alcohol expert, but… that doesn’t look right.

Hannibal (takes a sip, pulling a face for a fraction of a second) That’s revolting. 

Jack Crawford (takes a sip of his drink) Disgusting. This doesn’t taste anything like an old-fashioned. 

You How long do you think the food will take? I’m guessing… thirty more minutes.

Jack Crawford At least.

As expected, the food doesn’t arrive for forty minutes. It doesn’t look particularly appetizing: the bison burger is dripping with grease, the nachos are a giant clump, and the pepperoni pizza has sauce on top of the cheese. Maybe the mozzarella sticks are safe? You hesitantly poke at one with a fork. 

Hannibal Don’t eat that, sweetheart. 

You blink, surprised to find his hand on your wrist as he prevents you from putting your fork into the mozzarella stick. 

You Okay, I won’t. But I’m curious to see what it looks like on the inside. 

Hannibal’s hand slips away; you cut through the mozzarella stick with the side of your fork. The inside is a liquidy mess. You put a hand over your mouth in disgust before thanking Hannibal. He nods and smiles ever so slightly in return. 

Jack Crawford This is so disgusting. And look at these nachos.

Jack grabs a chip from the nachos and they emerge in one giant clump. 

Jack Crawford Chef Lecter, have you ever seen someone fuck up nachos this badly?

Hannibal Never. 

You That looks like it could be a decoration for the wall.

Jack Crawford (huffing as he holds it to the brick wall)  It does. 

You On that note, what kind of bar just has empty walls? This place is depressing. 

Jack Crawford I’ve seen alleys with more interior design. 

You Me too. 

Hannibal cuts into the burger with a fork and knife. His sleeves are getting closer to the juice dripping from the burger. You’re reaching out to push his sleeves up before you can stop yourself. 

Those stains would be a nightmare to get out. 

Hannibal (appreciatively)  Thank you. 

He pushes the sliced burger apart with the knife. The inside of the burger has no pink. 

Hannibal  This is well-done. 

You It looks past that. Like charcoal. 

Jack Crawford Here. 

Jack reaches out and removes the patty from the burger. Then he knocks it against the table. There’s a dull thunking sound, as if the burger is completely solid. 

You Oh, gross. 

Jack hits it against the table a bit harder and crumbs come off in chunks. 

Hannibal  The pizza dough looks raw. None of these dishes are successful. 

Jack Crawford I want to meet the chef who served these. Let’s go to the kitchen, shall we?

The three of you get up from your seats. You follow behind Jack and Hannibal, briefly pausing at the host stand. 

You Their computers aren’t even on. If they have a POS system they’re paying for… 

Hannibal Then they’re certainly not using it.

You (surprised he was listening) Right. 

You linger before the kitchen. Truthfully, you don’t feel like you should be here. The show usually has guest experts. But you’re not really an expert at anything, save for filming. 

Actually… that gives you an idea.

I’m going to grab some B-roll. Make myself useful.

Hannibal (frowning) You are always useful. 

You You know what I mean. 

You turn on the handheld camera you brought with you, before turning to Hannibal.

You You go tear their kitchen apart, and I’ll find a moldy toilet or something.

Hannibal (huffing a laugh) Sounds like a plan. 

INT. – Sadie’s. 

Hannibal and Jack are exploring the kitchen now. Jack looks disgusted, and even Hannibal looks mildly revulsed. 

Jack (pointing to a bin kept off to the side)  What the hell is that?

Hannibal  Looks like… raw chicken. 

Jack  Of course. Of course. Right next to the cooked chicken, in the same fucking freezer.

Hannibal A health inspector would have an aneurysm here. 

Jack That they would. 

The two of them investigate the filthy fryer and dirty grill with scrutiny. Jack inspects it for a few moments before seeming to come to a realization, glancing around the room. 

Jack Wait. Where’s your boyfriend?

Hannibal (without hesitation) He’s getting B-roll. 

INT. — Confessional.

Jack I had a feeling the two of them were dating. Lecter seemed moments away from climbing into the backseat to sit with the camera guy earlier. And he called him sweetheart earlier, too. Not very subtle, that one. 

They’re not dating. 

Jack They’re not? (sighs heavily)

Twitter

Trending Bar Rescue Related tags: #ChefLecter, #CameraGuy

bornbloodynbroken SWEETHEART???)?? BOYFRIEND???!??!? #BarRescue

melaniemartinezismygod #CameraGuy coming back to the kitchen confused 😭😭 mf knew he missed something important 😭😭😭

1kyokokirigiristan Swear on my life, #ChefLecter literally relaxed when the camera guy came back. 

→ demonicinfluence: I SAW THAT TOO 

generalgrievousrepairtech what do you mean he called him sweetheart. and then stopped the camera guy from eating that vile shit. the camera guy rolled up Hannibal’s sleeves for him. Jack just sat there amused. what do you mean this show isn’t for the gays??? #ChefLecter #CameraGuy #KitchenNightmares

→ swimmerladdy: there’s drama, drinks, and homoeroticism. that’s all i need. 

→ sportsgirl179: same tbh

thezoruark the way Jack was so surprised to hear they aren’t dating. willing to bet my life that there are more moments between #ChefLecter and #CameraGuy that got cut

→ hellokittyluvr: i need the full unedited version and i need it right NOW. raw footage. I don’t even CARE. 

kingkeonhee what the fuck is with my tl. why is everyone talking about this cooking guy and bar show. do i need to watch it orrrr….. #BarRescue

→ seokjinnie132: you don’t need to watch it, you can just be uneducated and uncultured.

→ kingkeonhee: oof, my pride… 

→ seokjinnie132: ahhahaa. kidding. jokes aside, the show is already chaotic and entertaining enough on its own. add two oblivious gay men and you have yourself a masterpiece. 

→ kingkeonhee: oh purrrrr i’ll check it out then

→ polywhirlygig: keep us posted. i expect an essay of book report length. 

→ kingkeonhee: don’t test me, because i will absolutely do that. 

→ polywhirlygig: wait actually just watch it on call with me, i need to see everythingggg

→ kingkeonhee: BET running to discord rn

INT. – Jack Crawford’s car. A few months after your first time on the show. 

Jack (looking at the camera near the dashboard) Now, our special guests for the episode are making a return appearance. These two were very popular with fans. I’d almost be insulted, if they weren’t my friends. At least, I think we’re all friends now.

Hannibal  Good evening, Jack. 

You Hey.

Jack  Hello, you two. I was just saying that we’re all friends now. Or I hope so, at least. 

You Yeah, we are. There are some things you go through that are just so horrible that you become friends after. Trauma-bonding. 

Hannibal  (amused)  Yes, we’re friends. It’s good to see you, Jack. 

Jack  You too, Hannibal. (looks to you in the backseat) And you, of course. 

You both will be pleased to know that I’ve hired two other people for recon tonight. 

Hannibal  That is a relief. 

Jack  They’re entering the bar now, as we can see on the screen here. On the left there is Alana Bloom, a practicing psychiatrist and good friend of mine. On the right is Freddie Lounds, a journalist. They’re heading in… Let’s see how they’re treated. 

Hannibal  Pardon me, Jack. 

Hannibal gets out of the car. Then, to your disbelief, he enters the backseat and sits next to you. At your confused look, he explains. 

I couldn’t see. 

You (skeptical) Right… So you moved further away from the screen. 

Silence. 

You If you wanted to sit with me, you could’ve just said that. 

Hannibal  (shameless) I wanted to sit with you. 

You (surprised)  Oh. 

Jack Enough flirting, you two. Take a look at this. The bartender is on the wrong side of the bar. 

You (leaning forward and considering the screen for several moments)  That one server’s busting her ass just to keep the place alive. 

Hannibal Right. And the bartenders aren’t even serving drinks. 

Jack  Oh, and now one’s offering “boob shots”.

You (covering your eyes) Oh no… No… 

Jack  I can see this is happening the opposite effect. 

You (muttering in disbelief) I’m too gay for this.

Hannibal’s eyes snap to yours. He looks incredibly amused. A few moments pass. 

Hannibal  (patting your knee briefly) You can look now. 

You (removing your hands from your face).  That’s crazy! That’s illegal. She could have the cops called on her for indecent exposure!

Hannibal  (sincere) You’re correct. This isn’t—or, at least, shouldn’t be—a strip club. 

Jack She would also lose her liquor license.

You Not to mention… that’s just inappropriate. 

Jack No wonder the place is filled with men—that’s what’s bringing them in!

The three of you are stuck in shocked silence for several minutes. Jack is the one to break through it. 

Jack And checking back with our recon agents… we can see they’re uncomfortable. Understandably. They’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes. They still haven’t gotten their drinks. And here comes Paul, the owner. 

The three of you are quiet as you stare down at the screen for several minutes. 

Jack He’s drunk and he’s flirting with them. Not the best first impression. 

You Not at all. 

Hannibal  They look visibly uncomfortable. 

Jack  He’s practically sitting in their laps, at this point. And he’s married. Flirting right in front of his wife, who is the bartender. Completely ridiculous. 

You Let’s get them out of there. 

Jack  I’m with you. Let’s go. 

The three of you exit the car. 

Hannibal and you manage to get the owner away from Alana and Freddie. They seem relieved, to say the least. Jack has since stepped into the back, and you can hear him yelling at the owner from out here. Good. The guy deserves it. 

Then Alana, the psychiatrist, places a hand on Hannibal’s forearm and leads him to a nearby corner. They converse privately for a moment. Your eyebrows climb up your temple as you see how she’s practically draped herself over him. Freddie’s voice draws your attention. 

“That drink was nasty,” she scoffs. 

“I bet,” you grimace in sympathy, taking a look down at it. You’re not much of a drinker, but you can still tell what makes a good one. Fruit flies don’t make a good drink, that’s for damn sure.  

Hannibal comes back soon enough. Alana and Freddie exchange a look; Jack returns from the kitchen and leads them out of the bar, apologizing profusely for the situation he unknowingly put them into. 

Hannibal and you are left standing together now. “Hey,” you greet him. “Looks like you have an admirer, huh?” you joke, referring to the interaction you witnessed between Alana and him just now. 

“I was going to say the same to you,” Hannibal says, nodding at Freddie, who is being led out by Jack. 

You huff and ignore the remark, trying to ignore the strange tightness in your chest. “So, did she ask you out?” you continue. You know you need to stop talking, but you can’t quite get yourself to just shut up . “To a cleaner bar, maybe?” 

Hannibal exhales in amusement. “She did,” he admits. 

“And?” you prompt him. Why are you pushing this? You don’t think you even want to know the answer, you don’t want to be thinking about Hannibal sitting close to someone at a bar— 

“And I denied her,” he answers. 

“Aw,” you say, managing to smile sympathetically. Secretly, you’re relieved—even though you shouldn’t be. “Why? She seemed nice. She’s a friend of Jack’s, right?”

“I wasn’t interested,” Hannibal says with a brief shake of his head. His hands are in his pockets now. He seems completely at ease, despite the fact that he’s standing in the middle of a very dingy, dimly-lit bar. “And I have plans.” 

“Plans?” you repeat. “Look at you.” 

There’s a strange expression on Hannibal’s face. He almost looks… smug? You soon realize why. “You almost seem jealous,” he notes. 

“Jealous?” you echo. Fuck. “Me? Aha… No… definitely not. At all. Totally. I’m completely fine over here. Totally… good. Great, even.” 

You’re not sure how much longer you would’ve kept rambling if Hannibal hadn’t leaned in to kiss you. You’re immediately reminded of your first meeting, and how his hand found your shoulder as he got closer. Then, there was some room for interpretation. You had only just met. 

There’s no room for interpretation now. There’s nothing platonic about this gesture—he’s holding you tenderly, smoothly entering your space before swiftly breaking away. “You are ridiculous,” Hannibal says with a smile. 

“Oh,” you blink. Suddenly everything starts to make sense: all of the behavior you had just perceived to be friendly. “...Ohhh.” You smile. 

“Yes,” Hannibal responds with a knowing look. A fond one. 

“Okay, we’re going to redo that somewhere less filthy,” you assert. 

Hannibal is fully smiling now. You’ve never seen him look so expressive. His eyes are gleaming. “Yes, we are,” he promises. He reaches out and clasps your hand. 

The two of you don’t seem to break apart quickly enough, as Jack storms into the restaurant once more. He stops in front of you, seeming moments away from going on an angry tirade about the owner before he sees your hand in Hannibal’s. “Finally,” he says dismissively. “I thought you’d never get it together.” 

“Yes, thank you, Jack,” Hannibal replies in amusement. 

“Glad something good came out of tonight,” Jack says with a shake of his head. “Because the owner’s bat-shit crazy. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.” 

“You definitely will,” you acquiesce. “Have fun with that.” You smirk teasingly. 

“You’re lucky the fans love you,” Jack sighs, sensing that you’re leaving. 

You just smile. “Bye, Jack.”

“See you two,” he nods. “Hopefully in a slightly cleaner establishment next time.” 

“One can dream,” Hannibal responds. You all laugh before Jack heads into the kitchen again, leaving Hannibal and you standing outside the bar hand-in-hand. Hannibal glances over at you and smiles; you squeeze his hand. The two of you head out to the parking lot, the night air a welcome change from the stuffy and warm air of the bar. 

“You remember when we first met?” you ask. Your hand still clasps his. A cool breeze runs through the air and it’s refreshing. You feel safe here, comfortable enough to be vulnerable for a moment. You glance at Hannibal, awaiting his answer. 

“Of course I do,” he answers. 

“Were you messing with me?” you question. “With the kiss on the cheek thing, I mean.” 

“Oh, yes, I remember,” Hannibal recalls. A smirk dances on his lips. “Maybe.” 

“Seriously?” you nearly exclaim. “You had me second-guessing myself for months .” Years, even. But he doesn’t need to know that. 

Hannibal laughs. “Apologies,” he says, stopping in his tracks and turning to face you. His free hand moves to glide across your cheek, settling just near your jaw. “I just couldn’t help myself.” There’s an unmistakable fondness in his eyes. He’s staring at you like you’re the only person in the world. 

“And you say I’m ridiculous,” you remember to say. You can’t bring yourself to be cross with Hannibal for long, because he’s soon pulling you into another kiss and taking your mind off of that embarrassing encounter.

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