#easy diagnostics

[swasthyapro]

How to Prepare for a Blood Test at Home with SwasthyaPro: Essential Tips

Getting a blood test at home with SwasthyaPro is convenient and hassle-free. To ensure the most accurate results and a smooth experience, it’s important to prepare properly. Here are some essential tips to get ready for your upcoming blood test at home.

1. Understand Your Test Requirements

Different blood tests require different preparations. For example, tests like fasting blood sugar or lipid profiles usually require 8-12 hours of fasting. SwasthyaPro provides clear preparation instructions for each test type. Following these will maximize the accuracy of your blood test at home.

2. Stay Hydrated

Drinking plenty of water before your appointment helps make veins more accessible and the blood draw easier. Proper hydration also reduces discomfort during the collection phase of your blood test at home.

3. Wear Comfortable, Accessible Clothing

Opt for short sleeves or loose sleeves that can easily be rolled up to allow the phlebotomist quick access to your arm. This saves time and makes your blood test at home more comfortable.

4. Avoid Heavy Exercise

Strenuous physical activity before a test can alter some blood parameters. To ensure the accuracy of your blood test at home, avoid heavy exercise at least 24 hours before the sample collection.

5. Communicate Medical Conditions

If you have any allergies (e.g., to latex), skin conditions, or health concerns that might affect the blood draw, inform the SwasthyaPro phlebotomist before collection. This allows them to take special precautions during your blood test at home.

6. Confirm Appointment Details

Double-check your booking confirmation for date, time, and test type. SwasthyaPro offers flexible scheduling to fit your convenience, making your blood test at home easy to plan.

7. Keep ID Ready

Some tests may require identity verification for accuracy and record-keeping. Keep your valid ID handy to ensure smooth sample collection and processing.

8. Relax and Stay Calm

Nervousness can make veins harder to locate. Try to stay calm and relaxed during the blood draw. SwasthyaPro’s expert phlebotomists are trained to make the process quick and painless for your blood test at home.

9. Check Your Contact Details

Make sure SwasthyaPro has your correct email and phone number. Your digital report will be delivered securely and promptly after lab analysis.

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SwasthyaPro’s commitment to quality, accuracy, and convenience makes it the perfect choice for your blood test at home. With NABL & CAP certified labs, skilled home sample collectors, and secure digital reports, you can trust every step of your health journey.

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[rhysintherain]

For a show about diagnostic medicine, House does shockingly little actual diagnosis.

"Start him on antibiotics." Have you seen a bacteria? No? That's because apparently nobody on your team knows how to grow a culture or run a gram stain.

"It's probably cancer, start him on radiation." Without finding the cancer?? Without knowing what it is so you can decide on a treatment plan??

Very funny that actual diagnosis is too boring for House, so he just throws treatments at people until it almost kills them and demonstrates what the problem isn't.

[jcmarchi]

Studying astrophysically relevant plasma physics

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/studying-astrophysically-relevant-plasma-physics/

Studying astrophysically relevant plasma physics

Thomas Varnish loves his hobbies — knitting, baking, pottery — it’s a long list. His latest interest is analog film photography. A picture with his mother and another with his boyfriend are just a few of Varnish’s favorites. “These moments of human connection are the ones I like,” he says.

Varnish’s love of capturing a fleeting moment on film translates to his research when he conducts laser interferometry on plasmas using off-the-shelf cameras. At the Department of Nuclear Science and Engineering, the third-year doctoral student studies various facets of astrophysically relevant fundamental plasma physics under the supervision of Professor Jack Hare.

It’s an area of research that Varnish arrived at organically.

A childhood fueled by science

Growing up in Warwickshire, England, Varnish fell in love with lab experiments as a middle-schooler after joining the science club. He remembers graduating from the classic egg-drop experiment to tracking the trajectory of a catapult, and eventually building his own model electromagnetic launch system. It was a set of electromagnets and sensors spaced along a straight track that could accelerate magnets and shoot them out the end. Varnish demonstrated the system by using it to pop balloons. Later, in high school, being a part of the robotics club team got him building a team of robots to compete in RoboCup, an international robot soccer competition. Varnish also joined the astronomy club, which helped seed an interest in the adjacent field of astrophysics.

Varnish moved on to Imperial College London to study physics as an undergraduate but he was still shopping around for definitive research interests. Always a hands-on science student, Varnish decided to give astronomy instrumentation a whirl during a summer school session in Canada.

However, even this discipline didn’t quite seem to stick until he came upon a lab at Imperial conducting research in experimental astrophysics. Called MAGPIE (The Mega Ampere Generator for Plasma Implosion Experiments), the facility merged two of Varnish’s greatest loves: hands-on experiments and astrophysics. Varnish eventually completed an undergraduate research opportunity (UROP) project at MAGPIE under the guidance of Hare, his current advisor, who was then a postdoc at the MAGPIE lab at Imperial College.

Part of Varnish’s research for his master’s degree at Imperial involved stitching together observations from the retired Herschel Space Telescope to create the deepest far-infrared image ever made by the instrument. The research also used statistical techniques to understand the patterns of brightness distribution in the images and to trace them to specific combinations of galaxy occurrences. By studying patterns in the brightness of a patch of dark sky, Varnish could discern the population of galaxies in the region.

Move to MIT

Varnish followed Hare (and a dream of studying astrophysics) to MIT, where he primarily focuses on plasma in the context of astrophysical environments. He studies experimental pulsed-power-driven magnetic reconnection in the presence of a guide field.

Key to Varnish’s experiments is a pulsed-power facility, which is essentially a large capacitor capable of releasing a significant surge of current. The electricity passes through (and vaporizes) thin wires in a vacuum chamber to create a plasma. At MIT, the facility currently being built at the Plasma Science and Fusion Center (PSFC) by Hare’s group is called: PUFFIN (PUlser For Fundamental (Plasma Physics) INvestigations).

In a pulsed-power facility, tiny cylindrical arrays of extremely thin metal wires usually generate the plasma. Varnish’s experiments use an array in which graphite leads, the kind used in mechanical pencils, replace the wires. “Doing so gives us the right kind of plasma with the right kind of properties we’d like to study,” Varnish says. The solution is also easy to work with and “not as fiddly as some other methods.” A thicker post in the middle completes the array. A pulsed current traveling down the array vaporizes the thin wires into a plasma. The interactions between the current flowing through the plasma and the generated magnetic field pushes the plasma radially outward. “Each little array is like a little exploding bubble of magnetized plasma,” Varnish says. He studies the interaction between the plasma flows at the center of two adjacent arrays.

Studying plasma behavior

The plasma generated in these pulsed-power experiments is stable only for a few hundred nanoseconds, so diagnostics have to take advantage of an extremely short sampling window. Laser interferometry, which images plasma density, is Varnish’s favorite. In this technique, a camera takes a picture of a split laser beam, one arm of which encounters the plasma and one that doesn’t. The arm that hits the plasma produces an interference pattern when the two arms are recombined. Capturing the result with a camera allows researchers to infer the structure of the plasma flows.

Another diagnostic method involves placing tiny loops of metal wire in the plasma (called B-dots), which record how the magnetic field in the plasma changes in time. Yet another way to study plasma physics is using a technique called Faraday rotation, which measures the twisting of polarized light as it passes through a magnetic field. The net result is an “image map of magnetic fields, which is really quite incredible,” Varnish says.

These diagnostic techniques help Varnish research magnetic reconnection, the process by which plasma breaks and reforms magnetic fields. It’s all about energy redistribution, Varnish says, and is particularly relevant because it creates solar flares. Varnish studies how having not-perfectly-opposite magnetic field lines might affect the reconnection process.

Most research in plasma physics can be neatly explained by the principles of magnetohydrodynamics, but the phenomena observed in Varnish’s experiments need to be explained with additional theories. Using pulsed power enables studies over longer length scales and time periods than in other experiments, such as laser-driven ones. Varnish is looking forward to working on simulations and follow-up experiments on PUFFIN to study these phenomena under slightly different conditions, which might shed new light on the processes.

At the moment, Varnish’s focus is on programming the control systems for PUFFIN so he can get it up and running. Part of the diagnostics system involves ensuring that the facility will deliver the plasma-inducing currents needed and perform as expected.

Aiding LGBTQ+ efforts

When not working on PUFFIN or his experiments, Varnish serves as co-lead of an LGBTQ+ affinity group at the PSFC, which he set up with a fellow doctoral student. The group offers a safe space for LGBTQ+ scientists and meets for lunch about once a month. “It’s been a nice bit of community building, and I think it’s important to support other LGBTQ+ scientists and make everyone feel welcome, even if it’s just in small ways,” Varnish says, “It has definitely helped me to feel more comfortable knowing there’s a handful of fellow LGBTQ+ scientists at the center.”

Varnish has his hobbies going. One of his go-to bakes is a “rocky road,” a British chocolate bar that mixes chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers. His research interests, too, are a delicious concoction mixed together: “the intersection of plasma physics, laboratory astrophysics, astrophysics (the won’t-fit-in-a-lab kind), and instrumentation.”

[sammygender]

‘they didn’t have the concept of mental illness back in the day so that’s why so many people claimed they could talk to god/had life altering visions/believed in witchcraft’ have you considered that maybe the lack of current magic in our world is due to the psychiatric system’s well-meaning inability to differentiate between life-threatening delusions & whimsy/possible spiritual insight

[agilus098]

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[imethirdperson]

Of course not implying they genuinely thought that the mentally ill aren't human. But rather that humans are characterized by having agency or souls or whatever you want to call it. And so in every apology you should emphasize your agency (that you were responsible for your actions). Problem is, currently mental illness is treated like a type of possession. The real problem is not that the mentally ill refuse to be responsible; rather that their agency assumed away from them, it's the psychiatric norm that attributes their every action to their illness. So there's some people that when someone says "I'm mentally ill," what they hear is "I'm possessed, my choices are not mine, I'm my mental illness," when really it should be a statement as neutral as "My life has been a mess lately and I'm having trouble controlling my emotions and acting rationally." Like literally explaining that you were in the wrong. It's not any less agentic because some 19th century psychologist decided to call it selfish syndrome and the name stuck

[swasthyapro]

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[cepheusgalaxy]

Lmao im studying english right. Its one of my subjects at school. Today we had a Diagnostic Evaluation which feels a bit like a test, but doesnt affect your grades and its purpose is to know where the class' and students' knowledge of the subject falls im to help preparing the classes for the semester.

Today we had the "languages" evaluation and like. Languages are my strenght right. Im good at interpretating the texts we have in our assignments, i have an ok knowledge of art theory and i know english right (its the only foreign language we learn at school--although i know some schools also teach spanish). Then we had the evaluation and I almost couldn't answer one because of the word "launch". I've never seen someone using that with enough context for me to figure out what it meant but now at least I know.

[ross-hollander]

A translation guide...

...for all those hotshot pilots who need to learn how to speak a conversational Mechtech in a hurry:

"Running diagnostics": taking a five-minute break.

"Checking that repairs settle": taking a ten-minute break.

"Sent the new guy to the quartermaster for the parts we need": taking a half-hour break.

"In five minutes": in ten minutes.

"In ten minutes": in half an hour.

"In half an hour": tomorrow.

"In an hour": actually, in forty-five minutes.

"Severe damage": functionally meaningless, they will say this about anything. Ignore it. It is small talk.

"Extensive damage": actually light damage but on the parts that are hard to work with, so try running a little cooler from now on.

"Moderate damage": sure, you nearly died, but shot-out cockpit glass is pretty easy to replace, stop being dramatic.

"Apprentice work": the most important parts of your 'mech are being left in the charge of the least experienced worker in the entire hangar.

"Armored up on vulnerable segments": an extra layer of tinfoil has been applied over your armor and fastened in place with hot glue.

"Extra armor stripped to save weight": your 'mech is now protected by about two sheets of corrugated metal plundered from a local hardware and landscaping store.

"Lunch break": a block of time that begins at the exact moment you return to the hangar with an engine on fire and one arm missing and ends just when they have to hand the job off to the night teams.

"Lighten up on the handling": treat this 'mech like a dainty lady of court who faints onto couches if slightly stressed and must not strain herself by strolling in the manor gardens too long.

"Push it all you like": if you bring this 'mech back in with all its limbs attached or the engine not exploded, they will assume you are denigrating the quality of their work.

"Get lunch some time at the mess": you have earned the Favor of the Mechtechs. Know you are blessed, and treat this gravely. Also, you are obliged to immediately counter-offer with getting command's permission to order in from a place in town. (Assuming it has not been blown up, the place or the town.)

[kick-a-long]

It's a Hanukkah miracle! beasts that should only have given one trans woman breasts have lasted for eight crazy chests!

Doctor: I'm sorry, there's nothing we can do to reattach your leg.

Doctor: but on the plus side your BMI is now low enough that we can do that elective life saving surgery you wanted!

[transmutationisms]

forgive me if I'm being obtuse, but isn't every medical diagnosis an artifact of human taxonomic schemes? I know I'm not treading new ground here and that diseases/medical conditions aren't like, drawn from thin air in the way a lot of psychiatric conditions are i suppose it just confuses me a bit

no, & this is ancillary in some ways to what i'm actually criticising about psychiatry. it's true there are non-psychiatric medical diagnoses that work analogously to psychiatric ones: think ME/CFS, hEDS, fibromyalgia, most things that have 'idiopathic' in the name. these are names given to clusters of symptoms, like the way that psychiatric labels are just names for a certain set of behaviours. we don't know what causes these issues, though people have various theories and there is (a varying amount of) research ongoing that aims to find the etiologies.

however, that's not the case for all non-psychiatric diagnoses. think about a viral or bacterial infection, a torn ACL, or Down syndrome. these are diagnoses that do refer to specific infectious agents, anatomical problems, genetic variants, and so forth. that doesn't mean the diagnosis is always easy to make, or that it's always made correctly, but it does mean that when you are diagnosed with one of these problems, a specific cause is being identified (& sometimes they might even be right). it's not just a convenient shorthand name for a group of symptoms, even though of course, most things that are diagnosed are done so because they cause and are associated with symptoms. (most but not all lol.)

psychiatry is distinct as a discipline in that all of its diagnoses function the first way i described. they are not referring to disease entities or processes; there is no credible hypothesis for a biological etiology. why? fundamentally, because the psychiatric diagnoses generally exist to pathologise socially unwanted behaviour: the taxonomy is a reflection of a political agenda and the priorities of clinicians. it's not even really an adequate framework for grouping patients together, because you get placed in a category based only on, again, external manifestations (behaviours). who says any two people who hallucinate or cut themselves are doing it for the exact same reasons? well, no one, because again, even getting the same psych diagnosis doesn't indicate anything about an actual etiology or underlying biological process or anything. there is no referent; the psychiatric diagnosis is only defined heuristically and circularly.

many people are confused by this because, in both popular and professional discourse, psychiatric diagnoses are consistently spoken about as though they DO refer to an underlying discoverable disease or disease process. despite hundreds of years of looking for such things, psychiatrists are yet to find any, and if they did, the condition in question would be reassigned to the relevant medical specialty, because psychiatrists also cannot treat infectious agents, anatomical problems, harmful genetic variants, and so on. (when i worked as a bibliographer we used to have extremely funny arguments over whether materials pertaining to the psychiatric search for biological disease processes should be categorised under psychiatry, neuroscience, medicine general, philosophy of medicine, 'science and society,' or just 'controversies and disputes' with no real subject label.)

to be clear, when i say psychiatric diagnoses aren't referring to known or discoverable disease processes, that's not a moral indictment. it's not an inherently bad diagnostic process, provided the patient understands that is what the process actually is. sometimes we just don't know yet what we're dealing with; sometimes a heuristic diagnostic label is just a way of billing insurance for a treatment that we know helps some similar patients, even if we don't know why.

however, with psychiatric diagnoses, evidence for such efficacy is widely lacking and often even negative; this is fundamentally because psychiatric diagnoses are not formulated on the basis of patient needs but on the basis of employer and state needs to cultivate a productive workforce and by corollary enforce a notion of mental 'normality.' all medicine under capitalism has a biopolitical remit; psychiatry has only a biopolitical remit. it has never at any point succeeded in making diagnoses that refer to demonstrable disease processes, because that's definitionally not even under its purview. these diagnoses have never been satisfactorily shown to be related to any disease process—and why should we expect that? historically, that's not what they exist for; it's not the problem they were invented to solve. they are social technologies; they're not illnesses.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

Your work is amazing, I love the way you interpret Simon’s personality and speech patterns in the prosthetic arm Simon fic.❤️

hello, anon! thank you so much for the kind words. i just wanted to take this opportunity to post this deleted part of prosthetic arm simon.

sfw. angst (?). highschool dropout simon. shame.

the prosthetic is finished.

it fits like a second skin. moves smooth, seamless, with no lag between thought and motion. it’s perfect. better than anything he could’ve gotten himself. better than the overpriced models he looked at years ago, wondering if he could stomach the debt just to feel normal again.

and for a moment, as he flexes his fingers, as he watches the metal articulate like flesh, he feels… proud. proud of you, of your work, of the precision in every detail. he turns his hand over, watching the way the joints move, the faint hum of technology so advanced he still doesn’t fully understand it.

but then— the thought creeps in, unbidden, unwelcome.

his throat tightens.

does this mean he doesn’t have an excuse to see you anymore?

his fingers still, mid-motion.

the past few months have been good. better than he expected. seeing you, talking to you, getting to know you beyond the surface-level interactions he usually keeps with people.

but now?

now there’s no more check-ups. no more adjustments. no more need for him to stop by so you can make small tweaks, run diagnostics, ensure everything’s running smoothly.

simon swallows, something cold curling in his chest. he tells himself he’s being ridiculous. that if he really wanted to see you, he could just— just call, just text, just ask.

but that’s not how he works.

he’s spent so long just coasting with people. staying at arm’s length, keeping interactions simple, necessary, easy to walk away from.

“you did good,” he says, and he means it. he just hopes you can’t hear everything else under it.

you don’t seem to notice his unease, too excited as you bounce on your heels, practically beaming.

“oh- i have news!”

he blinks. tries to steady himself. “yeah?"

“my thesis got picked to be presented at congress!”

it takes him a second. longer than it should. he hears the words, knows what they mean, but they feel far away, like his mind is still caught in the spiral from before.

but then he sees the way you’re looking at him, the pure joy on your face, and something inside him lurches

“shit,” he breathes. “that’s- that’s incredible.”

and it is. you deserve this. you deserve more than this.

so he shows up to the congress.

he doesn’t tell you he’s coming. he doesn’t even decide until the last minute, standing in front of his closet, staring at the one half-decent button-up he owns.

but then he’s there, standing outside the venue, and he brings flowers.

he’s never done that before. never even bought flowers before, really. but he stands outside the venue, fingers tight around the cheap bouquet, feeling ridiculous and out of place.

he feels out of place.

too big, too rough, too obviously not part of the sleek, academic crowd milling around in suits and dresses. he tugs at his sleeves, shifting his weight, half-ready to just leave the flowers somewhere and go before—

then he sees you. scanning the crowd, eyes searching.

and when you spot him— you light up.

like he’s supposed to be here. like he’s not just some guy who stumbled in, unsure if he even belongs in moments like these.

you rush over, practically colliding into him, and he barely has time to react before you’re grabbing the flowers, pressing your face into them, laughing breathlessly.

“you came.”

his throat works. he clears it, rubbing the back of his neck.

“’course i did,” he mutters.

you smile.

…

he knew this was a bad idea.

he knew from the moment he walked into the restaurant, stiff in his chair, palm sweating against the napkin in his lap.

knew when you slid into the seat across from him, looking bright and effortless and so at ease, still glowing from your big presentation, still beaming about the congress.

knew when he looked down at the menu and realized he didn’t recognize half the words on it.

simon’s spent years in places like this— quiet, dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of good food and low conversation. but he’s always been alone. always sat in a corner with his back to the wall, a meal in front of him and no one expecting him to talk.

but now— now there’s you.

and you’re talking, telling him about the congress, about the people you met, the questions they asked. you sound so fucking excited, like the whole world is opening up in front of you, and simon—

simon just nods.

he doesn’t know what to say. doesn’t know how to keep up.

he’s never been smart like you. never been the type to sit in lecture halls, to write papers, to stand in front of a room full of academics and present something that matters.

he barely finished school. left home at sixteen, signed his life away at eighteen, spent more years holding a gun than a pen.

he doesn’t belong in places like this. doesn’t belong next to you. you who's all bright ideas and ambition, the kind of person who builds things, who makes the world better.

simon’s just good at breaking it.

he shifts in his seat, hyper-aware of how he looks— broad shoulders hunched awkwardly, big hands clumsy against the silverware, a goddamn mutt at a dinner table.

he wonders if you notice. if you see it. if you realize you could do better.

your food arrives. you thank the waiter, pick up your fork—

and before you can even take a bite, it slips out.

“i-”

you pause, fork halfway to your mouth.

simon grips his napkin under the table, flexes his fingers, heart thudding heavy in his ribs.

he shouldn’t ask. should just let this be a nice dinner, let you go home, let you move on.

but—

“would you…” he swallows, throat dry, stomach tight.

he shouldn’t ask.

“would you want to go on a date with me?”

the words hit the table like lead.

silence.

he doesn’t breathe. doesn’t move. because fuck, he actually said it.

and now there’s nothing but the space between you, the quiet hum of conversation, the faint clink of cutlery against plates—

and you. staring at him.

he braces for rejection. tells himself it’s fine, it’s fine, it’s—

“yeah,” you say, voice light with something he can’t name. “i would.”

his stomach drops.

relief. disbelief. something dangerously close to hope.

he exhales, tension bleeding from his shoulders. nods, just once, like he’s acknowledging an order. like his hands aren’t trembling under the table.

“okay,” he mutters.

then, quieter—

“good.”

[agilus098]

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[write-tama]

"hank.. what am i feeling right now?"

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ connor anderson (rk800) x officer!reader

sypnosis ; connor is very interested in an officer who just joined the police force. after being told the news that they would be joining the team, connor just had to make an acquaintance with them. anything to hear their voice.

containing ; use of you/yours and they/them pronouns! connor struggling to process emotions. hank being a proud father.

author’s note ; hihi! havent written for connor in SO long so i thought this was a cute little way of them meeting each other.

04.12.24 | 1.9k words

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Everyone knew about the infamous RK800.

The last most developed and intelligent android produced by Cyberlife.

A machine built to hunt its prey and to always accomplish his mission.

But now?

A confused man sitting at his desk, elbows on the surface as he ran the fourth diagnostic this morning.

Connor was never really taught how to feel his emotions, considering that he was forced to compress them from the moment he was made. If he were to feel any sort of emotion, it was either to the scrap factory for him or a hard lecture from Amanda.

But Amanda was gone, and androids were free to express any emotion they pleased.

It’s been weeks since Markus hit the headlines for his famous android revolution. He worked with the government extensively to pass bills in order to settle android rights for the country. Connor, on the other hand, continued to work with the DPD as a full-on detective under the supervision of Liutenant Hank Anderson. Hank was more than just a coworker, but a father figure to Connor. And that brought Connor joy, an emotion Connor was well aquainted of.

But not the feeling he was experiencing now.

Connor couldn’t get his mind off a certain someone who had joined the team a bit before the revolution. You had joined a week prior, and honestly, you were kind of regretting it. As android and human tensions rose, you were on duty 24/7. Originally, you were supposed to start easy with basic patrol around a part of a city, but because you were so impatient in doing the “big kid stuff” you found yourself frequently in the middle of the android and human discourse. Your shifts nearly lasted twelve hours, and you would be absolutely exhausted.

Things are different now. Sure, there were still some situations between the two sides, but it was definitely peace compared to literal boycotts. You sat at your desk idly scrolling through your past cases, making sure that all the information was correct and accurate. On the other side of your desk was a tablet full of notes you had taken after some cases you had to deal with. What you didn’t notice was the android detective constantly glancing at you, watching your every move to see if maybe, at some point, you would notice him.

A loud groan echoing from the desk in front of Connor made him jump, immediately turning his attention to his lieutenant taking a seat in his chair. “Fucking hell..” Hank sighed. “Fowler does nothing but my bust my balls these days, huh?�� Connor stared at his partner with his hands folded in his lap and eyebrows furrowed.

“Is everything okay, Lieutenant?” Connor asked, tilting his head.

“It’s nothing too serious. Fowler just wants me to take the rookie on our next homicide case. He insisted that they would be a perfect addition to the team or whatever.” Hank groaned. “Now I’m responsible for two of you fucks.”

Connor, admittedly, felt his thirium pump racing. You? As part of the team? It was almost like he could overheat and shutdown momentarily right now. “I think they would be a great addition to the team.” Connor stated, biting back from smiling. “They have an excellent track record of solving cases in an orderly and timely manner, has caught every perpretrator with their undercover skills, and had a reputation back in their training classes as one of the top students.” He explained. Hank looked over as he was slouched in his seat with arms folded across his chest.

“Jesus, Connor, you sound like some creep searching up their name on Google.” Hank scoffed, half smiling. Though this caught Connor a little off— was he being creepy? He didn’t want to leave a bad impression on you, especially now that you're about to meet for the first time. His face scrunched up in anxiety, feeling as if he made a mistake. Hank immediately took notice and sat up. “Ah— I was just joking, Connor. I’m sure you have uh.. Good intentions.” Hank reassured, though he never said he was exactly good at it.

Hank looked over to you, seeing that you were preoccupied with work despite the fact you haven’t been on a case in a few days now. Hank looked at Connor. “Well.. Why don’t you introduce yourself to them.” Hank suggested, nodding his head over to you.

Connor immediately jolted his head up, a little wide-eyed to even suggest such. “O-Of course.” Connor stuttered out. Connor never stuttered, and though Hank was in a mood after his exchange with Fowler, he certainly didn’t leave that unnoticed.

“Did you just stutter?” Hank asked, a little amused. “Are you.. Nervous?”

“Of course not, Lieutenant,” Connor replied as steadily as possible. “I am an android.”

“Connor.”

“Yes?” Connor replied, mindlessly.

“You’re a deviant, for fucks sake.”

“Oh.”

Connor, to avoid anymore embarassment from the man he deemed his father figure, swiftly got up and started to approach you. Hank watched in pure amusement, not even wanting to stop the boy from probably embarassing himself even further, but at least Hank had some faith in him. He is Detroit’s best god damn detective.

“Hello, Officer (l/n). My name is Connor. It is nice to meet you.” Connor said, putting his hand out for a shake. You looked up from your computer screen only to be met with the most chocolate eyes you’ve ever had the privilege of being in the prescence of. He smiled politely, but behind that smile he thanked Elijah that androids could not sweat, otherwise you would’ve felt the claminess of his palm.

You took his hand and shook it firmly. “A pleasure to make your aquaintance. My name is (y/n).” You smiled generously, and wow, did Connor felt like his pump couldn’t get any faster.. He cleared his throat before darting his eyes to the unoccupied chair that sat next to your desk.

“May I?” Connor asked, gesturing towards the seat.

“Of course, I’m not doing much anyway.” You nodded. Connor took a seat, and for some reason, he struggled to even maintain his balance as he sat himself down. He nearly had to think about how to fold his hands before placing them firmly on his laps and looking at you. Thankfully, you barely realized any sort of struggle as you looked away to take a swig of your morning coffee.

“So..” you said, clasping your hands. “Am I in trouble or anything?” you joked. Connor immediately shot his head up, worried he had made the wrong impression.

“Oh, no— I—” Before Connor could sputter out an explanation, you tilted your head a little and started laughing.

“Relax! I was just kidding!” You playfully waved off. Connor’s shoulders immediately relaxed as a breath he didn’t even know he was holding back escaped his lips. You looked at him curiously, a smile still resting on your face.

“I’m sorry. Usually, I am not like this.” He said, shaking his head a little in embarassment. He was always on his A game and constantly prepared. Why were you the reason for this disruption. “I.. Uh..” He couldn’t think of anymore to say. Suddenly, he got a message through his LED.

NEW MESSAGE:

HANK: tell them u think theyre pretty.

Connor blinked a bit, registering the text message. Hank was at a perfect view watching this unfold. The back of your head was visible but he could see all of Connor’s reactions, who desperately tried to maintain a polite smile.

“I think you’re very pretty, (y/n).” Connor complimented.

“Oh— ah—” A subtle blush began to form on your cheeks as your eyes widen a little, not expecting a compliment from a handsome android such as Connor. “Why thank you, Connor. I wasn’t expecting that as our first conversation.” You chuckled a little. “You’re not too bad yourself.”

Thirium was rushing through his circuits and to his cheeks. The faintest color of blue appeared dusted on his face. “Thank you.” He maintained a calm, neutral voice. They stared at each other for a minute, sort of registering the sort of corny first conversation the two of you had.

“Ah.. I almost forgot to mention.” Connor snapped back to reality. “I came here to introduce myself sfter I heard that you were joining our team on our next investigation. It’s good to make an aquaintance with our future team member.” Connor smiled politely.

“Why thank you. I am very excited to work with you and Lieutenant Anderson.” You nodded. “Though I will miss working with Gavin and Chris’ team.”

Ah, that’s right. You used to work with Gavin. It almost left a bad taste in Connor’s mouth knowing that Gavin probably spat some awful opinions about him to you. Though from the looks of it, you were enjoying your conversation with him which eased him.

“I promise we will a provide a welcoming and safe space in our team, and of course, to make sure you don’t come into harms way.” Connor assured. Though he was mainly promising this to you personally. God forbids Connor seeing you get hurt.

“Why thank you, Connor.” You said, tilting your head. Connor was rather intriguing to you— an android acting this way around you. His LED constantly switched between yellow and blue as if he was making sure to process every word you uttered. Yet he was so human— he would scratch the back of his neck, fidget with his fingers, and shuffle a bit in his seat. You would think someone as advanced as him would at least be able to have a composure, but he was different. It was something you admired about him.

“(l/n), in my office!” Captain Fowler called from the balcony of his room. You looked over to Connor before sighing.

“Well, boss is calling me. I’ll talk to you afterwards?” You suggested as you stood from your seat.

“Of course.” Connor replied, shielding his excitement. He stood up from his chair as well. “I’d be happy to talk again, (y/n).”

“Likewise.” You winked. With that, you left your desk and headed straight to Fowler’s office. Connor stood shellshocked. Did you just.. Wink at him?! Connor’s eyes slowly drifted to Hank, who was chuckling heartily. He gave Connor an assuring thumbs up as Connor made his way back to their desks.

“You’d be a shit detective if this is how you acted all the time.” Hank snickered. Connor grinned a little before taking a seat back at his desk.

“I know.” Connor sighed, leaning a little back in his chair. He at you through the glass walls, noticing your upright posture and the way you listened intently to Captain Fowler’s words. He looked over to Hank before thinning his lips.

“Lieutenant?” Connor asked.

“What is it, son?”

“What am I.. Feeling right now?” Connor asked, a little lost on how to explain it. “I can only think about them— only envision them when I close my eyes. I get nervous and its like my programming has reduced to 0s and 1s.” He sighed, hell, even a little frustrated that you had this affect on him.

Hank with a wide smile, shook his head and looked at Connor with a knowing stare. Connor looked up, both lost while desperate for an answer and maybe even a cure. Hank sat up and made sure to look at Connor right in the yes.

“Connor,” Hank sighed, grinning. “Son, that feeling your experiencing is called love. And your plastic ass better get used to it.”

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thank you so much for reading towards the end ! im sorry if its a little messy-- i quickly had to post this before hanging out w some friends but i just wanted to get this out of the way rq! reblogs, replies, and even likes are so so appreciated <3

[midnightquips]

Flight Risk

Bob Floyd x Reader

Summary: For you, Bob Floyd is just the kind of guy you want. Smart. Sweet. Soft-spoken. The kind that won't break your heart. For Bob, you're the kind of woman that takes his breath away. Calm. Cool. Stunning. The kind you'd want to sweep off her feet. So this should be easy, right? Right?

Themes: Dagger Squad teasing, slow burn, jealousy, sexual tension, meddling

🔴 MINORS DNI 🔴 Warnings: 18+ content, eventual smut, explicit sexual content, nsfw, praise kink, soft aftercare, oral sex, piv sex, unprotected sex, mild praise kink, foreplay

Author's Note: Happy Saturday everyone!!! Let me know your thoughts!! ❤︎❤︎❤︎

💫 Flight Risk Masterlist 📌 Sign Up for TAGLIST

Chapter 2: Close Call

It’s been three days. 

Three days since Bob asked you out. Three days since you said yes. Three days since absolutely nothing has happened.

You’ve been patient. Hell, you even gave him a pass for not texting the night after. Maybe he was recovering from the emotional whiplash of having a whole bar cheer him into a potential relationship. But now? You’re starting to wonder if he forgot.

That is, until you spot him.

It was late afternoon, sun dipping lower behind the hangars. You round a corner near the mess hall just as Bob’s heading in the opposite direction, files clutched to his chest and hair slightly wind-tossed. He sees you and visibly startles, papers almost slipping from under his arm.

You grin.

“Easy, Floyd. You look like you just saw a ghost.”

His smile spreads slowly and sheepishly, glasses slipping just a little down the bridge of his nose. “No, just… I wasn’t expecting you.”

You fall into step beside him, breezy as ever. “Didn’t peg you for the ghosting type.”

He goes red instantly. “Wait—what? No—I didn’t—I mean—”

You laugh and nudge his arm. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

He exhales. Probably grateful you haven’t turned on your heel and walked away. You let the silence sit for a beat, then toss him a sideways glance.

“So… still planning on asking me to dinner? Or was that a Hard Deck fever dream?” you ask with a teasing tone to mask the hesitancy

Bob stops walking for half a second, panic flashing in his eyes before he recovers. “I—I do want to. I mean, yes. I’m just… figuring it out.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is this one of those military ops that requires precision timing?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Something like that.”

Before you can tease him again, someone calls your name from across the courtyard. Kari is waving you over. 

You flash Bob one last grin. “Well, when the op is greenlit… let me know.”

And then you’re gone. Bob stares after you like you just stole his oxygen.

Bob walks in and immediately regrets it. Not because of the work, but because the entire Dagger Squad is already there. He’d honestly take spreadsheets and engine diagnostics over most things.

Phoenix is stretched across a bench, Rooster tossing a ball off the wall. Hangman and Payback are mid-laugh. Fanboy’s tinkering with something nearby, and Coyote’s sipping coffee like he’s here for the tea.

Bob tries to slide past unnoticed but fails spectacularly.

“There he is!” Rooster announces. “Lover boy!”

Bob visibly winces. “Please no.”

“Oh we’re way past that,” Hangman grins. “You publicly asked out one of the hottest contractors on base and then did nothing. We need answers.”

“She did say yes, right?” Payback confirms.

“She definitely said yes,” Phoenix says without looking up. “I saw the eye contact. There was full-body yes energy.”

Fanboy glances over. “So did you chicken out?”

“No!” Bob says too fast. “I just… haven’t figured out how to actually ask.”

Everyone groans.

“You did ask her,” Coyote reminds him. “You just forgot the part where you follow through.”

“I didn’t forget,” Bob mutters.

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be,” Phoenix says, sitting up now. “She likes you. You already did the impossible part. You got her attention without doing anything.”

“I don’t want to screw it up,” Bob admits, voice low. “She’s confident. Charming. People notice when she walks in. I’m not exactly…”

“Stop right there,” Rooster says, pointing. “You’re Bob Floyd. You fly like a beast, you’re smart as hell, and you blush like it’s an Olympic sport. Women love that.”

“Y/N loves that,” Fanboy adds casually. “She looks at you like you’re a cinnamon roll she’s afraid to crush.”

“She’s literally just waiting for you to text her,” Payback says. “You think she’s out there pining, or you think she’s just gonna move on and ask us to dinner?”

Bob narrows his eyes. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would,” Hangman grins. “But only to prove a point.”

Phoenix sighs and reaches for Bob’s phone. “Give me that. I’ll text her for you.”

“No!” Bob snatches it back, clutching it like it’s a flight manual. “I’ll do it. Just… give me a second.”

“Tick tock,” Coyote mutters.

Bob walks away from the group, ducking into the corner of the hangar, heart pounding way harder than it should.

You’re across the base in the cafeteria where Iris and Kari complain about Bob for you

“I’m just saying,” Iris says, stabbing her salad with unnecessary aggression, “you’re braver than me.”

“I haven’t even done anything,” you say, sipping your iced tea.

“That’s exactly it. You said yes to a man who asked you out and then ghosted you for seventy-two hours,” she says. “That’s bravery.”

“He didn’t ghost,” you defend. “He’s just… processing.”

Kari arches a brow. “He’s Bob. If you don’t keep nudging him, he’ll probably thank you for your time and never touch you again.”

You laugh despite yourself.

“I’m not worried,” you say. “I knew he’d need a little time. I’ve already waited this long. Another day won’t kill me.”

“But a week might,” Kari mutters. “Text him first.”

“Nope.” You smile. “He said he’d ask. I want him to do it. His way.”

Iris leans back, smirking. “So we’re basically in a period piece?”

“Apparently.”

Bob stares at his phone like it might detonate.

Then he finally types:

BOB: Hey. Would you still want to get dinner this weekend? If you haven’t changed your mind.

He doesn’t send it right away. He stares at it for a second, thumbs hovering over his phone screen. Deletes “this weekend,” changes it to “Friday.” Adds a smiley. Deletes the smiley. Replaces it with a period.

Finally, he just hits send even before he can talk himself out of it. He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath.

A minute passes. Then two.

Then—

ANN: Took you long enough, Floyd.

He stares at the reply, heart stuttering. He doesn’t even get the chance to reply when another text pop up.

ANN: You free Friday at 1900? Or does this require a formal op plan as well?

He lets out a laugh under his breath, thumbs flying.

BOB: 1900 works. No mission briefing required. ANN: Perfect. Wear something cute.

Bob blushes, then grins. He instantly walks back toward the squad like he just won something.

“Well?” Phoenix asks.

“She said yes,” he says, quiet but proud.

The squad cheers like he just landed a fighter jet on a tightrope.

You are not the kind of woman who overthinks what to wear.

But right now, you’re standing in your room, staring down three dress options like you’re about to attend a military gala. Kari’s sprawled on your bed with a drink in hand. Iris is sitting cross-legged on the floor, scrolling through her phone and occasionally looking up like she’s a judge on a fashion reality show.

You hold up the third option. It’s a simple, fitted, cotton dress. Sleeveless & midthigh. You glance at your reflection. The dress is nothing dramatic. It’s grayish neutral, soft fabric that hugs in the right places without trying too hard. You pair it with your worn white Keds and tie your hair back loosely. “It’s not too casual, right?”

Kari doesn’t even look. “Nope. That one’s perfect.”

Iris nods. “It says ‘I’m cool, confident, and I could outrun you in Keds if you broke my heart.’ Which, let’s be real, is very your brand.”

Still, the nerves are there. You inhale deeply. 

“Ugh, I can’t believe I’m worrying,” you mutter

Kari is now lounging on your bed, head resting on her hands while she watches you. Iris, on the other hand, is swiping left and right on Bumble, looking for a potential date.

“You’re overthinking this,” Iris says without looking up. “You could walk out there in a trash bag and that man would ask you to marry him.”

“I’ve never been nervous for a date like this,” you admit, smoothing your hands down your sides.

Kari and Iris exchange a look. A knowing one. But they don’t say it aloud.

Instead, Kari shrugs. “Because this isn’t just a date. You like him.”

You try to play it off. “I mean, he’s cute.”

“And sweet,” Iris adds.

“And clearly obsessed with you,” Kari finishes.

“Is he though?” you asked uncertain

“The man blushes every time you’re within a 12ft radius of him.” Iris insists

You give them both a look, but your mouth twitches into a smile.

Bob is a man under siege.

Phoenix holds up two shirts. “This one says you’re trustworthy and clean. This one says you lift things.”

Hangman is hovering, fixing Bob’s hair with an intensity that rivals pre-flight prep. “Tilt your head, lemme see. Okay, not bad. Damn, our boy’s got cheekbones under here.”

Rooster shouts from across the hall, “I feel like we’re watching our baby go off to prom.”

Payback throws in, “Somebody get the camera.”

“I hate all of you,” Bob mutters, staring helplessly at his reflection.

Fanboy enters just to offer a final judgment: “White shirt. Rolled sleeves. It’s over for her.”

Coyote: “Just remember not to say anything about plane engines at dinner.”

Bob glances between them. “You’re all making this worse.”

Phoenix pats his shoulder. “Relax. She said yes already, Floyd. Now just charm the hell out of her.”

Bob goes red instantly.

You spot him the moment you step inside the pottery studio. It’s an unexpected but pleasant surprise. Bob is already standing by the front counter, wearing a white shirt neatly pressed, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, dark jeans, clean boots. His hair looks like it’s been nervously styled and then re-tousled by accident.

He turns and freezes.

Your dress hugs in all the right places, effortless but arresting. You meet his eyes and smile. Bob swears his brain short-circuits.

“Hi,” you say, stepping closer. “Lieutenant Floyd.”

He stares for a beat. “You look…” He trails off.

You smirk. “Still me under the dress, you know.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” he mutters, cheeks flushing.

The instructor greets you both and leads you to your wheels. You slip into the seat beside him, tying your apron, stealing a glance at the way his shirt stretches slightly when he reaches for the sponge.

You clear your throat. “Didn’t peg you for a pottery guy.”

“I’m not,” he says. “Phoenix suggested it.”

“Phoenix is brilliant.”

He chuckles. “Don’t tell her. She’ll never shut up about it.”

The first fifteen minutes are chaos.

Bob is almost regretting it as his clay spins too fast then collapses into a sad lump. Yours wobbles, mud splattering everywhere. You’re both trying not to laugh, but when Bob accidentally launches a chunk onto the floor, you lose it.

“You okay over there?” you grin.

“I’m fine. Just—this clay hates me.”

You slide off your stool and slowly step behind him. “You’re gripping too tight. Here—”

Your hands close over his while your body pressing to the side of his arms. His breath catches.

“Gentle,” you say softly, adjusting his pressure. “Control the spin. Don’t fight it.”

You feel him nod, slowly. Your right hand gently guides his in molding the clay, smoothing out edges, shaping the chunk into a somewhat solid foundation. 

You lean in and murmur, “This feels dangerously close to Ghost, doesn’t it?”

Bob makes a sound like he’s swallowed a breath wrong.

You laugh softly. “Relax. You’re totally Patrick Swayze here.”

“I don’t dance,” he whispers, flustered.

“Makes two of us.”

You smile at him, still close, and as he looks at you with eyes wide & lips parted. You catch something in his gaze, not just nervousness but almost a want.

Then he blurts, “You smell really nice.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”

“I mean—you just—you smell good. Not strong. Just… you. Clean. A little flowery. It’s distracting.”

You blink.

Then laugh. “Wow. I hope that’s not part of the better filter update.” 

“I was trying to compliment you,” he says helplessly.

“You are adorable when you’re flustered.” You chuckle

“Can’t seem to help it.”

“Don’t change,” you say, nudging him. “I like that about you.”

He exhales like he just defused a bomb.

You fall into rhythm eventually.

The instructor moves around the studio, checking in on others. But your corner of the room feels like its own little world. Your arms brush when you reach for tools. His knee taps yours under the table. You throw clay at each other like kids. At one point, Bob laughs so hard he snorts, and you nearly collapse from how cute it is.

You dab a streak of clay on his jaw. He retaliates by brushing your hair back and marking your cheek. Still, you don’t move away.

There’s a comfort in it. Something sweet. Something assuring. 

As the class ends, Bob wipes off his hands, standing beside you, and tries to say casually, but clearly rehearsed:

“You hungry? Because I was thinking… sandwiches?”

You’re surprised again but try not to show it as you grin. “Look at you, making decisions.”

He shrugs, feigning cool. “It’s mostly because I don’t want the night to end.”

You pause because that one lands deep.

“Good,” you say softly. “Me either.”

You both end up sitting at a bench on the waterfront, unwrapping warm sandwiches from a nearby truck. The wind teasing your hair while the city lights blur against the horizon, a comforting silence enveloping settling between you. The air smells like sea salt and toasting bread. Lights reflect on the water, flickering gold.

Bob is quiet, but content. He likes that you don’t seem to push for forced conversation. It comforts him that he doesn’t have to try too hard. And that is the truth, because you’ve learned to recognize the way he relaxes. Recognizing his looser shoulders, slightly parted mouth, tracking you with eyes even when he’s not speaking.

“I have to admit,” Bob says between bites, “this was better than karaoke.”

You smirk. “I didn’t even know that was an option.”

“It was almost the choice.” he chuckles 

“I’d still probably like to hear you sing.” you assure him with a smile

“Maybe next time, only if we’re alone. And far from judgment.”

“So there might be a next time?” you ask hopeful

“I… want it to be.” he shares hesitantly

You glance sideways at him. “You always this cautious?”

He shrugs. “When it matters.”

You hum because you don’t want to push. So you take comfort in the small courage he’s seemed to muster up with those words. 

You chew for a moment, then say, “This place has the best sandwiches,” you say around a bite. “I could eat here forever.”

He smiles. “I’ll remember that. Always good to know what you like.”

You grin. Then add, almost offhand, “Won’t help with fitting in the clothes if you get me more of this but I’d be lying if I say it’s not worth it.”

It comes out light. A joke. But Bob’s eyes flick toward you sharply. There’s something behind your smile and for a second, he catches a flicker of something more fragile. He stops chewing.

You blink at him. “What?”

“You don’t actually think that, do you?” He asks directly, as if you’ve offended him.

You’re a bit thrown off that you have to suddenly explain yourself. “I mean, it’s not like I’m runway model material, Bob. People love the confidence. But it’s… y’know, curated.”

He stares at you like he’s hearing something he didn’t expect.

“You’re…” he starts, then falters. “Y/N, people notice you the second you walk into a room. Not because you’re loud. Because you… are. I’ve seen grown men forget their names when you smile.”

You blink, as the warmth in your chest spreads.

“I always figured you knew that,” he adds. “That you could feel it.”

You swallow. “I do. Sometimes. But even confidence needs maintenance.”

He nods slowly. “I get that.”

You stare at him for a second or two. He’s not trying to flatter or appease you. He really believes it and understands.

Your throat tightens a little. “I didn’t think you’d notice things like that.”

He exhales a soft laugh like it’s directed at himself. “I notice everything about you.”

You’re stunned into silence.

Then, smiling softly, you nudge him with your shoulder. “See, now only you can do this to me.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Shut me up when I’m holding this perfect sandwich.”

He laughs—deep, unguarded. “I am a criminal for that.”

You both lean back against the bench backrest railing, elbows touching.

A quiet takes over again. Still comforting but also, more intimate. A vulnerability flowing between you.

Then, after a pause, as if speaking before he can change his mind, he blurts, “Can I take you home?”

You glance at him and find his eyes are steady. There’s no pressure, just intent.

You nod with a smile. “Yeah. I’d really like that.”

The drive back is still quiet, in the kind of way that makes you feel full.

Bob plays some mellow, low-volume playlist. Some Fleetwood Mac, maybe a little James Taylor. You sit in the passenger seat, legs curled up, watching the road blur past while the warm silence fills the air. Not awkward. Just... gentle. Just like him.

He doesn't reach for your hand, but his fingers drum against the wheel occasionally. An apparent consideration about it as if he's working up the nerve. You glance at him as the truck turns down your street, much slower than it needs to be. Then as if a switch turned on, you feel the tension slowly radiate off him.

“You always drive like this after a date?” you tease.

Bob huffs a nervous laugh. “Trying hard to not be distracted by you right now.”

You raise a brow, lips tugging into a smirk. “That so?”

He nods, eyes still on the road. “Difficult to think straight with you sitting there looking like that.”

You feel an opening to reciprocate his boldness so you pretend to adjust your dress, running your hand down your thigh deliberately. “You’re cute when you try to flirt, you know.”

He goes quiet for a beat. “I’m trying really hard not to say something dumb.”

“Say it,” you grin encouragingly.

Bob glances at you, swallows hard then quickly back to the road. "I've been really wanting to hold your hand the entire night.”

You maintain your smile as you reach out to his free hand, "That can be easily arranged."

You entwine your fingers in his. He only smiles while the silence between you crackles.

By the time he pulls into the curb in front of your building, neither of you make a move to get out.

“Thanks for tonight,” you say first, voice soft. “I had fun.”

He takes the time to look at you, still bashful. “Me too.”

The air shifts slightly, thickening, prickly your skin. You feel the moment is leaning.

You reach for the door handle, then say, “Do you... wanna come up? Just for a bit?”

Bob's eyes widen just a little. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d like that.”

Your place is dim and quiet, still smelling faintly like the cinnamon candle you lit the night before. You kick off your Keds by the door and toss your jacket on the hook. Bob follows, careful and polite, standing awkwardly in the entryway like he doesn't want to touch anything. The tension has somewhat cooled, but still lingers.

“Want coffee or tea?” you ask, somewhat comfortingly

He hesitates, then smiles. “Tea. If that’s okay.”

You disappear into the kitchen and return with two mugs a few minutes later, finding him still standing by the couch like he doesn't know the rules. You hand him one of the mugs, turn on the lamp beside the sofa, casting a soft yellow glow.

“You can sit, you know,” you smile.

He clears his throat and does, holding the cup as if it was the only thing keeping him grounded. You watch him blow on it and attempt a sit.

You sit close beside him, but not touching. As if a silent dare to touch the other first.

You sip your tea, eyes looking at him from behind the mug.

"So... you date much?" you start

Bob is caught off-guard. "Um. Not really. A few people here and there. It usually never got past two or three dates."

"Because?" you ask.

"Because I think I overthink it. I like slow. I like knowing someone before making the next move."

You giggle, "Yeah, I can see that." 

"So," he says after a moment, "how about you?"

You raise an eyebrow playfully. "What about me?"

Bob takes a sip again and places the mug down beside the lamp.

He shrugs, giving a small smile. "Just seems like everyone wants to date you."

You lean back, cup warm between your hands. "Don't know about that. Honestly? I don’t usually date military and it's really difficult to be dating outside that category when you're moving a lot."

His head tilts slightly, curious about the lack of military dating. "Why not military?"

You shake your head. "Too close. Too complicated. Everyone knows everyone’s business. I’ve always kept my distance."

Bob nods slowly, absorbing that. "But you said yes to me."

You smile unashamed. "Wanted to before you even asked."

He watches you quietly. "Do you regret it?"

"Can’t regret something I want."

Bob flushes. You watch him, waiting. The energy between you hums. A shift that makes you hyper aware.

You shift your knee a little closer to his. He doesn’t move away. Instead, his gaze flicks to your mouth and lingers there a second too long.

“You know, it’s dangerous to look at people like that” you ask, voice low and teasing.

He swallows. “I don’t look at anyone like this.”

You bite your lower lip coyly. His throat bobs. Then he clears it, voice a little steadier, as if gathering courage when he says, “You know, you could kiss me. If you want.”

Your eyebrows rise slightly. “You’re stealing my lines now?”

He grins, a little lopsided, a little braver. “Maybe. I mean... only because I really want to kiss you.”

You set your tea down and turn to him. Then, you lean in and kiss him. 

Bob is surprised but is quick to respond when he feels your lips on him. It's soft at first. Your lips moving against his gently, testing before leaning into it further. Then his hand lifts to your jaw, pulling you closer. You shift, turning into him. Your knees press to his thigh. The heat of him seeps into your skin.

Without hesitation, you crawl closer, swing one leg over and straddle him.

He inhales sharply, hands flying to your waist, fingers digging in like he doesn’t trust himself to move. Your lips tracing his gently. His mouth opens under yours, and suddenly the kiss is deeper. Hotter. Lips parting, tongues brushing, breaths catching in rhythm. The soft sounds of your mouths moving together fill the room.

Your hands run through his hair, pulling him closer. He lets out a soft, raw groan into your mouth, and it sends a shiver down your spine. One of his hands slides up your back, the other holding your hip, grounding you against him.

You rock slightly, just once, and feel him harden beneath you. He inhales sharply against your lips, eyes fluttering shut. You kiss him harder, chasing the way he gasps when your teeth graze his bottom lip.

“Y/N,” he murmurs in between kisses, barely audible. His voice is wrecked. “You’re…”

“I know,” you whisper, breathing heavy, against his lips

You both slowly come to a pause. Foreheads pressing to each other. Chests heaving. Hands still tangled. Lips swollen. The moment is fire and restraint all at once.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispers, voice rough against your jaw.

You smile, nose brushing his. “The feeling is obviously mutual.”

Then—softer, reluctantly—you add, “We should… probably slow down.”

He nods, eyes still closed. “Yeah. We should.”

But you don’t move yet. You stay there, breathing each other in. His hands move in comforting strokes, while yours press steady to his chest.

You both agree you’re not yet ready. But close. 

So damn close.

Taglist: @jesterghuleh @sorry75 @midnighttithe @sneak-fic @Arriii @thatonedogwithablog @dragoste-lunes @yellowjm @kniselle @werockyeah @tgmreader @cummun1sta @holymacaroni84 @mericas-ass @rainymitskicain

[transgendz]

My roommate and I are struggling financially as he goes through a complicated diagnostic process that started as we stopped being homeless. Right now, we urgently need help with rent and getting my laptop fixed. Rent is $700, and the initial estimate for my laptop is $150. Rent is due the 1st, and we are particularly stressed because I use my laptop to make money.

Pls dm me for proof or details

I will do art for anyone who gives $50 towards this, and I also take commissions, just message me at my art blog @theartistrans

$creepiecrippl

V: tab-99

$35/$850