#because there's definitely a lot of material to work with

[geminiwritten]

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.

[enki2]

Patents have a maximum lifespan of 30 years & most last 15. Patents have their own problems, very unlike those of copyrights.

I'm in favor of abolishing IP in general, but I find the widespread ignorance of what IP is and how it's used absolutely astonishing and shameful. Not understanding what IP is and what's wrong with it is how people end up re-inventing it later.

"Intellectual property" refers to a group of legal instruments that developed largely independently, and they're grouped together because they allow companies to create artificial monopolies around immaterial things under certain circumstances.

Copyright is the first, and was originally a way to make censorship easier; later, it was justified as a way to "protect authors" from cheaper unauthorized abridged versions of their books circulating. Because of this justification, a lot of copyright doctrines have a dual component: the control over the actual work (which you give up to your employer or whoever commissioned the work, and which expires after a period of time that varies dramatically), and the "moral right" to be credited for your work (which theoretically doesn't expire but which has never really functionally applied to most people working in large collaborative creative projects -- the moral right is why movies have long credit sequences, but a disney animated movie is not crediting individual tweeners). This "moral right" is often bound up with mystical baggage about individual creativity that makes it easier to sell the concept of IP, but in practice, individuals do not have the resources to sue corporations for copyright infringement while corporations have the resources to win obviously-bogus copyright lawsuits so copyright does not affect regular people in any way except as something that can be weaponized against them. Copyrights are really useful for corporations, though, because they now last more than a hundred years in many cases, & because (between being pretty messy *and* having a lot of disinfo about them) people can be induced to give up rights they definitely have because of vague threatening language about copyright.

Trade secrets are a formalization of the idea of breaching implicit secrecy contracts. If you tell somebody something in confidence, and they go behind your back and tell it to someone else in a way that materially damages you, you have grounds to sue. This basically just adds more oomph when the entity with the secret is a corporation & the secret is the thing that makes the corporation profitable.

Patents are, theoretically, supposed to be a way to trick corporations into releasing information that would otherwise be kept as a trade secret. Since trade secret protections don't do anything against, say, somebody breaking into the Coca Cola recipe vault, corporations would lock new formulas and designs down tight, and then the one dude who knew how to do things would eventually die and the secret would be lost forever. So, the idea was: since nobody could possibly want to profit from the same thing for more than 30 years, people would be induced to publish their secret designs in a way that anybody could copy, & the government would provide a fast-track to suing anybody selling a duplicate version for 15 years (with an option for a 15 year extension). It used to be that patents had to actually be demonstrated; today, patents apply to many things that can't be demonstrated, and patent examiners (who determine whether or not a patent can be filed -- basically a matter of figuring out whether it's infringing another patent) rarely have the background to actually determine whether a patent is valid. So, in practice, lots of transparently-bogus patents get filed as a kind of disposable buffer that the opponent in a lawsuit will need to take down one by one. Since patents can be transferred, there are also companies (called patent trolls) that specialize in owning large numbers of dubious-quality patents & suing at random. These patents often aren't renewed, but it doesn't matter that they only last 15 years because new ones are being filed all the time. However, filing a patent costs several thousand dollars and takes a year, so it's not really relevant to the lives of individuals (who, even if they managed to file a patent, could not afford to sue for infringement).

Trademarks were pitched originally as a consumer-safety thing, but are functionally an anti-counterfeiting thing. Like patents, trademarks must be registered; unlike patents, they must be in common use before registration. They're supposed to be a legal method of preventing someone from making a cheap, "bad" version of a "luxury" product and passing it off as the real thing, but bound up with it is the notion of common-sense word usage. As a result, part of maintaining a trademark is spending a lot of money to make sure people visibly use it the way you want it to be used (advertising, where you pay people to use it in a particular way & film them) and that they people who use it in a way that doesn't benefit the company get shut down (nastygrams and lawsuits). Trademarks can get very expensive to maintain, and big companies have lost major trademarks. An individual person is almost never going to want a trademark because of this expense, but trademarks are very valuable for corporations because they're the only kind of IP protection that you can apply to characters, names, or visual iconography, and they have no natural expiration.

Those are the big four forms of IP, their characteristics and limits, why individual human beings don't benefit from them, and why corporations can use them to rent-seek and shut down competiton/dissent.

"fuck the entire idea of "compensating artists" for using their ""IP""" There isn't a single argument against this that isn't also a defense of wage theft. If you're planning yo profit from someone else's work, then you should be required to compensate them your their labour. No ifs and buts. That said, this is specifically about any for-profit usage; Despite all of the moral panics about how They want to make memes illegal, nobody is earnestly trying to take away your pictures you aren't even selling. At the very least, they aren't an issue worth sweating over.

your brain has been utterly cooked im sorry

[immarble]

141 outfit headcanons because i was bored and wanted to yap

HEYO!!! ;P

Okay! So this came up out of the blue when I was looking through outfit ideas for my own OC, and was like, “Y’know… You should do the 141 and what they like to wear!” With my sanity, Pinterest, and a whole lot of material to share, I present to you the boys on what they like to wear during an outing.

Disclaimer: This list is intended for fun and my interpretation. Obviously, everyone is different, and we should have our own ideas! This is basically just me yapping about my own ideas, thanks to my gremlins, I call my friends from Discord LMAO (and btw if one of y’all do happen to find this, I thank you).

NOW! On with the list!

To start, please note that I only have five (Price, Ghost, Gaz, Soap, and Roach). I have taken the liberty of starting with these, as I thought it’d be easier to begin with a smaller list. Additionally, I was thinking, “Let’s start with the 141 first!” (And before you ask, I head canon that Roach joined not too long ago, and also Soap isn’t dead stfu LMAO!) Also, if you have more characters that I should work with, then by all means, please send ‘em my way! I’d love to work my magic on other characters! :3

Price: Standing on business

My man’s definitely wearing like he's gonna go to a formal event lol. What I mean is that he likes his button-ups (bro has an entire WARDROBE), like how he likes his tea. Some may have designs, from floral to animals (there’s one with bear cubs which is his absolute FAV!) Throw in some slacks, a Rolex watch (Yes they’re expensive as fuck, but he has been saving up his money), and boom, John Price! That doesn’t mean he always wears what he usually wears; a good cardigan for the winter months is another favorite of his, especially when he matches it with a beanie. Or when summer rolls around, will you see him wear a short-sleeved button-up (count how many button-ups I said LOL) and shorts, with sandals because he’s def a dad (to the 141, of course!) Oh, and don’t forget his iconic boonie hat, you’d think he WOULDN'T wear that? HAH, think again!

Ghost: Emo, but make it stylish

Simon Riley, the Ghost, one look at him and you’re on the floor, bleeding out. Yeah, he doesn’t do colourful. But when he doesn’t slash enemies’ necks or interrogate a poor sod he’s… Actually pretty snazzy (contrary to popular belief LOL)! Sure, he’d be comfortable with a simple shirt and dark jeans, but sometimes he likes to add some flavour to his style. A hoodie? Throw in a jacket, add a couple of chains (let me tell you, he has quite a collection), and you've got yourself an emo Ghost. Or for more of his ‘lighter’ outfits (which are basically either grey or brown), he can see himself in a more grunge aesthetic. At least he trades his balaclava for a simple black mask; he isn’t selfish to show off his top half like his blond hair and brown eyes (even if his lower facial features are off limits, only the ones he trusts, the 141, can have that privilege).

Gaz: Dude… c’mon

I gotta be honest with you, trying to think about what Kyle Garrick would like to wear was the hardest, because listen. THIS BOY KNOWS HIS SHIT! But the more I think about it, I was like, “Actually, I’d think I dress pretty much the same!” A sweater vest is a must-have for him, paired with a cute tote bag to match, followed by some loose-fitting pants (I have this in cream, which would look A MA ZING on him!). Oh, and just know that this man knows his colour theory the same way he knows a gun. There isn’t an outfit which doesn’t look good on him, when he’s set his eyes on a particular shirt or pants he’s LOCKED THE FUCK IN! Throw in some jewellery (courtesy by Soap, which I’ll get into after this,) and this boy about to get all the bitches! (And hopefully me, a dude LOL!)

Soap: Club classics by Charli XCX

To put it in simpler terms, Johnny MacTavish dresses like he’s gonna hit the nightclub. Obviously, he doesn’t wear this ALL THE TIME, a sweater and shorts, followed by sneakers, and you've got everyday Johnny. However, whenever the 141 goes out, this boy is gonna go all out. First of all, a see-through shirt, and I mean SEE-THROUGH! (Like you can see his pecs and abs). With some leather pants snug enough to be comfortable yet stylish, or if he wants to show off his thighs, some baggy shorts. Oh, and about jewellery, my man got Gucci, Prada, etc. Just think of one and Soap is sure to have a pair, wether they’re earrings, bracelets, chains to sling over pants or necklaces, if it was a competition I think a cute femboy would have a run for his money, (and lemme remind you, Johnny ain’t a fucking femboy. He can still beat you up!)

(before you ask, i TRIED to find a gif of him but uh... nope! my boy gets NOTHING!)

Roach: If Grentperez is a clothing aesthetic

Out of everyone in this list, I think Gary Sanderson is more relaxed and chill. Now that doesn’t mean he doesn’t bother with dressing up, far from it. For colder outings, either a sweater or a hoodie (with cute little patterns), some comfortable sweatpants (can be another colour, although green does fit him more), and Converse sneakers. Or a combo of an undershirt, with either a button-up or a flannel over it, simple jeans or cargos, and tennis shoes. And, like Price, likes a good watch to complete the look (even if it’s no Rolex). And since I head canon to him having red, curly hair and green eyes, he tends to navigate more green and brown outfits. (I should’ve just said he’s into nature core, with floral designs and patterns LOL!)

Alrighty, and that’s about it! As I said before, this is just my interpretation of what they like to wear, and in no way does this represent canon or whatever. If you like this, then please say so, comments and likes fuel me up and make me go feral LMAO! Also, I might do interpretations of the boys, such as their likes/dislikes, what they like to do when they’re not fighting for their lives, or heck, maybe some cute one shots, whether it’d be platonic or romantic, just ask me away!

And with that, I’ll see y’all later! (Gonna go back to my corner of simping for these men LMAO!)

[veliseraptor]

May Reading Recap

Maybe I should start putting the years on these or something. But then I'd have to go back and do it for all the previous entries in this series and that sounds like potentially a lot of work. (Watch me end up doing it anyway.)

I have apparently ended up falling back into comics, so I read a fair amount of trades of those this month - this list actually leaves some out because I sort of stopped keeping track. But I think I got most of the new ones.

A Lot of People Are Saying: The New Conspiracism and the Assault on Democracy by Russel Muirhead & Nancy L. Rosenblum. I read this one on the heels of A Culture of Conspiracy and that was a better book despite the fact that it's more than a decade out of date in terms of current events. I just don't think I (at least not fully) agree with the authors' hypothesis that there is something fundamentally different about the kind of conspiratorial thinking underlying QAnon and its various surroundings; there might be something to their argument that some of the conviction relies on simple repetition rather than "logic" but I think that's always been true to a certain extent, and there is still the urge present to look for "proofs." What I truly found depressing, though, was their assertion that the solution here is to have people who have ties to the conspiracy community speak against the conspiracies that are actively supporting their power. Which they aren't going to do. So.

Hungerstone by Kat Dunn. I've been eyeing this Carmilla riff since I first saw it mentioned and I was delighted to finally get to read it - and while I would say I still love the original more, this was still a delight to read, especially because it did not try to make the story nicer in the process of embracing the gayness of it. In fact, given the ultimate ending, it arguably makes it worse, which I am very here for. Not impeccable but I'm glad I read it and would generally recommend if you're interested by the premise.

The Invention of Prehistory: Empire, Violence, and Our Obsession with Human Origins by Stefanos Geroulanos. This book was fascinating and very thought-provoking, though my favorite part was possibly the author's palpable grudge against a number of recent popular anthropology books (most notably Sapiens). The Dawn of Everything also got a callout, though (another book that I read recently). The author's general hypothesis is that our dedication to seeking out definitive answers about human origins has more to do with theoretical projects during the time those theories are elaborated than it has to do with concrete evidence or available information, and he makes a compelling argument to that effect.

Diavola by Jennifer Thorne. I read a lot of horror this month, it turns out, and while this wasn't my favorite of the horror I read it was nonetheless enjoyable. It was certainly propulsive - I read it very fast - but I'm not sure I was fully sold on the ultimate resolution. Amazing how many horror novels lose me in the last 30 pages or so.

Black Widow & Hawkeye: Broken Arrow by Stephanie Phillips & Paolo Villanelli. I've been meaning to read this series for quite a while and only just got around to it thanks to a confluence of various factors that resulted in me in a comic book shop while they were having a sale. And I'm glad I did pick it up! It's not going to be my favorite rendition of their dynamic, but it was nice to see these two on page again, interacting with each other, and if Villanelli isn't my favorite artist I still enjoy his work.

The Museum of Other People: From Colonial Acquisitions to Cosmopolitan Exhibitions by Adam Kuper. I tripped over this book in a bookstore and it made my brain light up a little because I am fascinated by museum studies. This is an analysis of the history of various kinds of Western anthropological museums and how those museums have approached the showcasing and cataloguing of materials from "other" cultures, and how that has shifted over the eras up to the modern day. Wasn't my favorite nonfiction I read in May (though that ended up being a high bar, see below) but it was certainly an interesting and worthwhile read if you, like me, are interested in analysis of museum creation and curation.

Wonder Woman: Historia by Kelly Sue DeConnick & Various Artists. An exceptional work of art. Also made me look up what Kelly Sue has been doing for the last decade, because I haven't read any of her work in a long time and she does it phenomenally - though the art is, I think, the real standout here.

Superman: American Alien by Max Landis & Various Artists. I don't read a lot of Superman comics generally speaking (nothing against the guy, he's just not one of mine in the same way as others are), but every so often I'll pick one up and I saw this one around enough online that I decided to go for it. Definitely worthwhile, up there with All-Star Superman as far as comics that made me feel Superman feelings. If you're even remotely interested in Superman as a character I would recommend this.

The Staircase in the Woods by Chuck Wendig. I haven't actually read any of Chuck Wendig's horror before picking this one up, but I think I probably will end up seeking out others. I read a lot of horror last month, as mentioned above, and while this wasn't my favorite (though again, high bar, see below) it's definitely up there as far as books I'll remember - and the fact that I'm now looking at other books by a new author is indicative.

The Forever War by Joe Haldeman. I've been meaning to read this one for a long time; possibly since some of the first times I saw it mentioned as a Vietnam War commentary that came around again during the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. Some of the politics here have not aged well, but the underlying thrust of this book, unfortunately, has. It's violent and brutal and in places a really rough read, but ultimately I'm glad I read it.

Something in the Walls by Daisy Pearce. I'm looking at this one and trying to remember how I felt about this book, which I feel like is sort of telling. It was fine? Not particularly outstanding. A pretty conventional work of horror that didn't really stand out to me either positively or negatively, basically.

Birds of Prey: Megadeath by Kelly Thompson, Leonardo Romero, & Arist Deyn. I have liked Kelly Thompson's work but a lot of it I haven't loved, and that was true of this as well. It feels like some of the characterization is a little shallow/overly quippy, and after reading the Gail Simone run - while the art is certainly better here - the writing doesn't quite hold up. I don't think I'll be following the series forward.

Colonialism and the Emergence of Science Fiction by John Rieder. I've been reading this book in chapters one at a time for a while but finally actually finished it, and it was very interesting (and cited subsequently in another book I read in the last few days, which was fun to see). Looks at the early works of science fiction in the second half of the 19th century, primarily, and their relationship to colonial discourse. The author does a good job of examining the complexities of that relationship - the way that many of these works come directly out of a colonialist milieu and are tied into that ideology, and yet how some of them show deep ambivalence about the colonial project. Made me remember how much I miss reading studies like this, which I mostly don't do as much these days because of access problems. Alas.

The Reformatory by Tananarive Due. So I mentioned above that The Staircase in the Woods wasn't my favorite horror this month and it's because of this one, which honestly is my favorite horror I've read this year so far. It's really good, guys. Taking as its setting a reformatory school based on a truly horrifying one that really existed, and working very much within a "the racism and institutional abuse is the horror" context, it's a really strong work without ever feeling didactic or preachy (a risk of working in that context for horror, sometimes). If I recommend one horror novel from the last five months it'd be this one.

Surviving Autocracy by Masha Gessen. I would follow M. Gessen anywhere tbh but this one seemed, ah, relevant. Oddly enough, one of the things it reminded me of was just how bad the first Trump administration was, which was, perversely, therapeutic for me. But in general I felt like Gessen had really good things to say here, particularly in terms of the elucidation of the importance of reintroducing ideals and vision into politics for the left, and not just focusing on pragmatism and policy (which is often my urge; I've gotten kind of disillusioned with ideals and vision in politics, lately). Fast read and felt worthwhile to me.

The Age of Surveillance Capitalism: The Fight for a Human Future at the New Frontier of Power by Shoshana Zuboff. There's some nonfiction I read and it both appalls me and rewrites my brain a little and has me going "so I read this book recently-" in ways that are really obnoxious to my surrounding human beings, and this was one of those. Not so much that it's anything I didn't, on some level, already know, but the specific ways in which Zuboff theorizes and elucidates the underlying economic logic of what she dubs "surveillance capitalism" - capitalism which primarily runs on the collection and sale of "behavioral surplus" for the population writ large - is a powerful way to think about exactly what is going on when it comes to the way tech has come to interface with our lives. Highly recommend even though it's a long and in places rough read, and I came out of it a little bit "how the hell do we get out of this one" about it.

Remnants of Filth: vol. 7 by Rou Bao Bu Chi Rou. The last volume, so I have now officially finished this one! And I enjoyed it, though not as much as Husky, personally. I also felt like it got a little weaker as it went on, though I wonder if I would feel less that way if it weren't for the quite apologetic author's note at the end of the book, which was a little bit "this isn't very good haha" in vibes. Still, though. Ended up coming out of it with special appreciation of Murong Lian, who I will probably keep chewing on for a while.

Not sure how I feel about the, uh, Murong Mengze twist, though. Probably would feel better about it if it weren't for the whole [major spoiler].

--

I'm currently reading The Seven Wonders of the Ancient World by Bettany Hughes, which I am enjoying so far; I've finally worked my way through most of my checked out library books but the remaining ones include Will to Battle by Ada Palmer and Shards of Honor by Lois McMaster Bujold, marking me finally starting to read the Vorkosigan Saga after saying I would for years. I'm currently trying to alternate fiction and nonfiction but we'll see how that goes. Eyeing a reread of The Silmarillion which might start this month and got a few horror books lined up for me that should be appearing at the library soon.

I also have a list an arm's length long of comics I want to read and only a slightly shorter list of webnovels, including ORV, which I might start this month.

[incredipuppy]

These are all the notes I took during panels on the second day of the Salute to Cobra Kai convention:

Gianni DeCenzo

- “I’ve got muscles somewhere. There in there somewhere”

- “Demetri has some serious game”

- Gianni had a protective harness in the scene where he gets kicked in the balls and as soon as Khalil learned about that, he said he was going to try as hard as possible to break it

- Eli and Dem were both socially awkward and loners and they met and were platonic soulmates. He imagines that they met at coding camp and that’s where they became best friends

- Gianni said he would want an edible arrangement is someone broke his hand and compared Tory in that scene to Emperor Palatine

- Jacob and Gianni are trying to write every week and are trying to write movies or shows but they keep getting distracted

- “What 16 year old has premium yelp status? It’s Demetri and that’s it.”

- I asked what aspects/arcs Gianni wish could’ve been explored and he said prior to season 6, he would’ve said I wish we saw a more bad boy side of Demetri. He acknowledged how when Demetri decided he was going to be a “cool kid”, he just changed his hairstyle just like Hawk because that’s the only other person who’s really made that switch. (“Oh yeah a new haircut. I’m gonna do the same thing. That’s definitely what I was missing”)

- He mentioned how he liked that Demetri never really compromised on who he was as a person even as he did get better at karate

- They referred to Demetri and Hawk as a toxic, abuse relationship whenever they were asked about Hawk breaking Demetri’s arm

- He improvised “That felt good. Bitch!” because it felt like a Kyler thing to say and he wanted Demetri to stoop down to Kyler’s level

- The cast that Gianni wore in s3 was a real cast from a doctor, and the art department team would seal his arm up in it with extra plaster between scenes

- He neither confirmed nor denied a binary brothers spin off and said he would love to come back to play Demetri

- Gianni said he would’ve beaten up Demetri too because of how much he mentioned MIT in season 6

- Gianni imagines that the Binary Bros go off to college and become millionaires

- “As long as he has his binary bro, it will all work out”

- Demetri has come to really love karate and he’ll likely always to karate on some level

- When Demetri sold Johnny the phone, Billy flicked a bottle cap at Gianni and it almost broke a camera

- Favorite scene to film was the weapon demonstration in s4. He trained for 3 months to do 2 takes in the scene. At one point, the weapon flew out of his hand but he managed to catch it so it looked like he knew what he was doing

- Kyler was originally supposed to break the cinder block with his fist and despite everyone telling him not to hit it with his face, Joe Seo immediately decided to as soon as they called action

- Demetri likely googled “which dojo would hurt me the least” to decide which he would join and that in combination with the fact that it was free, he choose Miyagi Do

- “I don’t think Demetri would last if he stayed in his [Johnny’s] class”

Alicia Hannah-Kim, Martin Kove, & Yuji Okumoto

- “Out of Kwon, Hawk s3, and Johnny in KK, who is made out of the most Cobra Kai material?” and they all said Kwon

- Yuji described his and Kim’s relationship as fireworks. They’re kinda cut from the same cloth but it’s also kinda like adding gasoline to a fire, it’s an explosion

- If Sato returned in the series, it would be a very interesting dynamic because their relationship would’ve changed a lot.

- Kim would likely be devastated by Kreese’s death

- Martin Kove would like to play Tory if he had to choose anyone else and Yuji said he would either play Johnny or Hawk. Alicia said she’d like to play Zara

- Tory would likely believe that Kreese didn’t die and believe he would show up again, as would Johnny

- Sensei Kim was always rooting for Tory

- Originally Martin wanted to fight Terry with swords

- I just wanted to mention that almost every other question when it was relevant, they would just repeat “John Kreese never dies” and the entire audience would just go WILD

Musicians (Zach Robinson & Leo Birenberg)

- One episode takes them around 10 days to compose and the fight scenes take up most of that time

- The big fight in s6e10 took 2 full days to compose. Before fully composing it, they planned out chunks to determine where it switches from being a fun, cool brawl to serious and deadly

- They never read the scripts before hand and only write the music after watching the episode

- I asked about whether it was intentional to draw parallels between Danny and Terry with them both being introduced with more classical music. They said it was not to draw parallels between them but rather calling back to the original movies and that pallet. And then Terry’s music ended up shifting more toward a darker synth

Billy Zabka & Xolo Marideuna

- Gianni and Jacob (The Binary Brothers) are the most likely to break character and crack up

- Jacob was trouble and would joke around, bringing down Xolo with him. Jacob was able to lock in as soon as they start filming and left Xolo laughing

- Xolo mentioned Johnny curing Miguel’s asthma

- Xolo got the call that he got the role when he was coming home from school hanging out with his friends

- Someone joked that Johnny should become a doctor because he can cure asthma and paralysis

- Xolo confirmed he would come back as Blue Beetle in James Gunn’s DCU reboot but said he doesn’t think he can say anything else

- Billy mentioned twice that Johnny had no friends and no fish which makes me wonder if maybe he did have a fish at one point or it was potentially pitched and turned down

- Referred to Johnny rolling a blunt in the KK movie as “connecting with the Earth”

- They shot all of the stunts and scenes in the Sekai Taikai in one week

- The first movie Billy was in was a documentary his dad made when he was 5 and he played himself and he was punching his neighbor

- Sam and Tory would probably have a more fun time with each other at prom rather than being with Miguel so they would probably ditch him and just go off to hang out on their own

- Billy said he doesn’t think either Kreese or Terry died in the explosion

- Whenever they would get a question about the cast (out of everyone in the cast,…?/if you had to choose any other character to act as…?) they almost always answered “Bert”

Tanner Buchanan & Mary Mouser

- Mary said she wishes that we got to see Sam in Okinawa because she wanted to go to Okinawa

- Sam and Tory likely would’ve teamed up to defeat Zara if the three of them fought

- Tanner when asked which big fight was the most fun responded, “It’s hard to choose which fight was my favorite because I lost all of them”

- Mousechanan is Tanner’s favorite ship name of them and is what they would name a dojo is they shared one

- Tanner said he thinks is Axel didn’t cheat and break his leg, Robby could’ve beat him

- Someone asked if Johnnys training ever crossed the line from training to child abuse and Mary said she was too scared of Billy to answer

- Mary said that Tory and Sam influence each others karate styles

- Asked about a major plot twist- Mary said she personally hcs that Sam wasn’t straight

- Tanner said he would root for Kwon and Mary said she would root for Axel if those two fought

- Tanner wants Robby to ride a motorcycle

- The original story ended with Sam and Miguel not ending up together so she was shocked when Miguel also goes to Okinawa

- “Even if they’re not meant to be together, they’ll still always be in each others lives”

- Tory and Robby ALSO weren’t supposed to end up together, no one was

- They talked about a potential alternative universe where Robby and Sam didn’t break up and they both agreed it would take a lot longer for them to learn their lessons and grow if they remained in that relationship because the relationship between the two of them is very familiar and comfortable and safe. They would’ve have been able to grow as much if they hadn’t challenge themselves to walk away

- I again asked if there were any arcs/aspects they wish could’ve been explored and Mary said she wished we got to see more of Sam dealing with and working through her PTSD. She mentioned that behind the scenes in her personal interpretation of playing the character, she was acting Sam through the perspective of it taking her a lot longer to heal from her PTSD.

- Someone asked whether Tanner thought Johnny was a good dad and he was clearly trying to figure out what to say that wouldn’t upset people so after thinking for a bit he finally said that he thinks Johnny is a good dad now

- Tanner said he didn’t quite understand at first why they would have Robby push Miguel over the stairs after they spent the rest of the show trying to show that Robby could be good and the writers agreed. They said that Robby is kinda fueled by rage and that since he kicks backwards without looking, he doesn’t realize where exactly Miguel is and how the kick would push him over. Tanner also said that Miguel pushed Robby against the banister during the fight and joked that it wasn’t his fault Robby had better balance than Miguel

- In another universe, Mary would like to play Electra and be in any of the twilight movies (“I’d like to be a vampire in any degree”) and Tanner would like to play Robin or Ghost Rider, and maybe even be part of the John Wick series

- Tanner said if Axel hadn’t cheated, he thinks Robby could’ve taken him in and won

[rafesangelita]

what did cameronsbsbydoll ever do to u to make you block her? she’s takes so much inspiration from you only so that you can turn around and shut her out. what kind of person does that?

i told myself that i wouldn’t answer asks like these but my boundaries continue to be crossed when i’ve stated them multiple times in private so i really don’t care about how anyone feels anymore. to make things very clear, i didn’t just ‘shut’ her out, i had my reasoning and she knows what that is already. she’s still able to reach out to me through my side blogs, so she has a way to reach me if she needs to. now onto why i have her blocked..

not too long ago there was some stuff that was brought to light involving her being connected to a twitter account that supported israel and zionist propaganda. i saw the screenshots and acted accordingly to what i felt was right. not only that, but i was getting an influx of hate from people on her part saying that i, myself, was a zionist for interacting with her still, so i distanced myself and blocked her because i didn’t want people to think that i was okay with that whatsoever. that’s all. i’m sick of people calling me a bully for not interacting with her, and it really doesn’t help that she continues to answer asks about me knowing what they imply instead of just reaching out to me. i defended her twice just yesterday, along with sending her a screenshot of my response to a ask asking if it was okay that i posted it because it had her name in it, and to have a mutual of mine send me screenshots of the things she’s posting with my name in them is disheartening. all i’ve done over the course of the last month or so was delete and block anon hate mentioning her because i refuse to spread misinformation and fuel hate towards anyone. i’m not surprised that i don’t get the same decency or consideration in return. i’m over it and i won’t be talking about it anymore.

and one more thing about the whole ‘copying’ fiasco : all of my writings come from my own brain, i’ve never had to copy or draw inspiration (not that anything is wrong with getting inspiration from another individual) from anyone in order to sit down and write a fic. a lot of you (hate anons) have lost the definition of what copying is. if fics with the same tropes/content material are being published, similarities between works are bound to happen (she has yet to bring up anything involving copying to my personal attention, so what’s really the problem??). if you’re not putting together a side by side comparison with highlighted proof of lines and dialogue being the exact same, then you’re just talking to talk at this point.

[dragonbleps]

One of my OCs is an Elder Scrolls character who is a vampire and I've definitely thought about this before! Though keep in mind his vampirism strain (Sanguinare Vampiris) has been heavily modified by my headcanons throughout the years.

His vampirism can spread through a bite because I treat it like a virus more or less (oversimplification, as it's ultimately Daedric/magic in origin), and sometimes he feeds from animals. But if it's virus-like, the bitten one has to still be alive by the end of the feeding in order to turn.

I figure, in theory, transmission works the same on animals, but because a vampire is meant to be a predator of people, the viral load of the vampirism in a vampire's bite is kind of at a pre-determined level which offers a higher chance of turning humans/humanoids into vampires--viruses want to spread.

Animals, on the other hand, might have different body temperatures, different constitutions, different blood types and blood volumes, and different reactions which all make turning less likely--but still possible, because vampiric animals sound terrifying and fun to me.

Some animals, like rabbits, if they don't die from being bitten and drained, probably die from the strain of the turning process. Larger animals, like bears, you'd have to really get a lot of that infectious material into them to have them turn, and that's unlikely with biting alone.

But those that do get turned at first face extreme disorientation and often grotesque physical transformations. Animals don't have the same rationalizing ability that people do, so with their old and new instincts at conflict and an extremely powerful new thirst making them hostile, they're about as unpredictable as a furiously rabid animal. They're also extremely sensitive to sunlight and will burn, but don't yet have the wherewithal to avoid sunlight if they never avoided it before.

Many don't survive their first 24 hours for this reason, making vampiric animals extremely rare. But those that do survive become extremely dangerous, especially to people, and likely a source for rumors about strange creatures in the forests and caves around Tamriel.

My vampire, Dalamus, encountered a vampiric deer once, and was even injured by it, though not severely (by vampire standards, anyway). I drew a picture that sorta-kinda captured what I was going for with the "transformation" of the deer (tw for animal body horror, blood, potentially gore, and animal death).

Anyway I think the idea of vampiric animals are super neat and an underutilized idea (same with zombie animals tbh)!

Do you think animals (feral, anthro or whatever) can become vampires or is that only a human thing? Would it depend on the situation or species?

My personal thoughts on any vampire rules is Do Whatever You Want Forever; vampire lore is so extensive, cross cultural, and built upon as it is that it's super fun to be creative with it! While I love learning about/exploring the historical and technical sides of things, I also love seeing how it's evolved, how people utilize niche things, or how they adapt certain elements to fit their ideas and stories. it's super cool! Plus, the mainstream idea of vampires changes all the time. Did you know the whole burning in the sun thing wasn't a part of the mythos until the Nosferatu movie from the 1920s?

So as to animals, anthro or otherwise, why not? I think there could be some really fun ideas to explore there. Is there a magical explanation for vampirism in their case? Do they only feed on members of their own species, or can they drink the blood of others? Do they have any powers that makes sense for them that the typical vampire does not? If humans also live side by side, are they affected? could a human vampire turn an animal or vice versa? I think that could be really interesting!

I think this could be an especially interesting angle too for both mammalian and other animals. If I remember correctly, one of the theorized origins of the vampire mythos in folklore is an explanation for rabies. Would other mammals think about vampirism in a similar way that we do? How would it differ? How would non-mammals think about vampirism? Or does vampirism work like rabies where only certain types of animals are affected? Much to think about!

[anti-dazai-blog]

back by popular demand (3 people are interested :D)

classic lit authors and what abilities I think they should have

(I have a very clear preference for psychological abilities)

-abilities can be based on the plot, themes, or just the title itself. not gonna clarify which it is, but it should be self explanatory enough

Jane Austin -- Pride and Prejudice -- cupid-esque, makes people fall in love.

John Knowles -- A Separate Peace -- reads people's emotions. cannot do anything useful with the info he gets from this.

Charles Dickens -- Great Expectations -- midas-esque, turns what he touches into gold. (I think it would be cool if he could also turn things into liquid gold, which can harden to trap a target. however iirc gold is not very strong so... but also it's magic so anything can happen)

Miguel de Cervantes -- Don Quixote -- tells one lie a day that one listener (intended target) will believe. It wears off the following day. Third parties are not predisposed to believe the lie.

Edith Wharton -- The Age of Innocence -- temporarily removes all ill-intent from a target. ALL includes both intent towards her and towards anyone else.

Ray Bradbury -- Fahrenheit 451 -- literally just fire. classic elemental fire ability.

Willa Cather -- My Antonia -- one way telepathy: can talk directly into people's minds but cannot receive mental messages back. this is entirely because I hated this book so much that I wished it could just be zapped into my brain so I wouldn't have to torture myself by reading it.

George Bernard Shaw -- Pygmalion -- medusa-esque, turns people to stone through eye contact

Homer -- The Odyssey -- basically geoguesser. teleports people into a random location anywhere in the world. cannot choose where he's sending them. (all I'm imagining is him trying to use it in a fight and the person teleports like 2 inches to the left. then punches him.)

Sophocles -- Oedipus Rex -- gives people random personalized prophecies. never makes sense until after it's fulfilled.

Eugene O'Neil -- Long Day's Journey into Night -- I'd like to imagine this guy's got that 'illness personified' aesthetic. the ability should be something to do with disease and decay. but I care more about the visual portrayal of the character as something physically rotting. (visually distinct character design my beloved <3)

Baroness Emma Orczy -- The Scarlet Pimpernel -- shapeshifter. I've posted about her on my main too,, I really think bsd could use a shapeshifter. That's a much more grounded sort of chaos that could lead to higher stakes situations without this whole "world ending vampires whatever fyodor's got going on."

-in all seriousness I think if Asagiri would make use of more psychological abilities or psychological threats he could have as many high stakes stories as he wants without power scaling/power creep. but that would involve writing actual mysteries in the detective story. so.-

-I'm so sorry asagiri :( -

Franz Kafka -- The Metamorphosis -- turns into a bug. same way Natsume turns into a cat.

Alexandre Dumas -- The Count of Monte Cristo -- deflects attacks. Any attack that hits him inflicts that damage onto the attacker instead.

Lewis Carroll -- Alice in Wonderland -- shrinks and grows things (including himself).

William Golding -- Lord of the Flies -- causes conflict among groups. I'd like to think the mechanics of it could be interesting-- like it shows him different dialogue options [video game style!], indicating which line would cause the most conflict.

There would often be no context for why that line would cause conflict, and he has no way of knowing if the conflict will be directed at him, or just within the group as a whole. He can choose a more harmless option, or he could risk it on the big conflict option in an attempt to eliminate enemies.

George Orwell -- 1984 -- spies on set target, like a camera trained on one person. can only spy on one person at a time.

Harper Lee -- To Kill a Mockingbird -- frames a target for a crime. the reverse of Mushitaro's-- generates fake evidence for a crimes instead of removing real evidence.

Oscar Wild -- The Picture of Dorian Gray -- essentially immortality so long as one designated item doesn't get destroyed.

Niccolò Machiavelli -- The Prince -- influences targets. not strong enough to truly be considered mind control, but fairly strong persuasion. see my The Prince post where I explain so much in the tags.

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry -- The Little Prince -- allows him to understand people. thoroughly. please please go see my the prince/the little prince post, I explain so much in the tags. I have so many thoughts about these two.

Robert Louis Stevenson -- Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde -- compels people to act on their temptations and impulses. cannot convince people to do things they would have no desire to do otherwise.

Victor Hugo -- Les Miserables -- I think it would be very funny if it just made them unrecognizable to law enforcement. not shapeshifting, just all cops cannot recognize this guy's face. (they could recognize his muscles though, as per lore accurate les mis.)

William Shakespeare -- To Be or Not To Be (I am not naming this Hamlet. strictly for vibes.) -- gives people existential crises. If they have existential crises regularly already, it doesn't do anything.

I'd like to imagine he'd use it on a character who usually comes across as relatively well adjusted and. nothing happens. Like if atsushi/kunikida/chuuya were to be targeted they'd just be like "yeah idk nothing happened... sorry man. better luck next time."

Issac Asimov -- The Feeling of Power -- ability allows him to do any math- no matter how difficult or complex- without a calculator. I'd like to think he's insist that he doesn't have an ability, he's just really good at math. basically the opposite of ranpo.

Reginald Rose -- Twelve Angry Men -- the antithesis to Harper Lee, finds evidence proving anyone innocent. or at least can prove plausible deniability.

Arthur Conan Doyle -- Sherlock Holmes -- understand in full what anyone's ability is, and what its limits, strengths and weaknesses are.

we don't have enough ability-related abilities in bsd. too much offense and defense, not enough middle ground stuff.

Tennessee Williams -- The Glass Menagerie -- turns people into 'glass', or drastically decreases their durability. doesn't harm the target in and of itself, but the target needs to leave any combat because now they can be killed in one hit.

Arthur Miller -- Death of a Salesman -- communicates with the dead. We're gonna need something like this if Asagiri keeps killing off characters at the rate he's currently going.

[backpackingspace]

Odysseus: demanding Athena take off whatever enchantment she put on him the second the situation ends.

Odysseus: who constantly reminds Athena that he has great plans to grow old and die with his wife so don't even think about getting any ideas.

Odysseus: side eye diomedes who has started fucking glowing he has so many enchantments on him: bro you should talk to Athena about getting those removed. You're going to end up immortal or some shit

Diomedes: who has been a solider since he was 5 who has intersting thoughts about his own personhood who has a much more traditional relationship with Athena and would rather literally stab his own eye out with a rusted sword than speak out of turn: I don't know what you're talking about

[lofthousezzz]

Ok time to be mad. You can be mad with me too *holds out my hand*

[arolesbianism]

I've been thinking abt new game+ friend quests and it's just me going ah yes and they have all these issues and talk abt these things and oh oops this is all accidental foreshadowing

[squid--inc]

....

[prokopetz]

What do you mean that Forgotten Realms is a romantic fantasy setting masquerading as high fantasy?

(With reference to this post there.)

Exactly what it says on the tin – the Forgotten Realms is clearly principally inspired by romantic fantasy, not high fantasy.

In this context, when I say "romantic fantasy", I'm referring to a specific, relatively short-lived genre of fantasy literature that was wildly popular in the 1980s and 1990s, but abruptly fell almost entirely off the map after about 1998, due to a variety of economic and cultural factors which are way too complicated to go into in a Tumblr post. This is distinct from the more contemporary usage of "romance novels with fantasy settings", though there's definitely a lot of overlap.

If you're looking for a romantic fantasy reading list, Mercedes Lackey's Valdemar series – especially the early stuff – is probably the easiest to get your hands on these days; it's practically the only example that still has any real name recognition in 2025, for all that Lackey was a latecomer to the genre. Other names worth checking out include Margaret Ball, Carole Nelson Douglas, Tanya Huff, Holly Lisle, Jennifer Roberson, and Elizabeth Ann Scarborough, off the top of my head, though not all of them worked exclusively within the genre.

(Elizabeth Moon is an interesting edge case, in that her stuff is principally military science fiction, but very much adheres to the forms of romantic fantasy. Her Deed of Paksenarrion trilogy, one of her few pure fantasy works, is a fun snapshot of an era because it was written explicitly in response to what Moon perceived as the shortcomings of the fantasy worldbuilding on display in then-contemporary Dungeons & Dragons settings, and hit the shelves at just about exactly the same time as the earliest Forgotten Realms material.)

[mxrcurysb1tch]

˚₊‧꒰ა ☆‧₊˚ Astrology observations pt. VI˚₊☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊

✮ As always, take what resonates and leave the rest. xo

✮ Women with Venus in Leo want the red carpet rolled out for them in love. Give me the princess treatment, fly me to Paris, check us in at the Ritz, buy me designer, show me off. Men with Venus in Leo are pulling all the stops in love. They’re the ones splashing out, being extremely chivalrous. I know a guy with this placement and he’s usually super stingy but when his girlfriend is involved he makes sure she is treaaaateedd.

✮ I once read somewhere that mercury retrograde natives get really annoyed and frustrated when technological errors happen, when the WiFi is loading slow, when they don’t understand how something works on a computer etc. And idk about you guys but as a native myself, I can definitely relate lol!

✮ Speaking of mercury retrograde, I often find that when two natives meet each other, they either understand each other on a whole different level or they c o m p l e t e l y misunderstand each other and butt heads constantly and just generally get on each other’s nerves.

✮ 10h moons and being great musicians. I’ve noticed that a lot of musicians, especially ones that write their own songs have this placement and I think it’s because they’re so good at laying out the details of their lives in their songs and their emotions are a key component in the success of their career.

✮ *sigh* this is one I’m so tired of hearing. Capricorn isn’t just about being obsessed with money, materialism and capitalism. It’s about success, improvement, and mastery. Now I can see the overlap between the two ideas and the significations are definitely there for a reason. In our culture, the sign of success is having the money and the career, the house, so yes those things are likely to be attractive to a Capricorn. However it could just be about being successful and improving in any area of your life not just money and career.

✮ 6h stellium and/or moon might suffer from major health anxiety or intrusive thoughts, even OCD in extreme cases.

✮ Chiron 9h/sagittarius You might feel completely lost in life and like nothing has any meaning. You might have a confusing relationship with religion or be into nihilistic philosophies. Travelling and exploring the world can offer you a sense of purpose and meaning.

✮ Neptune aspects to personal planets can make a person feel very in tune with the psychic world and the energy of the collective unconscious. They might easily pick up on energetic shifts on a societal scale. The type of aspect will show how the native feels about this, what they choose to do with this ability and if it is a hindrance or help to them.

✮ Uranus aspects to personal planets can make the native very susceptible to understanding trends and behaviours in society. They may have a sixth sense predicting trends and people’s behaviours before they happen. I think this is especially prominent for those gen z that have Uranus in Pisces. Uranus aspects to personal planets can also make the native very ahead of their time, and they may propose extremely controversial or shocking ideas and observations that later turn out to be astute and extremely popular. With hard aspects, the native can struggle to harness this power for good and may rub people up the wrong way or even disgust them with their outlandish ideas. With more benefic aspects, the native can be seen as a visionary, someone to be revered and followed.

[obsessivevoidkitten]

UnANTicipated

Male Ant Mimic Spider Hybrid Yandere x Gender Neutral Ant Hybrid Reader CW: Noncon, reader mildly drugged by venom, kidnapping, general yandere behavior, oviposition Word Count: 1.3k (Hope you enjoy the buffet of writing I have been cooking up, feel free to tip and please comment!)

On the post-apocalyptic continent that was once the US, almost everyone was a hybrid of human and animal.

There were still pure humans, but they were exceedingly rare.

It was thought that a virus combined with radiation caused the transformation.

You were an ant-hybrid. Unlike an actual ant, you could leave your colony and survive independently, but why would you wanna leave the colony?

You were a small drone, and the soldier ants kept you safe from many mutated beasts. The foragers brought food, and you worked construction! You made tunnels and expanded rooms.

You had never even been outside. There was no reason for you to leave the safety of the colony, you had no tasks out there.

The colony was massive and always growing. That's why you didn't think twice when you met a new ant that you had never met before.

A fellow builder named Echo.

He must have been new to building because he was not good at it all. Seemed his instincts were all wonky. And there was something about how he looked... he was bigger than many of the soldiers you had encountered.

You figured maybe he had been a soldier and suffered some type of injury. Or maybe he had gotten into trouble and removed from the service!

Oh well, he seemed friendly and was clearly putting forth a lot of effort into building.

You didn't want the foreman to yell at the new addition so you taught him everything you knew and supervised his work carefully.

Echo was such a sweetie. A fine member of the colony! You frequently ate lunch together, and he confirmed that he was a former soldier ant that had suffered internal injury. It was all he could do just to build and remain useful to the colony.

What an inspiration.

You always stared at him in wide-eyed admiration as he told you how he had fought victoriously against frog mutants, giant two-headed serpents, and even a rabid rat-bug.

He told you all about sunshine and the river and trees.

It sounded amazing. But no place for someone like you with all that danger lurking about.

You hung out more and more. You hung out after work, too. You always caught him staring at you. Maybe he had a crush on you? The thought made you pretty happy.

A real life kind hearted hero might actually like me!

You began developing a bit of a crush on him.

But your thoughts of romance were put on hold when the kidnappings began.

Apparently, spider mimic hybrids had snuck their way into the colony. Violating everyone's sense of safety. They had evidently taken ants to do who knows what with them!

Everyone was on high alert.

Thank whatever higher power existed that you had Echo at your side! He went with you everywhere to make sure you were safe.

He even suggested becoming roommates! All because he didn't want anything to happen to you.

There was no reason to refuse! You let him move in immediately.

That night, you went to bed like normal. But you woke up somewhere different. On a bed, but not yours. You were bound by some kind of stringy rope and felt a strong set of arms around you.

"Ah! You're awake! Welcome to our little love nest~"

You instantly recognized the voice as Echo.

"Echo? W-what's going on? I'm scared..."

Echo removed the fibrous material that bound you.

"Sorry, my prize. Had to keep you wrapped up and safe on the way here. It was a long trip, but I made sure you were cozy~"

Your head throbbed as you struggled to make sense of what exactly was going on. You became aware of a sore spot on your neck. You put a hand on it and felt a welt.

"Ah, sorry about that, I had to make sure you were still during the trip. No fussy struggles or crying."

Though by then, you were definitely starting to cry.

"You're upsetting me! Just tell me what's going on!!"

Your voice was trembling.

You tried to sit up but found yourself too weak to do so. Echo stepped in front of you and leaned down to your level.

For the first time, you saw the large man for what he actually was. All four of his eyes were open, his fangs flashing, his antenna actually a small set of limbs growing from his back.

Your antenna twitched furiously as you processed this new information.

He chuckled warmly and pet your antenna, causing an unwilling tingle between your legs.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you?"

You whimpered as he pet you there some more before finally managing to shout.

"What the fuck do you want with me!?"

"What all us ant mimics want, my prize. A nice mate to stuff full of our eggs~"

You tried to struggle. To scream. But he placed webbing over your mouth before peeling off your clothing and pinning you to the bed.

"Shhh darling, you have such an easy task. Just calm down and take my babies."

He kissed your head to help calm you, though it did nothing to stop your shaking or quell your tears.

"You're so tiny. So perfect. My little trophy."

He took a gob of his thick precum on his fingers and gently massaged it into your entrance. You shuddered and looked at the cock that bobbed below him.

Definitely not an ant. It was huge and reinforced your fear. But you were in good hands. He made sure you were well stretched before proceeding.

Echo repositioned you so that your legs were over his shoulders, he aligned his cock with your hole, and drove deeply into you with a slow and steady movement.

Instantly, your eyes rolled into the back of your head, and you whimpered. He really knew how to wield his tool. Or maybe it had more to do with the fact that he was pumping out pheromones that had your antenna twitching like crazy.

"Those kinds of sounds are much better to hear from you~"

He thrust in and out of you slowly at first, letting you adjust to his size. You made more of those delicious little whimpers he loved so much.

The spider peeled the webbing away from your lips.

"The webbing can come off if you promise to just make those beautiful noises for me~"

He kissed you deeply, tracing your lips with his tongue, trailing kisses down your neck until he was kissing the wound his fangs had left earlier.

"So warm inside~ I just know you'll be a nice snug incubator for my eggs~"

Echo nuzzled against your chest, arms caressing your sides almost greedily as he bred you.

"It was so hard keeping my hands off you before. All those weeks. You have no idea. No idea."

As he spoke he began driving his cock into you a bit more brutally. He just couldn't help himself.

"I didn't lie about those fights I was in. I'm such a strong mate for you, my perfect prize."

His sweaty balls slapped into you with every increasingly fervent thrust. He was desperate to release in you, to claim your insides for himself.

Your incoherent burbling and moans just encouraged him. Auditory evidence that he was the perfect man for you.

He could feel your shuddering around his cock as you came, pulling him quickly over the edge with you.

Echo's cock throbbed and pulsed as he deposited several eggs deep inside you. He pulled out with a loud plop before regarding your belly lovingly.

He kissed it.

You just played with his hair absently, too fucked out to do anything or process what had just happened.

But that was okay, Echo was there to take care of all your needs. Forever.

[harmoonix]

Astrology Observations

~ Sundrop ~

Leo Venus/Venus in the 5th house might look or give the vibe that they are a pro in relationships or dating

Virgo Moons/Saturn/Mercury hate it so bad when people disagree with them. You're either on the same line either enemies for life

Gemini/Taurus/Pisces/Scorpio in the 2nd house might love words of affirmation.

Lilith in the 9th or 12th house is usually one of these placements who is a 'Losing all their faith' placement

Cancer Lilith natives might like to nurture their partners when they are at their lowest/when they're vulnerable

Leo/Aries and Scorpio Lilith can struggle with attention/jealousy issues. You like your partner only for yourself

North Node square Saturn indicates a life path where you'll need to jump over the obstacles in your life. You'll get stronger

Moon in Venusian Degrees 2° 7° 14° 19° 26° degrees can be the one to do the first step in their relationships

Capricorn over the 7th house might get a devoted and loyal partner for their relationship. They might attract hardworking people

Sagittarius in the 7th house might get a very carefree and enlightening partner. Your partner can give you the freedom you need

Men with Pluto in the 8th house think with their d*ck before thinking with their heart.

Moon in the 8th house natives can inherit lots of things from their mother. From material objects to appearance 'Just like your mother' type (Sun in the 8th house from their dads)

Nelly Furtado has a Scorpio Venus, and she embodied the dark female energy for most of her songs

Capricorn Mercuries can sound older than they actually are. Their voice might sound more mature and authentic

Aries Mercuries, together with Sagittarius Mercuries, tend to have raspy voices. 2 parrots telling each other 'exactlyyyyy'

Sagittarius Pluto Generation, together with Aquarius Pluto Generation, both get to fight with acceptance by society and to fit in the norms while feeling different from the rest

Aquarius Jupiter can be a lucky placement for having good friends. People around you get so attached in a friendly way

I observed that Taurus Jupiter gets more stable financially once they work with pleasure, and it can boost Jupiters' abundance

Chiron in the 6th, 8th, or 12th houses is definitely the therapist of the group among their friends *or family*

Pluto or Neptune in the 1st house can struggle with addictions/obsessions.

Mars in the 12th house has a hard time letting their guard off. They don't want to show their sensible side

Venus in Fire signs tend to have beautiful eyebrows

Mars at 4° 16° 28° relatives can sometimes annoy them too much. It can be any relative but specifically from the mother side (you can have an annoying cousin or aunt, etc)

Sun or Ascendant harshly aspecting Saturn have a hard time taking care of themselves! Sometimes, you might put your needs on the 2nd place in your life

Saturn/Pluto/Neptune in the 12th house = Tiring energy, heavy planets for the 12th house resulting the native might feel like life gets tiring

Aquarius Moon/Mars might disassociate from reality after an argument. They gonna retreat in their own inner world, ignoring the pain

Venus in Pisces/12h/12° 24° can subconsciously tell how others feel, the same can happen for those with Venus - Neptune aspects

If you Sagittarius or Aries placements, people might hate when you call them out for things they did/telling the truth

New astrology observations because I haven't posted in a while 💫💫💛 hope you all are good♡

Harmoonix 💛