#like give him someone interesting to talk to

[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.

[priisprii]

Feel it- C.SC

Summary: making seungcheol jealous might not be a good idea (it's a great idea).

Contains: dom! seungcheol x subfem!reader, possessive Cheol, unprotected sex, degradation (heavy) , choking (by hand, by biceps), headlock, dirty talk, reader is simp for Cheol.lil fluffy in the end

Word count: 3 k

A/N: don't you sometimes just want headlocks from Cheol :3

Minors don't interact.

Seungcheol has a big heart, he's someone who would happily give up the bigger portion his favourite food without any lingering bitterness in his heart.he lets his friends borrow his high -end clothes and shoes without expecting them to return it. he's someone who doesn't mind sharing and loves he can be helpful and wanted, needed by the people he love.

He kinda gets a confidence boost realising what he has is desired by people around him , the ownership remains with him despite the possession being with someone else, whether it be his clothes, shoes, watches, pcs or even his past girlfriends.

However with you, seungcheol can't even let the thought of his friends hugging you in a friendly way pass in his mind without feeling like someone has shoved a knife in his throat and is twisting it .

You are untouchable for him, someone who can't be tainted by the gaze of others , even thinking about you should be privilege for them —he thinks.

Seungcheol knows how hot you are and he also sympathizes with random average guys who can never bag a beauty like you in their cursed lifetime but you are his and only his .

He hides this part of himself, the side of him which is overly possesive over you and which gets nauseous thinking about you just talking with other guys. He doesn't want to scare you off with that toxic trait and make you feel trapped. The last thing he wants is to make his little baby sad and uncomfortable because of his own insecurity.

On the other hand you were frustrated and angry and in pain cause' seungcheol was holding himself back from absolutely breaking the spines of your guy friends whose eyes lingered a little too long on your form and acted all fine and nonchalant when his friends gave you hugs and teased you with flirty remarks.

Occasionally, once in a blue moon, you were able to capture the dark glint and anger in his eyes but it disappeared as soon as it formed.

In bed when he's balls deep inside you his idgaf attitude crumbles and he fucks you so hard like he's trying to ingrave the shape of his cock inside your pussy and hit you with the realisation that no one can fuck you better than him, no one can make you feel so good that you can't even form coherent words and cry helplessly without knowing whether you want him to stop or choke you to the point of passing out.

Still in those moments he doesn't admit he's jealous and wants to hide you from the world, keeping you locked in his bedroom forever. Oh how tempting that idea sounds. You want cheol to break Fully, let his possessive side out and make him claim you, you want him in ways you can't explain without sounding insane.

you will do whatever in your power to break seungcheol's cool guy act even if it's a little scandalous.

"your biceps are so big ,I never really noticed just how big they actually are, mingyu!!"

you squeaked ,oogling at mingyu's biceps, mingyu smirked, blatant cockiness clear on his features but Seungcheol visibly tensed beside you a little, taken aback by your sudden interest in mingyu or particularly in his biceps . seungcheol thinks his ones are probably much bigger and better.

"oh, really? Wanna feel erm' angel?" Mingyu asked extending his bicep to your face and flexing it you won't lie they looked absolutely delicious and you want to bite that muscular flesh but you want to make seungcheol jealous not play with his confidence so you just resorted to touching and squeezing the muscle softly and letting out a excited sound mimicking a child.

"damn, it's really just soo hard and big~~"

air in the room shifted at your comment, the underlying meaning being understood by everyone and their reactions being exactly what you wished for .

You looked at seungcheol while your hand still remained on mingyu's bicep and the look he gave you almost made you get on your knees and beg for his forgiveness. He was glaring at you. Note that he never glared at anyone and the anger in his eyes made you drop your hand right then and there.

"I guess she had too many drinks tonight let me take her home" seungcheol announced, the friend group knew you didn't even have a sip of alcohol and were fully conscious playing games . However mingyu quite didn't like the fact seungcheol was tearing you off of him so soon, he actually grew quite fond of your attention.

"she doesn't drink why you are lying to us?" Mingyu smirked before continuing "your ego so brittle that you can't handle your girl praising your friend?"

Now, you want to slap mingyu cause' he was adding fuel to the fire you ignited yourself, you wanted cheol a lil bit in a sour mood a lil bit angry not what you are currently dealing with; him eyeing you like you're his prey and tightly gripping your wrist as he dragged you out of party ,not giving his friends one single glance.

You already love this.

The whole ride back to home was silent and uneventful, he didn't even looked at you nor his hand was resting on top of your thigh,so you thought he won't even talk to you let alone touch you .

As soon as you entered your shared apartment seungcheol pinned you against the nearest wall, his hand pulling your hair and tugging your head backwards,studying your face intensely . here he is; pure uncontrolled anger in his eyes mixed with endless lust.

Seungcheol ran his tongue over your lips not kissing you just wetting them then suddenly he bite your lower lip harshly drawing out a little blood," you keep acting like a slut maybe it's just the time I treat you like one"

"I -i was just trying to be friendly" you whined licking up your lips, tasting faint mixture of blood, your cherry lip gloss and whiskey from seungcheol's spit(yum),. your words only earned a scoff from him.

"whoring yourself out to my friends isn't called being friendly sweetheart" seungcheol chides, the sweet nickname sounding nothing close to sweet. technically you weren't really whoring yourself but the way seungcheol said it with so much malice made your core quiver in anticipation.

His mouth moved down to your neck, inhaling your scent before sucking onto your sensitive neck harshly as he strangled your neck putting quick and intense pressure on your windpipe making you cough,being unable to breathe you tried pulling seungcheol's hand off your neck but he didn't even budged a bit.

Your useless attempt to get him off you sending blood rushing down his cock.

You felt your vision blacking out before seungcheol released you, he detached his mouth off you before giving one last stinging and painful bite.you swear he was a vampire in his past life. You sucked air in relief, your surroundings blurry, only thing you could focus on was on breathing and drinking up the image of your boyfriend being all hot and bothered infront of you. You won't have complained even if he made you pass out, infact you would have thanked him.

"does this turn you on?hm? let's see" Seungcheol asked, bunching your dress up by one hand while another pressed hard against your clothed pussy cupping it savagely and you moaned. the touch being so intense for you as you were desperate and sensitive since evening.you wore your favorite lingerie which was pure lace, it did terrible job at hiding your overflowing arousal.

Seungcheol fingered you through your panties pumping them vaguely just wanting to make a mess, precum gushing out and smearing on his whole hand "as expected, dripping like a broken brain dead cum dump"

His crude words travelled straight to your pussy, making it clench against his fingers which barely entered inside.

"Cheol—" whatever you were about to say died down in your throat as he as he pulled your panties upwards, the material rubbing between your pussy lips roughly, you cried out feeling the sharp pain mixed with pleasure.

"you crying? I haven't even done anything yet baby" fake sympathy was dripped off from his voice as he cooed at you, pushing your panties to the side before dipping two fingers inside you, pushing them as deep as they can go as his thumb played with your clit. You were so sensitive and his touch was so unforgiving, the coil inside your stomach tightened, mind hazy with pleasure.

before you could reach your high, seungcheol withdraw his fingers from your cunt and grabbed your jaw in an unforgiving grip, pushing his fingers inside your mouth, making you taste yourself as he toyed with your tongue, flattening it down. Your spit was dripping down your chin uncontrollably, you felt disgusted but it was was heavenly sight for him.

"pathetic" seungcheol mumbled to himself before removing his fingers from your mouth and wipping them down your dress. He started walking towards your bedroom while you just stayed glued to your place waiting for his next command.

"follow me" seungcheol demanded with full blatant authority you started walking, following him before he hissed and turned towards you"crawl baby, crawl like a fucking dog"

You contemplated for one solid second before getting down on your knees and hand, crawling towards him. utter humiliation and shame spreading in your veins but pussy clenching and dripping around nothing but air,feeling so turned on and drunk on him, his commands, his gaze. Your boobs hung down and bounced as you kept crawling. You looked so hot and ruined and seungcheol was only planning to ruin you more and more.

Your face was squished in bedsheets ,ass in the air and drooling helplessly like a dog being pounded by Seungcheol from behind without ounce of care, like you were nothing but a fucktoy. The way he was manhandling you so effortlessly made your mind all mushy. he could easily break you if he wanted to and that fact makes you whimper helplessly.

"look at you drooling and howling like a bitch ,you wish Mingyu was the one fucking your tight cunt right?"

Seungcheol grunted, giving you a particularly sharp thrust as the memory of you squishing Mingyu's muscles clouded his mind, how could you flirt with other guy and the other guy being his bestfriend?, he thought he was probably not fucking you enough.

don't wa-nt anyone else —want you cheol" you whined in between your moans but your statement only fueled his anger, he grabbed the soft flesh of your ass roughly, nails piercing the skin, "darling, shut the fuck up" he spanked you hard , your other cheek getting the same treatment. pussy gushing uncontrollably getting high off the pain.

Suddenly, seungcheol slowed down his thrusts, an idea, a thought maybe sparking up in his head. He looked at your frame, hair sticking to forehead, eye makeup completely ruined, lipstick smeared and barely visible cause' he made you choke on his cock while pinching your nose making you drool like a broken water faucet. now he was about to choke you again but in some intresting way .

Seungcheol pulled your body closer to him, being able to manhandle you easily because of his sheer strength. He wrapped on of his arm around your neck, slowly tightening it around your neck and when the realisation hit you , you were unable to breathe, lungs panicking in fear as seungcheol's bicep strangled your neck.

"Seungcheol—" you choked, little hands flying to his bicep in useless attempt of making him loosen his arm. nails digging sharply, making him hiss.

"Feel it baby, are they smaller than mingyu's?" Seungcheol asked rhetorically as he resumed to plunging his cock deeper inside your pussy, he could feel you clenching so hard, warm walls hugging his cock perfectly.

You were feeling like being on cloud nine, experiencing heaven, as seungcheol's thick bicep made you lose your sanity, his delicious scent hitting your nose and his arm felt like it was meant to be there, he flexed it so hard that you were able to feel each muscle, even a thick vein. Breathing wasn't necessary,you could die like this as your lifelong dream of being headlocked by Seungcheol was finally fulfilled and it better than you ever imagined while his cock head was literally kissing your cervix . Never once in your life you experienced such a euphoric feeling .

"can't breathe?" Seungcheol asked, clearly mocking you as he saw how your eyes were literally at back of your skull, he loosened his grip a little bit not wanting to make you pass out but you whined , your high pitched voice ringing in his ears."please Cheol, keep choking me"

God , you were actually deranged seungcheol thought, how could you be such an insane masochist who prioritizes headlock over breathing. He felt such a visceral desire to ruin you further, his cock threatening to blow his load in you any moment.

"never dimmed you to be such a braindead painslut " Seungcheol grunted, his thrust getting sloppy as he tightened his hold around your neck again and you felt alive again ironically. Your stomach churn uncomfortably, feeling your orgasm approaching soon but you were too gone to ask for his permission or form any sensible words. all you could focus on being ravaged by seungcheol.

"you are close right? have you forgotten your manners to beg before cumming, doll?" Seungcheol asked, as his other hand travelled down to your clit, pinching the swelled up pearl roughly and it was enough for you to let go of yourself right then and there, all thoughts flying out of your brain as you squirted around seungcheol. Your juices dripping on the mattress, on his thighs. Fucking everywhere. incoherent words and moans leaving your mouth as you reached your high

"fucking messy baby" seungcheol cooed, loving the way you looked so gone and dumb. So beautiful and all his. He gave you one last thrust before emptying his balls inside your pussy, warm cum making home inside your walls. It was the best feeling in the world, being filled up by seungcheol's thick ropes of cum.

You felt so full as seungcheol kept plunging his cum deep inside you with soft thrusts. You kept moaning and whimpering, feeling like being teleported into another dimension. Seungcheol released your neck, layed you on mattress with care like he didn't rearranged your guts. He removed his cock from your walls, his and your cum dripping out of you uncontrollably, beautifully. He stopped himself from shoving it back inside your pussy as he knew you were a little too sensitive.

He layed beside you, hugging your frame tightly, as he patted your head gently and kissed your forehead. You felt like you jelly, being kissed and held by Seungcheol after such an intense sex was exactly what you needed, reminder that behind all that animalistic desire and actions is soft unimaginable love .

"are you still angry on me?" you asked after few minutes, looking into Seungcheol's eyes and seeing no once of anger that you previously witnessed, just filthy admiration.

Seungcheol sighed" I wasn't angry love, just jealous, very jealous, I honestly don't like you giving other guys attention,—its just —i feel like killing them when they look at you— i know you only love me but—"

You cut off seungcheol by giving him a quick peck on his lips, he stared at you dumbly.

"you are being so hot right now, Cheol" you beamed increasing Seungcheol's confusion even more .

"what? you don't think it's toxic?" Seungcheol asked furrowing his eyebrows.

"I pulled today's stunt just to make you admit it aloud love, I am not as timid as you think, I want you to fuck your anger and jealousy in me, be possesive over me do all sorts of things with me, use me as you please " you whispered the last part, holding back a moan. Seungcheol's eyes again darkened with desire as he hissed, a cocky smirk adorning his face.

"Careful babydoll, you're making me hard again"

A/N: Sooo Yeahh.. Yeahh, please like and reblog if you like it.

[reidrum]

so high school | s.r.

A/N: oooh first reidrumversary post pls be nice. requested here.

summary: in which professor reid finds his sabbatical to be not so bad if you're around

cw: fluff, not proofread

wc: 1.2k

When Spencer started his sabbatical, it was entirely against his will. Being recently released from his incarceration, he wanted nothing more than to immerse himself into work and all the open cases the BAU had to work on. The last thing he wanted was to have more free time to spend alone with his thoughts, because the brass thought him too risky to reinstate him full time in the field.

He supposes he should feel lucky they even allowed him back at all, what he went through is certainly uncommon for any special agent and it should stand as a testament if they still valued his presence enough to give him such a chance again.

Lucky, he finds, actually walks through the door as he’s gathering the last of his papers from his desk.

“Hi Dr. Reid!” you sing as you traverse down the stairs to the front of the hall, “How are you doing today?”

The first few weeks of his teaching gig were an adjustment period. Still grappling with the complex emotions of being released, Mr. Scratch, and the brass’ claim to protecting him by giving him monthly periods away from the field, he felt as though he was relearning how to live. So much autonomy had been taken away from him in such a short period of time, it’s all he can do for now with small attempts to take it back.

“I’m alright, Professor.” he grins, hoping you can’t read the simultaneous look of joy and relief now that you’ve finally graced himself with your presence.

You brush a hand off in the air, “So formal, I told you not to call me that.”

“And I thought I told you that you could call me Spencer, so I guess we’re both bad listeners,” he jokes. He jokes, Spencer Reid is making jokes. In the hopes of making you laugh. Groundbreaking.

“Oh come on, with all the fancy degrees you have it feels disrespectful to not call you that.”

I’d let you disrespect me anytime, anywhere, he wants to say. He doesn’t.

You’re wearing a pantsuit set that accentuates your figure so beautifully he’s envious of its proximity to you, makeup done so effortlessly and hair pinned up in what you would call a haphazard but he defines as ethereal with the ways a few pieces frame your face like a halo. You’re beautiful, and it’s certainly not news to him.

“I think I see you far too much for you to not call me Spencer,” he chuckles.

You fake a pained expression, “Getting sick of me already?”

Never. That string of words simply does not exist in his lexicon.

“As long as you’re not sick of me,” he smiles and closes his satchel, “so what’s on your lesson plan for today?”

“Social and economic influences on Gothic art and architecture! Should be riveting.”

“That does sound really interesting, did you know Gothic literature often describes the exploration of taboo subjects like the occult and how it in turn challenges societal norms?”

You smile, corners crinkling with glee, “Actually I did, it’s the assigned reading for today.”

Spencer blushes, of course you know that you teach the damn subject. “R—Right, sorry.”

“No, no! Please, it’s always nice to talk to someone who actually cares about art history beyond a letter grade. Doesn’t happen much around here, not since you came.”

“Really?” He really finds that hard to believe, the few times he’s sat in on your classes you’ve proven to him why you hold the tenured position in your department.

“Not all of us teach super cool things like criminal profiling, Spencer.” you giggle.

“I think the badge excites them more than the actual content, but I appreciate the effort.”

He’ll admit he maybe doesn't care all that much about art history, but he does love paradoxical problems. The paradox being you, talking about the greatest artists of history, their mark left on the world through their everlasting paint strokes and artistry as if you’re not the most beautifully sculpted piece of artwork he’s ever been able to lay eyes on.

Maybe he does love art history.

“Oh that’s not the word on the streets about you, Professor Reid.” you move around the desk to stand next to him and unload your belongings.

His eyebrows raise in amusement, “What’s the word about me?”

“I just think you should ask how many people are auditing your class next time, and see who raises their hand.” you say teasingly.

“Audit?” he mumbles, “why would anyone audit this class?”

“Something about more than just the badge and content seems to excite your students, or so they say.”

Oh. Oh. If he wasn’t blushing, he definitely is now. “You’re not saying that people take my class because they think I’m…” he trails.

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, it’s a well known fact of the hallways Dr. Reid.” you grin, “all those degrees and you couldn’t figure that out?”

He stammers, “Well—I…I didn’t want to assume…”

You bump shoulders playfully, “Well, you better start believing it. You’re a hot commodity. If I could find a way to get my kids as involved as yours, I would.”

There’s no way he’d start believing it, not because he didn’t find it to be true, but because his mind is already preoccupied with much, much, more important things. Like working up the courage to ask you the question he’s been working on since the day he met you.

“Maybe you could take them on a field trip?”

“I don’t think the budget covers that and we wouldn’t even have time to go during the school year. I wish, I’ve been wanting to go to the Washington National Cathedral for so long, I just never can find the time.” you sigh.

He clears his throat, “Well, you don’t work weekends right?”

“No,” you laugh, “Why, do you?”

He shakes his head, “No, but maybe we could go? Like our own little field trip?”

You gasp in excitement, “Really? You’d go with me?”

I’d go anywhere with you, just say the word, he thinks.

Spencer matches your big smile, your happiness doing more wonders for him than any mandated therapy has ever done. 

“Of course, it’s a…date?” he questions, more himself than at you.

Your smile goes all saccharine and easy, “Sounds like it, Dr. Reid.”

He’s too distracted by you to even correct you on his name. He gives your arm a quick squeeze and a soft smile before rounding the desk and walking up to the top of the lecture hall. Spencer gets halfway before stopping in his place and turning around.

“I—Is that the only word on the street?” he asks, referring to your earlier words. He hopes he used it right and doesn’t look like an idiot.

“What is?”

“That students audit my class because they think I’m…” he falters.

“That you’re cute?” you smirk.

He breathes out, “Yeah, just wondering if there might be…anyone else? That might also think that?”

You hum, “Well Spencer, I guess you’ll find out Saturday won’t you?”

“I guess I will.” he says bashfully.

[zip-bomb-dog]

This is really, really important. I'm friends with a lot of older therians, and they mourn the days when therianthropy was not a TikTok trend or a current fashion. This is not out of a desire to gatekeep or keep the community closed off, no, this is because TikTok therians have placed so much stress on wearing fancy masks and gear as well as doing quadrobics that some of the very founders of the therianthropy community feel left out in this space they helped build. Outside of disability in young people, which is also crucially important, we're leaving behind disabled or elderly therians who can't keep up with the pace we set. We want to be INCLUSIVE, not create a space where the young and fit reign. Obviously, I always think through a wolf lens, so let me use a similar metaphor. As a wolf ages, as long as their mind is still sharp and judgement is keen, they are still a part of the pack. Yes, some who lag physically may be left behind, but that's where WE do better. We need to nourish our older therians as much as we do our budding ones.

It's fun to run around on all fours, I get it. But doing that shouldn't mean you're a therian, and if someone is disabled, this does NOT mean you are lesser or "un-therian" for being unable to do quads. I'm also friends with therians who are in wheelchairs, have mobility aids, or simply cannot do quads due to their body type or age. They, too, feel left out in a space where people are meant to unite around our shared identity and alterhumanity rather than our physical shape.

I'm not disabled myself, but I have joint problems that prevent me from doing quads. If I try to run on all fours, my knee rapidly gives out or causes me to run with a limp, and I feel weak. Especially from the perspective of a wolf. A packmate who limps is a liability. I've never had a major interest in doing quadrobics anyway, as I prefer to express my therianthropy in other ways, but I can't deny that it does feel isolating. Being surrounded by people who only talk about therianthropy via quadrobics, seeing TikTok accounts devoted to quads as an exclusive expression, and having it be all I hear about on forums and Discord servers makes me feel like I need to withdraw from the community, which isn't fair, and I can only imagine it's worse for actually disabled people.

We need to decrease our focus on the "visible" aspects of therianthropy. Just because you are showing something related to therianthropy physically, quads, masks, tails, etc. does not mean that you are more or less of a therian. If you do it to prove that you are a therian, then you need to step back; if you are a therian, you simply are. You can't really prove it to anyone. Non-therians do quadrobics and wear masks. Therianthropy is an instinctual feeling and an integral part of who you are. It's similar to gender or sexuality - you can't make anyone "prove" their gender or sexuality. Yes, we have labels for it, but even then we cannot always tell from first glance. A man who dates a woman may be bisexual. Someone who dresses feminine may use exclusively he/him pronouns and be a trans man. You don't need to make others see your alterhumanity to BE an alterhuman. I understand that it brings species euphoria to some, and I think that's valid. But all alterhumans need to remember that there are many, many other kinds of therians, otherkin, alterhumans, etc. who are experiencing a vastly different life than them.

Anyway, that's my essay for today, I'm climbing off of my soapbox. The TL;DR is please just be mindful of therians who cannot or will not do what you do; the disabled, older, or unwilling.

We don’t have enough disabled therian representation.

It’s true. We don’t. Since the therian community is mainly online, we don’t get a lot of disabled therians. That is mainly because the algorithm pushes mainly quads and masks. It also kinda ties into my last post about the therian community being very quads and gear centered.

Many disabled people (myself included) aren’t able to do quads. And in a world that’s already not made for us, “coming out” as a therian can place unnecessary pressure on us to be able to do quads and wear gear.

I’m gonna be real with y’all, I can’t live my life without being in pain 24/7. I have multiple disabilities and while i’d love to have gear and do quads, my body just doesn’t allow it.

TLDR: even though disabled therians are underrepresented in the therian community, please don’t discount our existence.

Thanks for reading!

[greenwitchfromthewoods]

the ghost of the past. l Joel Miller

Summary: someone from the past found you in Jackson

Warnings: a bit of fluff but mostly angst, Reader is pregnant, fear and anxiety, some swearing, memories of life in QZ, talk of smuggling and life before Jackson, tears

A/N: .

your feedback is very important to me and I thank you for all the reblogs, comments and likes. 🖤 sorry for all the mistakes

short stories from life. [masterlist]

The creaking of the stairs was the signal his brain had been waiting for, because Joel woke up immediately. His sense of survival hadn't been lulled by life in Jackson, the soft bed, and the solid meals. The room was dark, except for the faint slivers of streetlights that shone through the uncurtained windows. Joel immediately looked your way, but your spot in the bed was empty. You couldn't sleep.

The last few days had been quite busy - new renovations, the patrol had brought in a group of new refugees, they had also met a few people who wanted to get to the lower states, and Jackson was a safe stop for them.

Joel had been spending more time away from home, and you couldn't help much. So you spent your time babysitting for people who needed it, doing odd jobs. And while you didn't complain, Joel had the feeling that you were feeling more and more removed from all your responsibilities.

You had become a bit withdrawn and tense, although whenever you saw Ann or another resident of Jackson, you plastered a beautiful smile on your face. But Joel knew you, he had seen it all.

The wooden floor was cool beneath his feet as he got out of bed and walked to the door, opening it quietly. The house was dark and quiet. The stairs barely gave way under his weight, but when Joel made his way downstairs, he noticed you curled up on the couch, covered in a warm blanket.

“Baby?” he said quietly, not wanting to scare you.

A quick movement, like wiping away a tear, and then your answer. “Did I wake you? I’m sorry, Joel. I couldn’t sleep. Please go back to bed, you have a lot of work tomorrow.”

But he didn’t turn around, quite the opposite - he walked over to you and sat down, placing his hand on the couch behind you. “Is everything okay? Do you feel bad or…”

That smile again, the one made for feeling bad. “No, everything’s okay. I just couldn’t sleep, I didn’t want to wake you up.”

But it wasn’t okay. He could see it all too well, even in this bad light and this late hour.

“You know you can tell me anything? I can handle it. The good and the bad.” His voice was low, warm and soothing. Tears quivered in your eyes as you drew in a quick breath.

You hesitated for a moment. You wondered if you should hide it more, but eventually you gave in.

"I have to tell you something, Joel..."

A few days earlier.

“We met a group heading south,” Shane announced, returning home from his patrol.

You and Ann looked up from the table covered in fabric and sewing equipment. Your friend had come up with the idea of ​​sewing new bedding for the baby’s non-existent crib, and you had been busy since morning.

“Do they have anything interesting to trade?” Ann asked. “I’d give a lot for a coffee.”

You smiled. She and Joel had similar needs.

Shane poured himself some water and sat down in the armchair, wiping his sweaty forehead with his hand. The weather was really nice and spring-like, and the sun was shining brightly for a long time.

“They have some interesting things. I saw a few people have already traded with them,” he replied. His dark eyes landed on you. “You’re growing,” he noted.

“And she's glowing too.” Ann quickly added, scolding him with her gaze.

“Of course!” he laughed. “Four more months, huh?”

“Yeah, I'll look like a baby whale by the end.” You replied with a smile.

“But Joel's still thrilled. I saw him when he…” Shane trailed off, your gaze quickly landing on him. He swallowed. “Never mind.”

Ann picked up the scissors and looked at her husband. “Shane Walsh, are you sure what you were about to say isn't important?”

He nodded.

“A hundred percent?”

Another nod.

"You know I don't believe him." Ann spoke to you in a half-hearted tone and you laughed. "But he'll sing me everything, I have my ways of doing that."

"I'm afraid of you." You said quietly.

"And you're right."

It was like a sudden tsunami, but you didn't see any signs that it would hit. You were unprepared as you exited the bakery and looked up at Tipsy Bison, where a group of loud men had emerged. You didn't know them, but you recognized a few from Jackson. They had to be newbies. But one of them...

You knew that walk and you recognized that voice immediately. As if struck by lightning, you stopped, feeling like your insides had suddenly disappeared. This couldn't be true. Not here. Not after all this time.

You had no chance of escape. You had barely taken a few steps when a voice behind you sounded, sapping the strength from you.

"Oh shit, is that you?!"

You held your breath. Your fingers tightened around the handle of the basket you were carrying, it creaked. A tall man in his forties appeared right in front of you. His dark hair was streaked with more grey than you remembered. His dark eyes stared at you, a delighted smile playing on his lips.

“It’s really you,” he said, looking at you intently. He paused a second longer over his rounded belly. “And you’re… Oh, fuck.”

“Hi, Nathan.” You replied, trying to hide your nervousness. “Good to see you. Alive.”

He tilted his head, scratching his stubbled chin. “Good to see you too, honey. You look really good. Jackson, huh? You’ve come a long way.”

“Just passing through, right? I don’t think you have any purpose in staying here?” you replied.

Nathan shoved his hands into his pants pockets and looked around the main street of Jackson with a lazy smile. “We were planning on going to Mexico. I heard about a big settlement there. You know, the Zone wasn’t safe for us anymore.”

“FEDRA?”

“As well.” He nodded. “But a few other people too. Oh, honey…” You looked at him in surprise. “I missed you so much.”

Nathan Hayes shouldn’t have ended up in Jackson, and you honestly didn’t think he’d ever leave QZ if he hadn’t been forced to. He was incredibly good at smuggling, and his group dominated the zone. But somehow he ended up in Jackson, and the thought of him leaving soon gave you some comfort.

But fate wasn’t on your side, and Nathan seemed to take every opportunity to run into you in Jackson.

“I heard you live with that Miller,” he mumbled as he kept up with you as you walked down the street.

“His name is Joel,” you replied, not even looking at him, but glancing around to see if you saw anyone you knew nearby. “What do you even want?”

Nathan laughed. “I missed you. And you didn’t miss me?”

“No,” you replied quickly. “And I’ll be really happy when you leave. How long do I have to wait?”

He grabbed your elbow and stopped you. But you quickly pulled away.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You were nicer to me in the zone.” He said tartly. “And now what? Playing mommy-to-be, huh? Playing house? I saw Miller and his kid. Seriously, honey?”

You felt anger boil in your body. He was doing it again, trying to dominate you, control you again. You knew it all too well.

“It’s none of your fucking business.” You hissed. “You don’t know what Joel and I went through.”

“What we went through, huh?”

You winked. “You can’t be serious.” You snorted, crossing your arms over your chest. “What happened in QZ was just vegetation. Day-to-day living.”

“But we made a great duo, right?” Nathan smiled at the memory of those days. "You were great at smuggling. When you went with that group... Oh, honey. You broke my heart then."

You looked at him in disbelief and anger. For the second time in the past few days, he had returned to what had been, to what connected you, and he always said it with such fondness, like he really missed you. You had met him in Jackson, on the street or at Tipsy Bison. He had seen you with Joel and Ellie, he certainly knew where you lived. You felt more and more trapped with each passing day.

“Were you and him… Were you together at the time? In the zone that you escaped from?” Joel’s question was calm and quiet. He listened to you carefully, and you never said it directly.

“Not in the way I am with you, but...” you took a breath, “People knew that I belonged to him in some way, that we worked together.”

He nodded. Tess had crossed his mind. He'd never mentioned her to you, and he didn't see the point, but she would never make someone close to him feel threatened by her. And you definitely felt that way about Hayes.

"I was young. I had to survive somehow."

“Sweetheart.” Joel took your hand in his, squeezing it lightly. “I’m not judging you. We’ve both done things to survive and not all of them were great or good. What matters is what we have now.” He swallowed hard and asked the question that really worried him. “Is this guy threatening you? What does he want?”

“I have no idea.” Tears sparkled in your eyes. “But I see him every time I leave the house. Sometimes I feel like he wants me to go south with him and…” your voice cracked.

You saw a grimace cross Joel’s face. A quick shadow passed over his eyes. “You know I would never do that, right? We’re family.”

He lifted your hand to his lips and kissed the back of it, murmuring quietly, “I know, I know, sweetheart.”

"I… I ran away from him. Nathan was becoming more and more ruthless. FEDRA was on his heels, and I was taking risks with every step beyond the wall."

"Did he do something to you?"

You shook your head.

"Can he do something now?"

You couldn't answer. What was going on in Nathan's head was a mystery to you. Tears were streaming down your cheeks, and soon Joel's strong arms were around you.

“I’m scared he’ll do something stupid. Hurt you or Ellie…” You sobbed quietly. “I’m sorry I’m just now telling you this. I didn’t know… I thought he’d leave me alone, but he didn’t.”

Joel kissed the top of your head, stroking your shoulder, feeling the sobs that shook your body.

He couldn't tell what was going on inside him. So many thoughts and emotions were swirling inside him, and Joel was afraid of what would come of it. He would do anything to keep you safe, especially now, when you were more precious than anything else. And for Ellie.

He didn't know Nathan, but what you said was enough for him.

☆☆☆☆

Thank you for your time.

taglist, i think: @picketniffler @orcasoul @bbyanarchist @o-sacra-virgo-laudes-tibi @somedayheaven @underneath-the-sky-again @callmebyyournick-name @hiroikegawa @mandaloriankait @mmmunson @grace-928 @umadirectioner

[guiltyandashamed]

I like seeing the brothers jealous soooo~

Brother's dealing with a demon trying to ask mc out, through them?

Like a demon asking for mc's number, asking the brother to set him up on a blind date, or ask if mc has a type.

What if the demon asked a brother to deliver a love letter to mc.

headcannons: using the brothers to ask out MC

Lucifer

If a lower-ranking demon asks him to pass along a love letter or your contact info, he stares at them like they’ve spat in his face.

“I see. And you thought I would entertain this?” he doesn’t yell, but the tone of his voice is enough to make the poor demon wither.

Might burn the letter in front of them. If he’s in a good mood, he’ll simply toss it in the bin and say, “I'm maintaining your dignity, your welcome.”

Later, he brings it up to you casually. “You do seem to attract attention. Be more mindful. Some demons don’t know their place.” He wraps his arm a little tighter around your waist.

Mammon

Offended “Huh?! Ya got a death wish or somethin’?!”

If someone dares ask him to set them up with you, Mammon scoffs and goes full-on territorial. “Why would I help you date them? The Great Mammon? You're out of your league.”

He absolutely reads the letter out loud in the dumbest voice possible before crumpling it and shooting it into the nearest trash can.

Might joke to you about it“Ya really got ‘em lined up, huh?”but he's sulking inside unless reassured.

Leviathan

Completely flustered and betrayed. “W-Wait, are you asking me to help you with MC? Do I look like a dating sim NPC?!”

Might accidentally take the letter and hold onto it out of confusion before panicking and burning it later.

Definitely assumes this means you're is going to fall in love with someone else now. Sulks in his room until you reassures him.

“I mean, I know you’re amazing, but that guy was like… an NPC side character. What if they’re better than me?!”

Satan

Barely hides his irritation. If a demon asks what you're type is, Satan gives them a riddle that makes no sense, just to mess with them.

“Their type? They like intelligent creatures… which you are clearly not.”

If handed a love letter, he smiles politely, folds it in half, and slips it into a book, only to be found much later, to that demon's embarrassment.

Later, he tells you about it offhandedly, mostly to watch your reaction. But don’t think he’s passive, he's already thinking of ways to make it obvious to others that you're his.

Asmodeus

Laughs so hard at the demon's audacity. “You want me to set you up with MC? Let's be realistic hon.”

If they ask what your type is, Asmo is blatantly obvious: “Hm, gorgeous, stunning, and Avatars of Lust.”

Might flirt with the demon just to throw them off the scent.

Keeps the letter only to read it aloud to you in a dramatic voice.

Beelzebub

Confused but polite. If someone asks for your number, he frowns a little. “Why would you need me to ask? You should talk to them directly.”

Doesn’t like the idea of being used as a middleman. Especially if the demon clearly doesn’t even know you well.

Will not give out any info. If given a letter, he just forgets about it. Crushed in his pocket beneath a protein bar.

Might casually tell you, “Someone wanted me to give you this. I didn’t think you’d be interested.” His tone says please don’t be. He's got sad puppy dog eyes until you disregard the note and reassure him.

Belphegor

Looks up from his nap like, “You serious?” He finds the idea of someone using him to flirt with you laughable.

If asked to deliver a love letter, he says, “Sure,” and then tosses it out the nearest window as soon as the demon’s gone.

If the demon persists, Belphie gives them a cold stare. “You're about as dull as a cloud. Get the hint, scram.”

Later, smirks and tells you, “If anyone asks again, I might just snap their neck.”

[pantoneyoongi]

in love with love (with you) || slow dance

series ; in love with love (with you)  description ; you’re a romantic. jungkook? jungkook is not. 

title ; slow dance

word count ; 3.9k

notes ; 

a drabble for the in love with love (with you) series! in which jungkook did not (but also didn’t not) take you to prom. (or: among the first of many times jungkook makes excuses just to be good to you.) 

tags ; high school!au, fluff, sickening levels of fluff, my god i love them, the tiniest bit of angst if you squint, frenemies to lovers, this is like mostly unedited but oh well, no u don’t understand i really really love them so much, pls go to main masterlist for more / general tags 

you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

actually, you don’t go to prom with anyone. you suppose you could’ve asked taehyung or jimin to come home - they would’ve - but you can’t bring yourself to ask them to pay for a flight right around their finals season at university, just to come and take you to a high school dance. you really can’t justify it. especially not when you do technically have someone to spend the night with, even if you didn’t, technically, go with him. 

see, you and jungkook are not friends. you’re also not not friends. your relationship with jungkook is a lot of nots, and not nots. like, his tie doesn’t match your dress. it also doesn’t not match your dress. the color is just one shade off. 

and he didn’t ask you to go with him, and you certainly didn’t ask him, but he still showed up with a corsage for you, claiming that he had to buy it as a set with his boutonniere, and then muttering some kind of excuse about his mom wanting to see him with the boutonniere, and it’s not like he has a date either, so he may as well give you the corsage, because who else would he give it to? 

which is funny, in retrospect, because it’s not like jungkook is incapable of getting a date. unlike you, jungkook is popular, well liked, and - while you would never be caught dead admitting this - terribly handsome. at least, according to your classmates he is. he has round eyes that shine when he gets excited and his two front teeth are just slightly more pronounced, so he always looks a bit like a bunny, and the hair that falls just so over his eyes is impossibly soft, something you know only because you yank on it every so often whenever he’s managed to irritate you more than usual (especially now that jisoo isn’t around to stop you from tearing his hair out). 

he’s handsome in all the ways a high school senior could be. he’s even got the charming personality to match, as long as he’s talking to anyone that isn’t you. there was probably a long line of people - across all year levels - just hoping he’d ask. but he didn’t. 

so, yeah. you don’t go to prom with jungkook. 

you also don’t not go to prom with jungkook. because he’s the one who drives you to the venue - “it’s easier to carpool, anyways, and i don’t trust your driving skills,” so the two of you show up together. your eyes go wide at the sight of the fancy hotel - glittering chandeliers, plush, carpeted floors, smooth, dark wood bordering the entrance. jungkook steps in beside you, looking unimpressed with the decor, but he doesn’t leave your side, either. lets you take it all in, lips parting with awe, a smile slowly forming on your face. he’s more interested in watching the emotions flit across your face than he is with the grandeur - all your excitement, the mesmerization, the giddiness. you don’t have a date, but anything can happen. the scene has already been set - so what the main lead opposite you has yet to be cast? 

you’ve always fantasized of a beautiful, perfect prom night. the same way you dreamed about a handsome senior whisking you off your feet when you were a freshman, or having a sophomore year classmate be the perfect gentleman for you and offering you his hoodie in that one class you had where the air conditioner was always on a little too high. even junior year, when you should have reasonably broken out of your childish daydreams, you wondered about a boyfriend who might study with you as you prepared for college entrance exams, someone to drape a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep on your textbooks. 

but prom - prom had a four year lead-up. prom had the gorgeous backdrop, and the glittering decorations, and the lavish dress. prom had the adorable promposals that you watched seniors give their dates every year until you became a senior waiting for one, too. even though you knew it would never come. 

still. maybe somebody will catch your eye from across the floor. slow dance with you, twirl you around, place a hand at your back, tip you low, maybe even kiss you at the end of the night. tuck that one, inevitable stray hair behind your ear. stare at you like you hung the moon and stars yourself. 

jungkook can’t say he understands, but he’ll let you have it, at least for tonight. the teasing can wait till morning. for some reason, he can’t muster his usual antics right now. something about your dress, the blush across your cheeks, the delicate necklace brushing your collarbones - any number of these things combined, even - makes the words die on his lips every time he tries. 

you look so beautiful, it makes him breathless, but he won’t admit that. 

finally, you continue in, following the signs to the ballroom for the dance. there’s already crowds of people there - your classmates spread across the dance floor, laughing and singing along and dancing wildly to the music that’s so loud jungkook can feel the bass reverberating in his entire body. you wince a little but it doesn’t stop the delight crossing your features even as you’re lifting your hands to cover your ears on reflex. you wander about the ballroom, jungkook following after you everywhere you go. 

“you can go hang out with your friends, you know,” you finally turn to him, though you’re basically shouting it over the music. jungkook considers pretending not to hear, but whether he likes it or not, hell, whether you like it or not, you know him better than that. 

“nice try,” he tilts his head, raising an eyebrow. “you think i don’t know you’re gonna tell jisoo i ditched you at this dance? i’m never gonna hear the end of it.” 

you scowl. he so good at fouling your mood. but he loves the way your brows draw in, how your jaw sets stubbornly, every time he gets on your nerves. it stokes a fire inside him that makes him smirk back at you. 

“i’m gonna tell her you didn’t ditch me at this dance, and instead spent the whole night annoying me,” you retort back. “then you really won’t hear the end of it. from me.” 

it’s supposed to be a threat, but jungkook feels sparks in his bloodstream instead, and he grins back. leans forward, matches your height. “is that a promise?” 

you let out an aggravated sound, one hand shoving his shoulder. he barely budges, but he does at least relent a little and straighten back up, hands sliding into his pockets. you’re glaring at him in a way that always makes his heart beat a little fast, something he largely attributes to a feeling of victory. he loves getting you to make that expression at him - nose wrinkled, lower lip jutting out in the smallest of pouts, shoulders raised like you want to hit him. 

it’s kind of adorable. in like, a small, angry creature kind of way. 

though if you heard him call you a creature, he’s pretty sure you’d start aiming for body parts he’d prefer remain intact. 

“come on,” he says instead. “it’s prom. i promised taehyung i’d make sure you’d have a good time.” 

“i don’t need your promises,” you mutter back, but jungkook hears it even above the music, mostly because you whip your face away from him to hide your expression, but he sees it anyway, and this one he doesn’t like. he’s all for the cute, annoyed huffing and puffing you do, but not the brief cut of hurt that crosses your features. he crossed the line somehow. he hates crossing the line - because he always does it without meaning to. 

“i didn’t - i didn’t mean it like that,” jungkook tries, but you’ve got too much pride to let jungkook apologize, instead lifting your chin high. 

“if you’re gonna stick to me, then you better dance, too.” 

jungkook swallows down what you don’t want to hear, even if he needs you to know it. maybe he can show you, instead. he’s not keeping you company just because of some silly promise he made taehyung, or because there’s no one else to stick by your side. he’s here because he wants to be. he wouldn’t have even come tonight if not for you. 

his eyes light like you’ve issued him a challenge - and jungkook has always been competitive. “better keep up, princess.” 

.

.

.

you collapse into a chair, kicking your heels off. jungkook settles into the seat beside you, albeit a little less out of breath. you loll your head towards him, tracing the outline of his neatly combed hair, his shoulders, the way his hands fumble a little with his tie, trying to loosen it. you’re both tired from jumping and dancing and screaming along to well-known songs remixed into one massive run-on song, but true to his word, jungkook did make sure you had a good time. you reach over, smacking his hands out of the way. “i can’t believe you still can’t figure out how to work a tie. shouldn’t it be easier to loosen than it is to put on?” 

“you’ve met my mother,” jungkook gripes back. “she ties things like she’s trying to make sure it can never be untied again. i think she might want me to live in this suit forever actually.” 

you roll your eyes, managing to hook a finger into the knot and wiggle it a little looser. jungkook inhales a deep breath, dramatic enough that you give into your giggles, and he has to hide his smile behind one hand. 

“what now?” he asks, after you’ve both sat in silence - or, as much silence as could be had in a room full of teenagers at a school dance. you hum, one foot nudging at the heel you discarded on the floor earlier. 

“well…” 

jungkook narrows his eyes. “of course you have something.” 

you shoot him a sly smile. “i did a little research before the dance.” 

jungkook eyes you warily. “who does research for prom? actually - i don’t think romcoms count as research, y/n.” 

you throw him a dirty look. “shut up. i meant about the hotel,” you make a vague gesture towards your surroundings. you bite your lip, and jungkook definitely doesn’t focus on the action. you glance back at him and he snaps his eyes back up to yours. 

“there’s supposedly a garden on the sixteenth floor,” you tell him. “it’s usually only for people who, y’know, rented a room or whatever, but it’s not like you need a key or anything to get in, so honestly, once you’re in the hotel, it’s pretty much fair game.” you shrug, but there’s a hopeful shine to your eyes. “the pictures looked really pretty.” 

jungkook tries not to sigh. of course. of course even at a school event, you found a perfect, romantic getaway to sneak off to. jungkook thinks you could probably find a romantic setting anywhere you go. or you’d just make one yourself. you could probably dress up a dumpster well enough to make it look like the start to a love story. 

jungkook waves a begrudging hand. “lead the way.” 

you jump up immediately. he heaves himself out of his chair to follow you, snagging the heels you’d decided to ditch from off the ground. he doesn’t know how you can bear to walk barefoot around the hotel, but he supposes all the carpet feels better than the three-inch heels you’d manages to dance in almost all night. you’ll probably want them later, once you reach the garden. 

the two of you sneak past other hotel-goers, and hotel staff, too, slipping into the elevator and thankfully making it up to the sixteenth floor without any stops. you wander down the halls until you spot the glass doors, glancing back at jungkook, giving him only a quick glimpse of the bright, unadulterated joy in your eyes before you’re pushing the doors open, wandering into the garden. 

your reaction at the hotel entrance is nothing compared to this. this, you’ve been waiting for since you stumbled upon it a couple days after the prom location was announced. you pause so abruptly that jungkook nearly bumps into you, stabilizing himself against one of the columns that border a walkway that aligns with the wall of the hotel. he’s about to nag you about it, but all that comes out is a quiet exhale, catching the wonder in your eyes as you survey what’s in front of you. 

he’ll admit, it is certainly pretty. it’s dark out, but there’s fairy lights strung about, illuminating the open space in a soft glow, just enough that you can see the pretty reds and purples and blues of the flowers, the deep greens of their leaves and the bushes surrounding them. there’s gravel, too, in shades of white and tan, bordering a pathway that cuts through the garden, to a small, white, octagonal pavilion. there’s nothing inside the pavilion but a bench that borders the entirety of it, but there’s vines that climb up the white beams, interspersed with flowers jungkook can’t even begin to name, but he’s sure you must know each and every one, and all the meanings that come attached to them, too. 

you begin to take a step out, but jungkook catches you by the arm. the immediate frown you give him makes him snicker, but he sets your heels down at the ground before you. “it’s pretty,” he allows. “but with flowers comes bugs. pretty sure you’re not gonna wanna step on one.” 

you make a face, but slip your heels back on, using jungkook to balance yourself. you figure he’s in a good enough mood, loose from the mocktails and the dancing, that he doesn’t say anything about the way your fingers grip onto his elbow. 

as soon as the shoes are on, though, you’re off. your fingers brush the petals, touch feather light, and you breathe in the sweet smell, closing your eyes briefly. jungkook trails after you, following you around the garden, walking the tiny pathways. you have a small smile on your face the whole time, like you’re falling a little in love with the flowers. you would, jungkook muses. he’s pretty sure you could fall in love with almost anything. 

when you’ve had your fill of the garden itself, you move towards the pavilion. you take a seat on the bench, resting an arm on the ledge as you peer out at all the flowers and greenery and little lights. jungkook joins you, but he doesn’t sit, just observes with you. it’s so quiet up here, a deep contrast to the dance happening sixteen floors down. 

his gaze falls to you. you look at peace here, a little sleepy, even, but happy. but for jungkook, that’s not enough. it’s prom night. you’re here, in a dress that sways with your every movement, with your makeup and hair done up nice, and jungkook has no idea what compels him to do it, but he reaches a hand out to you. 

you blink at his palm. stare blankly for a half-minute. “yes?” 

jungkook clicks his tongue against his teeth, grabbing your hand. “didn’t you want a slow dance?” 

he pulls you to your feet. you don’t have to know that his roughness has nothing to do with him pretending to begrudgingly grant you your wishes for prom. that maybe he just wants to hold your hand and feel you stumble into his chest. maybe he thinks you look beautiful in your dress, maybe he adores the way your cheeks turn a little pink with surprise. maybe he wants to feel your palm in his and know that he’s making you happy, because you always wanted to slow dance with someone. 

there’s no music here - there’s no one up here at all but the two of you - and that makes it all the more romantic. and he knows it. knows it because he knows you, knows you love this kind of thing, so maybe that’s why he does it. because jimin isn’t here, and taehyung isn’t here, and even yoongi isn’t here, but jungkook is. 

jungkook would rather die than say it out loud, but he loves this look on your face too. loves being the one - for once - to put it on you. not your angry, sullen pout, but the stars in your eyes, and how he can practically feel the way your heart races, even if he’s sure he’s not the reason - just the situation, the circumstance. after all, you love romance. you love the twinkling lights, the cool night air, even the clumsy steps the two of you take as you move in circles around the pavilion. 

this was what you wanted tonight, even if jungkook isn’t the person you pictured doing it with. 

he makes prom magical for you, in this moment. what you don’t know is that you make prom magical for him, too. 

breathless. 

his heart skips a beat in his chest, as he gazes down at you. you’re not looking at him - still too in love with the setting, the lattice on one side of the pavillion, the short post lanterns, the view over his shoulder from being sixteen floors up. but that’s okay. if you’re not looking at him, that means he can look at you. 

it’s circumstance, jungkook thinks. you’re as close to a date as he’s got, and he’s slow dancing with the prettiest girl in school, alone in a garden straight out of a fairy book. if his heart is doing double time, it has nothing to do with you. the same way you’re probably not even thinking about him. only that you’re dancing in a pavilion that could’ve come straight out of a pride and prejudice movie, and when jungkook spins you out and then back to him - that uninhibited, radiant smile isn’t for him. can’t possibly. it’s for that bucket list you keep, of all the things you want to do, of all the ways you want to love and be loved. just like this. 

.

.

.

jungkook doesn’t think about that night for years to follow. 

except, well, there’s a photo saved on his phone. a couple of them, actually. he never deleted them, and they’re from so far back that no one ever really scrolls that far in his camera roll, so it’s practically hidden. 

a little under seven years after the fact, you have your legs thrown over his lap. jungkook is letting you play with his phone, doesn’t really care what you do with it - and you frown. “jungkook.” 

he hums. he’s half asleep on the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. he’s pretty comfortable with you here, one hand on your calf, kind of unbelievably pleased with himself that the two of you have moved into a stage where you’re cuddled into his side, head on his shoulder, doing whatever it is you like to do with his phone (usually play mobile animal crossing on his account), while he falls asleep. but you nudge him again. “jungkook,” you insist. 

“hmm,” he blinks his eyes open. “what?” 

“is this me?” 

well, probably. jungkook doesn’t have a lot of photos of people on his phone who aren’t you, or your mutual friends. he doesn’t think twice about it when he peers at his phone, but when he sees the picture, he snatches his phone away from you on pure instinct, so fast that you startle, jerking back a little. “kook?” 

it’s not a secret. obviously not, considering he’s never purposefully hidden it on his phone. but he’s kept the pictures for years, refused to delete them, because, okay, yeah, maybe sometimes he likes to scroll back and see them. see you. see that photo of you wandering the gardens, where you’re not even paying the slightest attention to jungkook, but he can spot that lit up smile of yours even in the dim light. or the selfie that he took of the two of you, one that he sends to the group chat later as proof that he stuck by your side all night. jisoo gave him shit on the side for being obsessed with you - at the time, he denied it with fervor. “i’m not,” he’d insisted, but jisoo had clocked him before jungkook had even remotely come close to realizing that hoarding pictures of your prom night in secret meant she was definitively, without a doubt, right. 

you’re still staring at him, looking more confused than concerned. he relaxes his shoulders. he has to remember that you like him now. you’ll give him shit for a lot of things but, when it comes to him liking you back, you always get a little shy. like you can’t believe it, either. 

he lowers his phone so the two of you can see the screen again. there’s one more photo he kept. the two of you, side by side, with your dress not matching his tie, and not not matching his tie, and you looking breathlessly happy. for once, if not because of, then at least with, jungkook. 

he loves this photo. there’s very few photos of just the two of you back when you were teenagers, and even fewer still of you looking so unabashedly happy next to him. you stare, then you stare a little longer, then jungkook watches the flush creep up your neck, to the tips of your ears. just like that, his embarrassment disappears, and he grins, dropping his phone to turn your face towards him. 

“i had the best prom date,” he shrugs, relishing in the way you glower back at him. 

“you didn’t even ask me to go with you!” 

he’s grinning wider as he says, “you wouldn’t have agreed.” 

he loves the way this somehow agitates you more. “you don’t know that! maybe, if you promposed well enough, i might’ve considered it.” 

he snorts. “there is no promposal i could’ve possibly come up with that could outweigh how much you detested me in high school. please.” 

you cross your arms. there’s a glint in your eye that doesn’t match the frown on your face. “skill issue.” 

he gapes at you, then tosses his phone to the side altogether, letting it land somewhere on the floor as he flips the two of you until you’re squirming under him on the couch, laughing loudly as he pins you down so you can’t escape. “skill issue? i had half the student population wrapped around my finger-” 

“skill issue,” you retort. “i wasn’t one of them.” 

“you are now,” he asserts, and you waver, because he’s leaning closer, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of the way he cages you in. 

“am not,” you respond, but there’s no weight to your words, and jungkook can’t be bothered to care anymore, because you’re staring at his lips, and he can’t not give you what you want. 

you don’t say you want him to kiss you. 

you don’t not say it either, and you don’t need to. 

jungkook will always love you the way you want to be loved. 

the way you deserve to be. 

series masterlist ; in love with love (with you)

taglist ; @ahundredtimesover @nadzzzblog @apollukee @codeinebelle @yoongimentita7 @libra04 @welconme-notreally @yeow6n @babyboo22

[revelboo]

condolences to the human in interludes part 8 but outta my way COWARD i'm gonna get some huge evil robot dick from overlord. if he talks about how much he wants to feel my intestines squirm in his hands while he's got me in a mating press, i think that's hot actually, keep talking. sometimes you can find love even if you're mega nasty.

🤣 you guys are brave souls 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️ rough fragging

Interludes Pt 18

Overlord x Reader, Tarn x Reader

• Lips twitching as other Cybertronians and the little organics avoid them, Overlord vents to pull the acrid bite of human fear deep and shudders as his spike stirs in reaction. Addicted to their anxiety, their unconscious ability to sense the predators in their midst. Banding together with Tarn to try and find one specific, little toy. Doesn’t particularly like the other mech, though he’s a bit more tolerable since he stopped fawning over Megatron after the truce. And the offer the other mech had made? Too delicious to pass up.

• Optics sliding over the organics, searching for one human in particular. The one he’d seen with Megatron the night before, the one the former warlord, their betrayer, pulled into a room after letting the human sit on his thigh, the two whispering together. So sickeningly sweet. And his lips curl behind his mask when he finally spots you, striding your way as you toss back a brightly colored drink. Reaching out, he ghosts a servo against the side of your neck and you whirl, eyes wide. Before giving him a slow once over. “Hi,” you whisper, smiling.

• While you were hoping to find your hookup from last night, this guy’s interesting. His mask hiding his face, red optics staring at you hungrily. Skin prickling as another big mech walks up on your other side. Two for one? “This is the one, Tarn?” The newcomer asks, voice low as he smiles and there’s a shiver of unease that trips through you, something in the back of your mind jangling a warning that something’s off. “Soft,” he adds, a servo sliding along the quick thrum of your pulse in your throat. “My name is Overlord,” he growls, leaning close so his lips brush the shell of your ear. “You’ll use it when I’m inside you.”

• Smiling lazily as your expression becomes less certain, Overlord almost laughs. Servos curling around your upper arm, he tugs half expecting you to fight and delighted when your eyes narrow, chin lifting defiantly as you come with him. What do you see? A challenge to conquer? Watching Tarn go fetch a room token, he leads you to a room. Wondering if you’d enjoyed Megatron, venting he can’t find a trace of the other mech still on you. Hopes Megatron shows up, because he’s going to enjoy dumping you in the traitor’s lap, thighs slick with him and Tarn. A little gift. He just hasn’t decided if he’d rather you be still alive or not when he does it.

• Opening the door, Tarn watches Overlord pull you inside. It’ll be a small miracle if the psychopath doesn’t kill you for fun, the mech a little too fond of getting his hands wet. Imagining claiming Megatron’s newest toy, he almost smiles as he secures the door behind them. Turning to find you stripping already without being asked, baring soft, delicate skin. It’s the faint discolored spots on your hips his attention snags on. Shapes that look like the marks from a mech’s servos. Someone gripping you as they frag you and his spike is aching to be freed, wondering if those are from Megatron as he reaches and lines his own servos with them, pressing to make you squirm and look up at him. And then pressing harder, head tipping when you break free, stumbling back. “You’re lucky, I like it a little rough,“ you say and he is smiling behind his mask now at how indignant you sound. Like you’re in charge. He’s going to mark you, leave little mementos on you just for Megatron. So the warlord will know he’s had you. Claimed you.

• Common sense whispering that these two are a little off and that maybe you should cry off and find someone else, you rub your thighs together and back up, climbing up on the plush bed. Because you’ve always had a thing for danger, and there’s a little thrill now at the predatory way they’re watching you. “You’ll take Tarn first,” Overlord growls, making it an order. “I want that mouth on my spike.” Apparently he’s the one in control of this encounter, all dominance and so certain he’ll be obeyed and you’re willing to play along for now. Aroused at the idea of turning the tables on him. Dominating him. Making him beg.

• Wonders if you’ve kissed Megatron with that mouth, imagines you kissing Megatron after having his spike in your mouth. So obedient, playing along as you move to the edge of the bed on your knees. Overlord’s aware of Tarn getting up on the berth behind you, releasing his spike and touching you, servos sliding against you, but he cups your soft cheek in a hand, servo sliding against your bottom lip as he frees his own spike and wonders what color you are on the inside. Red like human blood? Optics narrowing as you rest a palm against his hip, the other gripping his spike. And those eyes flick up to him as your mouth opens, tongue sliding against the head of his spike and through the slick beading there. Tasting him.

• Breath hitching as the Tarn’s servos slip free of you and his spike stretches you, your mouth closes on the head of Overlord’s spike, tongue sliding over him. Before pulling away when Tarn begins moving inside you. Hear Overlord growl and you blow on his spike to make him shudder, optics widening. He likes rough and you’re pretty sure if you try to deep throat him, he’s going to thrust. Seems like that type. So you graze him with your teeth, tongue and lips chasing his biolights as his servos sink into your hair. “More,” he snarls, and Tarn’s hips are pumping urgently, almost driving you forward with every deep thrust. Holding Overlord’s optics, your mouth closes on the head of his spike, sucking as your tongue slides against him.

• Shuddering at the sight of you on your knees, mouth wrapped around his spike, Overlord’s jaw works. Only dimly aware of Tarn rutting against you, feeling you rock forward slightly with every thrust so your head bobs as you take a little more of him. Making him imagine fisting your hair and driving deep, making you take all of him, pounding into you. How rough could he get without breaking you? Groaning at how sweet you look, watching him, he plays with your soft hair. Almost worshipful on your knees with his spike in your warm, wet mouth. Servos flexing in your hair as your tongue strokes the underside of his spike and you take a little more, he grunts, fans kicking on as his hips flex. Overloading and groaning as you swallow, trying to pull away, that little flicker of worry in your eyes when he won’t immediately release you euphoric before he finally lets you go, hearing you sputter. And he’s gripping his spike, pumping, servos rough as he slicks your skin with his release, painting you in him. Hears Tarn snarl at him in disgust, even as the other mech’s overloading inside you and without being able to brace against him, you lose your balance, hands scrambling against the side of the bed to not fall as Tarn’s servos grip your hips, grinding against you.

• Slipping free of your slick heat, Tarn lets go and shifts to the foot of the bed. Only marginally aware of Overlord catching you to keep you from hitting the floor. “Animal,” he snarls, lip curling at the mess the other mech made of you, the bed. Satisfied with claiming Megatron’s little toy, he wipes down his spike. Glancing up when Overlord flips you onto your belly in the mess he just made and leans over you, burying his spike in you to make you gasp. Wonders if you’ll survive that lunatic, but then, that’s not really his problem. He got what he wanted and he hides away his spike. Letting himself out as you moan, a leg kicking out. Wondering what Megatron would hate more, if Overlord breaks you or if he kept you.

• Fingers fisting in the blankets as his hips snap against you, the big mech leans to pin you as he growls in your ear. “I almost want to see what’s inside you. Turn you inside out, know you’re slick inside,” he growls, the words soft, a twisted mockery of a lover whispering sweet nothings. “Want me to pull you apart while I’m inside you?Feel your heart beating in my hand while I frag you.” And he’s rutting against you, hips pumping deep and hard. “Scream for me.” And oh, he’s so deliciously fucked up. Dangerous. You’d thought t last night’s mech was fun, but that has been so same compared to this. He’s going to destroy you. Crying out his name as you come apart, he almost drives the air out of your lungs when he drapes himself against your back, letting you feel enough of his weight to be uncomfortable as he keeps moving against you. Shuddering with his overload, servos bruising on you as he vents against your cheek and neck. “I think I love you,” he growls right before his denta sink into your shoulder and you shatter again, his hips still pumping.

Previous

[lanadelreyscokewhor3]

CHERRY- J.B BARNES

day four of the june bug masterlist

pairing: 40s! bucky barnes x fem! reader

word count: 1.2k

summary: you are determined not to fall for the neighbourhoods heart throb (who happens to be your actual neighbour) bucky barnes. but its written in the spangled stars you two end up together, and inside eachother- even in at the drive in theatre.

warnings: SMUT (car sex)- cock warming, daddy kink, exhibitionism, praise kink, size kink, pet names, swearing, man handling, bucky is a bit of a sly, kinky bastard here heh

 “can i get a fuckin hallelujah? workin on ya like im back in school yeah… can i get a fuckin hallelujah? sippin on ya like a coca cola…”- cherry, lana del rey (backing vocals)

Sergeant James Barnes was a flirt. As flirty as they came.

And you refused to give in to his boyish charm, that drove the girls wild.

Because he knew the effect he had on a dame that so much as glanced his way. And you were set on not being one.

He was a dreamboat- you’d give him that. But god forbid you get swept up abroad that vessel.

Still, for weeks he had tried to talk to you, to be the kind neighbour that brought you your paper when you had forgotten to grab it, or offering to help fix up things he had heard you nag about on the landline- your windows always open.

It was like you were asking for him to run into you at the most convenient of times, begging him to swoop in and save the day.

You had kept your distance though, as much as you could, despite the mixed signals you were sending his way. You couldn't help yourself- he was much too fun to tease.

Every girl had fallen head over heels for him- so why not be different?

Give him a little challenge? 

He was no good. You knew that, he knew that. Yet- you were drawn to him, just a little.

So you let him swing around and patch a few leaky faucets, or some squeaky door hinges that needed tended to in exchange for freshly baked cherry tarts.

Still, you had refused to fall under his spell, no matter how captivating he was. Not quite meeting his baby blues for fear you'd get sucked into that worldwind, and not want to get out. A thin lipped smile, and a Thank you Jamie. was all you had to offer him, whenever he whistled at you as walked down the street, tossing out compliments left and right.

They were chiping little dents in your exterior, and eventually, it had slowly started to crack. And that- now that he could fix.

Soon, the all so charming sergeant had you wrapped around his finger, spinning you around the empty streets at night, making you giggle so loudly you'd wake the neighbours.

But giggles weren't the only thing that kept them up.

Which is why you were so desperate to keep quiet, in the backseat of his Pontiac- where the windows were already starting to fog up.

He had taken you to the new film that was showing at the drive-in, being the perfect gentleman. Picking you up with a bouquet of baby's breath and roses, kissing your hands before drawing you into your horse drawn carriage.

It didn't matter how many dates you two had been on- it always felt like the first. And each date came with its own excitements.

Tonight was especially exciting.

“Jamie someones gonna see us!” you whispered as you climbed over to the backseat, yelping as he swatted your ass.

“Then I guess you better sit still then huh darlin? Always wigglin around, so sensitive n needy.” he smirked, slipping back with you, except he had to physically get out of the driver's seat and go around- being too large to slither back like you had.

Before you were fully aware of what was happening, his large hands had unbuckled his belt before finding their way to your hips. He manhandled you as if you were nothing- which turned you on a whole lot more than you’d care to admit.

Picking you up and adjusting you, so you sat perched between his thick, beefy thighs, spread out in the middle seat- so you still had a perfect view of the black and white film in front of you.

Not that you had any interest in the movie anymore, and you hadn't as soon as his hand had wandered over to give your thigh a squeeze.

“Just sit and watch the flick, sweet girl. M’right here, just sit on my lap mkay?” You nodded, squeezing the headrests of the front seats hard enough you feared your nails would break the surface of them as he lifted your hips and tugged your panties to the side, easing you down on his cock.

“Oh god, oh-g-god Jamie-” you moaned, letting your head bow down at the stretch. He was so fucking big.

“Shhh, shh- so noisy sweetheart. Just let Daddy fill ya, alright? Can ya do that for me?”

You nodded, wincing as he bottomed out, letting your skirt fan out around you- hiding what was really going on to any wandering eyes.

Though that was rare- as he had parked at the back, off to the side. Now you knew why. The sly bastard.

You moaned his name as the slight sting of the stretch eased to pleasure, filling your body with a heavy warmth. He had popped your cherry back on your fourth date, after you had practically begged him too.

Not very ladylike- but who were you to care?

When he looked so good, and felt so good- society standards flew out the window. Dispite that being months ago, he still had to ease you down on his cock, slow and steady.

That just turned him on even more, knowing how big he was compared to you, but how eager you were to take him all.

“Fuck yea just like that. Come sit back on me baby, relax. Good girl.” he cooed as you happily obeyed, letting your body slouch back against his broad chest, letting him pepper you in gentle kisses, his lips staining your skin with their tint of the coke he drank earlier.

“Mmm Jamie. You’re so big.” you hummed as he spread his legs, and yours draped on top of his just a little further apart. He smiled cockily.

“ I think you’re just tight baby. You were made for me though, remember what I told you? Perfect fit for daddy. Keepin me all warm.” he smiled, kissing the top of your head as you sighed.

“You smell so pretty. God that cherry and wine scent drives me fuckin wild…” he drawled, hands sliding up to rest on your hips, gripping them tightly.

“I know silly, that's why I wear it. So you do things like this to me.”

“Yeah? You like when you’re used like this? My little doll.” he cooed softly as he began to slide you up and down on his cock, admitting embarrassingly loud squelching sounds mixed with your moans.

You were so wet you were practically soaking the leather seats. “You just stay with me sweetheart. M’gonna do all the work, just focus on feeling good.” he murmured, kissing you again in such a nurturing way it was as if the sins he was committing to your body were not happening under your frilly red skirt.

He watched hungrily as your tits bounced with his thrusts, growling as you started to whimper and beg for him. Fuck. Fuckin hell you were going to be the death of him.

“Feels so fuckin good baby. You feelin good?”

He already knew the answer, the cocky prick. But who were you if not to feed his ego?

“Uh-uh- oh yes Jamie!” you squealed, clenching around him so tight it was as if the roof of his car had magically disappeared and the starry night above him had completely clouded his vision.

“Cmon sweetheart, don't miss this part. I heard that's when they start to get a little naughty.”

[aimasup]

you know what no I'm not done I'm not done raving about the 2025 Lilo and Stitch like a lunatic. Have to get it outta my system I wanna be a BITCH today

This is coming from someone who is very biased towards the original movie and decided to do their first hate-pirate watch just so they knew exactly what they would be raving about. So it's not an analysis really. If you like the 2025 movie then I'm happy for you, buuuut maybe don't read this 👉👈

This is not meant to discourage anyone from watching the movie, this is just me ranting and nitpicking lol. If you are interested do watch it (PIRATED) and form your own opinion!

Spoiler warning, long post

Pleakley

Hey let's talk about the changes made to Pleakley's character other than 'no dresses'

Live action: Here's the thing. They seem to understand that an inseperable part of Pleakley's character is his love for fashion. So to work around the dress ban, they decided to give him the love for human fashion from the very start. He first shows up in front of the councilwoman in a cowboy outfit. Every time his human disguise is out, he is always wearing something different (flowery shirts and hats, a mini concert backpack, etc).

But to me this further simplifies an already comedic side character. He can't even have the progression from 'mosquitoes are cool' to 'fashion is cool', or be redeemed in his view of humans from fascinating specimens to thinking feeling beings!! He has nowhere to go as a character because they moved his end point to the starting point, erasing the road!!!

By taking away his discovery of his love for fashion, he remains the same throughout the whole movie with only half the competence of his animated counterpart so he can't even be a funny punching bag character. Idk how else to explain it

Og: A smartass dripping with condescension but also scientific fascination, his disrespect to the councilwoman comes from his confidence

Live action: His disrespect to the councilwoman comes from a lack of understanding of boundaries, he constantly gets so excited he asks to hug her.

Live action: Actually he's oddly enthusiastic in this movie??? He is HYPED to be teamed up with Jumba and clings to him on first sight, he is HYPED to go to Earth and stay on Earth. He has a bit of a nervous golden retriever energy. They did keep him high-strung about the mission, which is kind of entertaining to watch when played off of Jumba.

Live action: Speaking of Jumba, they really committed! People are saying Jumba turned on Pleakley and that Jumba was the twist villain. Not true! Pleakley turns on Jumba and Jumba was always a whiny heartless ass. The councilwoman orders him to arrest Jumba after they fail and Pleakley moves to do so with a shrug. Go off buddy cops who hate each other give us nothing

To read me bitch more about Jumba, it's all here in this post, Nani is also talked about a ton in it lmao

Lilo

(No hate to the live action actor, she's delightful)

Og: In hula, she has a violent outburst in response to an insensitive comment.

Live action: In hula, she gets actively shoved onstage. I am neutral about this tbh

Live action: Lilo asking 'we're a broken family, aren't we?' is replaced by 'Am I...bad?' for Nani to comfort her. watch the Sims negative relationship points appear above my head in real time

Live action: Most of her scenes are now dedicated to being chaotic cute or encouraging Nani. The scene in her bedroom where we learn about how her parents died is dedicated to Lilo talking about Nani's backstory I am not joking

Live action: does not discuss how their parents' death affect Lilo. Lilo is a side character and a troublemaker in her own movie. Watching her gas up this college plotline because the script thinks Lilo should be more understanding of Nani is so awkward

Og: About family, Lilo says 'What happened to yours? Do you dream about them? I know that's why you wreck things. And push me.'

Live action: Lilo says 'Do you have a family?' and Stitch says 'No.' and Lilo says 'that's okay, you can be a part of ours 😊'

It's a fine change I think, all the same it shows Lilo's emotional intelligence, but the vibe is off. I can't place it

Og: Lilo tries to explain Stitch's behaviour all the time: 'He needs desserts!' 'It's past his bedtime!' 'He's an orphan and we adopted him!' 'Be careful of the little angel!' The angel I wished for, Lilo doesn't say, he has to be the one I wished for!

During the Elvis Presley beach scene in the og Lilo cries out for the spectators to stop crowding him!!! and she is correct, the camera flashes overwhelm Stitch and he lashes out again!!!

Live action: Lilo sticks up for Stitch but it's slightly different, she says 'He's just exploring his new home!' 'He's just curious!' as he's sticking forks in the blender - it feels more like she's oblivious to just how destructive his behaviour is and excusing it. She's still a really sweet brave child but her naivety is played up on purpose here to frusrate Nani even more! She only tries to seriously get on Stitch about good behaviour when everyone around keeps telling her to control her dog - Stitch is an escaped convict, he's not actually a dog does the 2025 movie know that it's important to me that they know that

Og: Lilo is so defensive of Stitch because she sees herself in him (and also he's just a magic talking animal to her). Not in the way that the 2025 movie thinks, that she's getting a taste of her own medicine (she's 6, why do you want a grieving 6 year old to learn a Cat in the Hat lesson, Lilo ALREADY KNOWS CONSEQUENCES) but in that she believes Stitch is capable of more than just a destroying beast!!!

Live action: But in the 2025 movie she sees Stitch as top tier playmate material that needs to be controlled sometimes??

Nani

Live action: Listen she still loves Lilo. Tickle fights and concern for her and laughing at her antics, there is effort to show they care, she cares.

Og: When Lilo says 'I like you better as a sister than a mom' it's sad because that's the role Nani is in now. Nani doesn't know what to say, she wants to be a sister too!!

Live action: When Lilo says 'I like you better as a sister than a mom', Nani says 'Ouch.' in like a jokey way and I don't know what to make of that.

Live action: The movie gives her Fiona Gallagher levels of stress when they added two whole characters who live NEXT DOOR that have a close bond with Lilo and know their situation super well. She is not Tiana, why are we doing this (I've never watched Shameless I just know the entire plot through TikTok osmosis 😔)

Horror just flashed before me at the thought of a Princess and the Frog live action remake in the future

Live action: They added a wise playful grandma and social worker to constantly explain the plot to Nani and the audience ughhh

The grandma tells Nani she is smart and deserves college. The grandma tells her to make up with her sister after they fight. Social worker doesn't sit Lilo and Nani down to counsel their situation and set goals, she only sits Nani down. The grandma takes Lilo to get a pet behind Nani's back and explains what pets are for to Nani. The grandma says 'hey we're ohana too' and then later we have a scene where Nani says Ohana isn't realistic.

The grandma and the social worker keep telling Nani she's so smart and selfless and she works so hard, after the movie shows that Nani is smart and selfless and works so hard. She works so hard and is struggling so much that she misses Lilo's hula show and it's sad for everyone.

Basically they gave away Nani's sillier side, understanding and patience of Lilo, and time spent with her sister that isn't scolding, to the grandma. Leaving Nani with just the tragedy

They also do a reoccurring thing with Nani struggling to start her car until the end? I don't know what that's about. I think it's symbolic for her life or something. someone tell me why they gave her car troubles on top of college troubles

Nani is a mouthpiece for the movie too. The scene where Lilo tries to use Ohana to stop Stitch from being sent away, Nani interrupts her and rants at her about how unrealistic Ohana is now, and Stitch doesn't bat an eye, still a background nuisance. Huh

How does one fuck up the record player joke I hear you ask

One morning, Lilo places a record in front of Nani and demonstrates Stitch's biopunk capabilities, absurdly transforming him into a flesh gramophone.

Og: half the punchline is Nani's utter baffled reaction at madness. This is her life now and she's more certain than ever the dog is radioactive

Live action: Nani is so busy she barely acknowledges it. Lilo has to explain why this is cool actually, falling on deaf ears as Nani is more anxiously focused on being late and having to bring Lilo along to her job applications.

Again, along with the missed hula show, they want to show how stressed Nani is to the point where she CAN'T be in Lilo's life, that Lilo is a distraction, and that's why the separation is for the best. The HOOPS this movie is jumping through mate

If you want to read more about what I've said about og Nani, it's in here

Councilwoman alien

This is the figurehead of the alien plot that they kept

Live action: Why is she talking so fast. Why are all the alien scenes going by so fast. The beginning, from Stitch's courtroom meeting to Jumba and Pleakley being sent after him, takes like less than 10 minutes in the new one.

Og: Councilwoman is wise enough to find loopholes in her strict rules in the name of ethics, she's a grumpy governor whose every move is methodical and speaks sharply to get things done.

Live action: they only halfway did that here?? At the end Cobra didn't even make up the mosquito conspiracy here, he just tells the councilwoman 'Hey. Trust me. I won't tell the government about this. 🥺'. and the councilwoman is like 'okay sure Stitch can stay.'

Stitch

Live action: A full-on dog, a puppy, a goofy creature that gets guilt halfway through instead of also being motivated by a desire for companionship

Live action: In the surfing scene, Stitch sees a dog surfing and wants to mimic it. That's it, that's why he gets on the water

Live action: New home adjustment scene, Stitch does not falter at Lilo using Ohana to stop Nani sending him away.

Here's Stitch's progress in the original film:

Destroy everything, evade the cops, find a city where I can kill everything rawr

Gets humbled by earth

Gets humbled by Lilo just hanging out

Gets humbled by Jumba and Pleakley on his ass

Hears Ohana just as he's about to get kicked out, sparking something in him

Lilo calms him down then tells him to redirect his energy towards something constructive. He makes a model of San Francisco to terrorize but it's a start

There's no memories for him to visit in the night, no other purpose than to destroy, so he starts looking through books to find it

He plays along with Lilo teaching him to play music, albeit chaotically, but he's such a natural tornado that he just brings destruction everywhere he goes. And now he's in an environment where destroying is both purposeless and not even fun, and he questions everything again

Getting humbled by surfing, placed into a situation with his natural enemy element (water) where he doesn't have the advantage. Seeing how much fun Lilo and her sister (+ future brother-in-law) are having, he finds himself yearning again, what intelligent creature doesn't? He willingly returns to water, he's scared but he's learning that water can be fun, he HUGS NANI'S LEG AND NANI FINDS HIM BRIEFLY ENDEARING

He breaks everything again, not even on purpose, the more he learns about Lilo he feels like he should remove himself from the picture, he's lost again and again. Aka consequences, he is forced again and again to grapple with consequences

He reveals himself as an alien to Lilo, he's honest on purpose because he knows he fucked up and she deserves to know the truth

During his arrest he decides to motivate Nani with Ohana again, because he's not leaving this time without them. And he gets them to save Lilo, then he ends the movie as ohana who helps with the chores

Stitch's progress in the live action: he just feels bad when Jumba calls him out and gets protective of Lilo out of nowhere!! The bond is them causing chaos together which is just more stress for Nani???

Live action: He willingly gives himself up for capture. Touching and noble, but they've missed out on yet another opportunity for Nani warm up to him.

When they make the surfing scene just surfing and the capture scene just capture, there's no reason for Nani to save Stitch from drowning the end of the movie other than an obligation to her sister and 'Ohana'! Again, it feels like obligation!!! And for plot reasons, to give Nani the selfless spotlight yet again and throw in a fakeout death scene for Stitch.

Live action: He doesn't shove Lilo like a petulant bully, his chaos feels more like playtime. It changes things when the 2025 movie makes him tear up the house with a wide-eyed smile on his face as opposed to the original where he's snarling and hissing the whole time. They're both carrying out their purpose to destroy everything they see but again. The vibes are off

He's not just a cute freak!! He's SOMETHING THAT WASN'T SUPPOSED TO EXIST WHO LEARNS TO LOVE AND HAS A CHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE THROUGH THE GRACE OF THE PEOPLE AROUND HIM!!! Agahgahhh

Extra:

The shot of the Hawaiian flag during a monologue near the ending? Cool I guess. I'm Malaysian, I recognise an intentional flag camera shot when I see one 🫵

CapriSun placement is also very unexpected and kind of funny. They did it like twice lmao. 'With the power of CapriSun you too can beat up Jumba in your own home!'

A lot of the 2025 movie removes if not changed the decisions their characters make that would affect the plot. It rearranges scenes without any consideration of why those scenes were there in the first place. And the scenes from the og that aren't totally altered go by so quickly with a dozen jokes per second, like the movie wants to move on and get to the new stuff they added.

Aaaah I think that's everything

Gonna go now

[alltimecharlo]

yk how there's the "coaches daughter" trope in hockey romances? all this "type of guy you want to marry your daughter" stuff makes me want a coaches son fic

ooo yes!! very interesting au hehe 🩵 fic under the cut!!

Mack first notices Will the same way everyone on the team does: around the periphery. Quiet, casual, always dressed like he walked out of a damn Levi’s ad. He’s usually perched up in the stands during practice or hovering near the boards in warmups, talking to the trainers, or skating a few lazy circles before the team starts for real.

He’s Coach’s kid, and Mack finds that infinitely terrifying.

It’s not like Will does anything to make him nervous. He’s… friendly. Charming, even. Always the one to say hi first, always teasing someone in that effortless, too-cool way, like he’s never had to try to fit in but just naturally does. He’s clearly around a lot. But not in a nepo-baby kind of way. He doesn’t flaunt that he’s the coach’s son. He talks to the rookies like Mack and the vets like Couture with the same casual ease. He knows the sport, obviously, but he seems to love it more as a fan than anything else. Still, Mack’s always hyper-aware of him.

Because Will is pretty. Like, distractingly pretty. Loose golden curls and a sharp, clever mouth, his smile somehow sweet and wicked at the same time. Mack has a hard enough time not being weird around new people, but when it’s someone who’s effortlessly cool and happens to be the son of the guy who controls Mack’s ice time? Yeah, no thank you.

So he does the safe thing: keeps his head down, focuses on hockey. Doesn’t linger when Will’s talking to someone else, doesn’t hang around long enough for conversation. When Will says, “Hey, you wanna grab a coffee after practice?” Mack smiles politely and says, “Maybe another time.”

And then another time comes, and he says the same thing.

He tells himself it’s the right call. He’s new. He has to prove himself. The last thing he needs is to get wrapped up in something complicated. Even if Will’s eyes sparkle when he grins, even if he always seems a little disappointed when Mack says no.

Then one day, after practice, Coach calls Mack into his office. Mack’s immediately nervous, trying to remember if he messed up a drill, forgot something in video. He sits stiffly in the chair across from Coach’s desk.

“Relax, Mack,” Coach says, amused. “You’re not in trouble. I just wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure,” Mack says, cautiously.

Coach leans back in his chair, crosses his arms. “When are you going to go out with my son?”

Mack blinks. “…What?”

Coach chuckles. “Look, I know Will’s been trying to hang out with you. And I know you keep turning him down. But he’s starting to get all sulky about it. And I like you, Mack. You’re a good kid. The kind of guy you want your son dating. To marry. So—what’s the holdup?”

Mack’s brain short-circuits. “I—I just didn’t want to, you know, cross a line or—”

Coach waves him off. “Mack, I’m his dad, not his warden. If he likes you, and you like him—which, I mean, it’s obvious—then stop overthinking it.”

Mack leaves the office feeling like he’s been hit by a truck. A nice, permission-giving truck.

So the next time Will’s at practice, Mack tries not to stare too long. He does anyway. And when Will comes over afterward, same as always, bright-eyed and warm, and says, “Hey, you wanna grab something to eat? No pressure, just… hang out?”

Mack says yes.

Will blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”

Mack shrugs, trying to act casual, like his heart isn’t beating out of his chest. “Yeah. Why not?”

And Will breaks into a grin so wide and delighted that it makes Mack’s stomach flip over.

“Great. Okay,” Will says, all determined. “You’re not gonna regret it.”

And the thing is—Mack already doesn’t.

♡

[redladydeath]

Lantana likes to collect people. She has a standing order for her staff members in charge of handling new recruits to bring her “anything interesting” so she can personally decide which role to put them in. Sinners with unique or aesthetically pleasing forms get assigned office jobs, while unremarkable or unattractive sinners are funneled into jobs on the factory floor.

Vox was picked out of the crowd by a foreman who was processing day laborers and prospective contractees. Vox had heard from someone at one of the homeless encampments he had been staying in that Lantana’s company offered room and board to its full-time employees— exactly what Vox was looking for. He went there thinking that he would simply be put to work in the factory and given a bed in the company dormitory. Vox was not expecting to be pulled aside and given a private meeting with the company’s owner, but hey, he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He shouldn’t let his guard down, but he could totally talk this broad into giving him a halfway decent job!

That, uh. that did not work out as well as Vox had hoped.

Monthly Proto Vox AU update

For anyone who doesn't know, ever since Prototype Vox was discovered, I've been gradually putting together a backstory for Vox centered around the idea that that's how he originally spawned in Hell. It's gotten to be over 10K words long. Just wanted to make a new masterpost since I've added onto the older one 32 times.

Also, I don't think I ever posted about this, but I put this on Ao3 a few weeks ago.

Alastor goes to speak with another overlord, trying to decide whether or not he should kill them. While there, he notices that said overlord has the most fascinating little toy/pet/jester. Such novel technology… he thinks he’ll take it, whether the overlord wants him to or not!

Alastor keeps Vox around because he’s cute and entertaining. As time passes, a legitimate friendship starts to form as Alastor realizes that Vox is far more than meets the eye— tricksy, devious, and intelligent. He learns that before he arrived in Hell, Vox was a handsome, well-respected adult man, and he isn’t too keen on constantly being mistaken for a child and treated like a joke by other sinners. A pity he has to live like that… but it’s not like there’s anything to be done for it! And Alastor must say, he’s fond of his little picture box the way he is.

With Alastor’s guidance, Vox slowly accumulates knowledge and resources and discovers that he can modify his body. He jumps on the opportunity at once— he doesn’t want to live like this anymore, and he’ll do anything to be respected (or at least taken seriously) by other people again. Alastor disapproves but holds his tongue.

Time passes, and Vox changes more and more things about himself until he’s almost unrecognizable. He and Alastor get into arguments about it. It’s galling to Vox that Alastor keeps insisting he was better off in a form he hated. Mix all this with the modernity and “morality”/standards stuff, and you eventually get Vox and Alastor falling out.

Years later, Vox hates that he was ever that weak and can’t stand being reminded of Alastor, their old relationship, or his early life in Hell. He works hard to destroy/bury any traces of who he used to be, but Alastor is a walking, eternal reminder of the past he’d rather forget. Alastor is loathe to admit it, but he still misses his old friend. Sometimes, he wonders if he ever truly knew him at all.

---

Freshly fallen Vox seeking out an overlord’s protection because, holy shit, if he tries to survive on the streets any longer, he’s gonna get killed, or worse. Most sinners get asked if they can do anything useful when they go to an overlord; Vox gets asked if he can sing, dance, and do comedy routines. He can, so he’s quickly scooped up by the overlord. He supposes he should be grateful that he was able to score a comfortable job doing something not terribly unpleasant, but the dehumanization of being treated like a doll or an adorable purse dog grates on him. He remembers who he really is (or used to be) and would do anything to be seen as a man again rather than a novelty.

---

Imagine feeling so utterly desexed by your body, finding someone you think you can trust to respect you, confessing that you’re in love with them, and they laugh in your face for thinking such a thing was even remotely possible. Alastor doesn’t do a great job clarifying that he’s disinterested in a relationship out of personal preference rather than because he doesn’t respect Vox, and Vox walks away from the encounter seething, believing that Alastor never saw him as anything more than a pet or a clown.

---

Man, this would especially suck for my hc version of Vox, who used to be a small-time Vaudevillian when he was a child. Like. Yaaaayyy, time to dance around and act cutesy for people who have complete power over you… again…… when you’re pushing forty…………

---

Vox was REALLY starting to feel like he'd made an irreversible mistake before Alastor came into his life. He'd been in the employ of his overlord for four years, and he could count the number of times he'd been allowed to leave their compound on two (four-fingered) hands. They weren't cruel to him per se, but they really did seem to see him as a pet– something to trail after them all day, do tricks on demand, and show off to colleagues at parties. Any plans he had for carving out a dignified, powerful life for himself were going up in smoke. He knew a lot of things from constantly overhearing conversations about the overlord's business, but he didn't have anyone to trade that information to because of his restricted mobility. He understood that he had some pretty unique powers, but he'd never gotten the chance to use them in combat, only to perform. It was becoming clear to Vox that the only way he was going to escape this doltish, embarrassing life was if someone killed his overlord (something he couldn't do himself due to the deal they struck).

And then the Radio Demon came walking through the door.

---

Vox really has no idea what Alastor's deal is when they first meet. Like. He kidnaps him but also says Vox can leave whenever he wants. But like. where is he supposed to go??? Alastor just killed his overlord, which, yeah, Vox wanted to happen, but now he's homeless and isn't sure how to proceed. Is it safe to stay with Alastor, or is he just going to kill him next?

Vox keeps up the "silly little cartoon" persona for a while because Alastor seems to find it amusing, but things gradually slip through the cracks. He's scared Alastor will abandon or kill him if he grows bored or dissatisfied with him, but... Alastor seems to like the real him? He actually lets him speak freely and talk about whatever he wants? He uses his tech powers to turn off the in-built censors that keep Vox from swearing?? When he realizes that Vox is actually really cunning, he wants to hear his feedback on things??? Sure, he still kinda talks down to him, but Alastor's like that with everyone. This... maybe this could be more than just trading one master for another.

---

Random thoughts about Vox’s overlord

She was enamored with him from the first moment she saw him. He was just so precious! And he was willing to do anything to receive her protection!

Her industry had nothing to do with entertainment; she took Vox in purely to be her own personal jester.

Not sure if she owned his soul or just had a deal with him to give him a safe place to live in exchange for his services.

Loved treating him like a doll. Would dress him in cute, oversized outfits, carry him around in her arms, and occasionally bring him to bed and cuddle him like some sort of plushie.

There were occasions, especially towards the beginning, when Vox would snap at her or reveal elements of his real personality. Those incidents would only lead to her doubling down on the demeaning treatment. She’d experienced mistreatment at the hands of men like him when she was alive and saw asserting her power over him as cathartic and karmic.

Usually brought him with her everywhere, but would sometimes leave him locked in her office/room by himself if she had something important scheduled. Vox had initially thought he could leave or at least walk around when she didn’t need him, but no. Besides, why would he want to leave? The streets of Hell were no place for a tiny, fragile thing like him!

Vox fucking hated her and was glad to see Alastor bash her brains in and feature her on his show.

---

Mainverse Vox died by being electrocuted by an ungrounded mic at work right before they went live. This Vox died by being electrocuted while trying to fix the family TV. His kids had been begging him to at least try to fix it since the repairman couldn’t come until the next day, and they didn’t want to miss their favorite cartoon. He was feeling indulgent that day and felt that, as the man of the house, he should be able to fix things without always calling someone else to do it for him. It didn’t end well.

---

Thinking about Vox and Alastor’s first encounter.

Alastor might have seen Vox before at an overlord event, being shown off by his boss or performing for her friends. He may have seen him for the first time when he walked into Vox’s overlord’s office and saw her toying with him. Either way, Alastor was immediately intrigued. He hadn’t seen many sinners like Vox, with his screen head and cartoony body, and could instantly tell he was a highly skilled performer. His eyes followed him, even as Vox’s overlord put him aside and ordered him to get her and Alastor drinks. Vox could tell Alastor was watching him but wasn’t sure what to do about it. It’s probably not a good sign when the infamous Radio Demon is eying you like you’re his next meal.

Eventually, the overlord noticed that Alastor was not paying full attention to their conversation and was preoccupied with Vox. The topic briefly switched to him before Alastor inquired if she’d be willing to bargain for him. Vox was horrified. The overlord attempted to politely decline; she couldn’t bear to part with her precious little poppet. He was hers, and it would be cruel to separate them— they adored each other so much, after all. Alastor just smiled blithely and clarified: he wasn’t asking.

All hell broke loose in an instant. One moment, Vox was observing a conversation between his boss and her colleague; the next, the office was crawling with shadows, and his overlord was pinned to the wall, impaled on a tentacle. Vox panicked and tried to flee, but there was no escaping that room. There are two options for what happens next: either Vox is seized by Alastor and teleported out of the building, or Vox’s boss screams at him to help her, only for him to glance between her and Alastor and fix her with an icy stare.

No matter what happened, the outcome was the same: Vox found himself teleported onto the streets of Hell with Alastor looming over him. He frantically attempted to talk Alastor out of killing him, but Al just laughed jovially and told Vox that he had no intention of harming him. Vox was free to leave whenever he wanted, but Alastor would like to see just how entertaining he truly was.

---

As they're walking, Alastor notices a weird clicking sound coming from Vox. He asks what it is, and Vox awkwardly explains that he's wearing tap shoes and starts trying to take them off as he walks. Alastor is amused and tells him not to bother. He'd love to see him dance sometime.

---

Val: Baby? What were things like before you met me? Vox: Awesome. I had- I had women all over me, they just couldn’t get enough. Everyone was always dying to see my shows. I was voted the hottest person in Hell. It was great. Vox’s actual early career in Hell:

---

Thinking about one of the times Vox “mouthed off” to his overlord. He may be a performer, but there’s only so long he can stay in character, especially when said character is so undignified. He refused to play along with one of her little games and snapped at her that he was a man, not a fucking show dog.

Next thing Vox knew, he was nearly blinded by pain as his boss twisted his antenna almost to its breaking point. Her voice sickeningly sweet, she told him she knew exactly what kind of man he had been— Earth’s crawling with them. But those days are over now. Respect has to be earned in Hell; it’s not just going to be handed to him like when he was alive. The afterlife has made him a joke, and the sooner he accepts that the happier he'll be. That’s what he signed up for when they made their little arrangement, after all. She asked if she was understood and kept twisting his antenna until she got a loud-and-clear “Yes, ma’am” out of him. With that, she snapped back to normal and either cheerfully ushered him towards [whatever she was forcing him to do] or dismissed him in her typical patronizing manner.

Vox broke half the items in his room that night in a rage. He tried to leave gouges on his skin and dents in his head, but he couldn’t manage it, what with his stupid, soft little hands.

---

It doesn’t really fit with my headcanon that Alastor was super white-passing when he was alive and spent most of his life pretending to be white in order to have more opportunities, but I feel like he may have felt a kinship with Proto-Vox due to them both being “outsiders”— people who are/were constantly dismissed by those in power and have to work twice as hard in order to be taken seriously, even though they’re more skilled and competent than everyone else in the room. And so it hurt all the more when Vox leapt at the first opportunity to change who he was in order to join the class of people who had once looked down on him. It didn’t fully click with Alastor that Vox wasn’t always like this– that he was trying to return to who he once was rather than abandoning who he’d always been.

---

Vox wasn’t exactly doing himself any favors in terms of connecting with the other sinners who worked under his overlord. He was so desperate to reestablish at least some control over his situation that, on the rare occasion he got to interact with people without his boss looming over them, he was insufferable, acting as though his position as their overlord's constant companion made him superior to regular employees. It never actually made him feel any better though, since most people either just rolled their eyes or testily reminded him that his oh-so-important job was to make a fool of himself all day and be doted on by his "owner."

---

To most outside observers, it really looked as though the relationship between Vox and his overlord was genuinely loving. She was just so affectionate with him. There was never a moment when she wasn’t tittering away at his jokes, or playing with his antennas or plug tail, or scooping him up into her arms or lap, or hugging or tickling or cuddling him, or covering him in kisses, or coming up with adorable pet names, or showing him off to others as though he were the rarest gem she’d ever come across. No one ever seemed to notice that Vox was never the one to initiate these kind of interactions. Depending on who you asked, it was either the most adoring master-servant arrangement Hell had ever seen, a (possibly biological?) mother-son dynamic, or just an INCREDIBLY kinky relationship. Vox played his part well, laughing along and hardly ever letting the smiling mask slip. No one ever could’ve guessed just how much he loathed her and the entire humiliating situation or how cruel she could be whenever he dared drop the act.

Well, no one except Alastor, that is.

---

Imo, Proto Vox would just sound like normal Vox slightly pitched up, but man, Hell giving him a lisp or some other "funny" way of speaking on top of everything else would be such a gut punch for him. His good looks and his charismatic manner of speech were key to his success when he was alive, and now both of those lifelines have been severed.

---

Personal, headcanon-specific thoughts:

Proto Vox’s outfit is very similar to a costume he wore during his childhood on Vaudeville.

Alternate option: While I hc that sinners spawn naked, if they don’t, then Vox spawned in the exact 1920s sailor suit he used to wear during most of his childhood performances.

His Hell form is a punishment not only because it robs him of all dignity, but because it’s a constant reminder of a part of his life when he had no power over his situation and was treated like an object meant only to entertain.

---

Thinking about how Alastor’s “a smile is a means of maintaining control” philosophy might strike a chord with Proto Vox. When he was alive (and later, in his career as an overlord), putting on a smile was a way for him to project the person he wanted others to perceive him as. If he looked the part, then people would believe he was the confident, steady, trustworthy man he presented as. After he arrived in Hell, though, a smile became a mask he could not take off. Hell had chosen a role for him, and if he failed to play it well enough, he risked permanent death or worse. He resented having to keep that mindless grin on his face at all times. This wasn’t who he wanted to be. This wasn’t who he was. The idea that he could use that iron mask to regain control over his life was foreign to him, but it made sense. Now that he was no longer chained to a master who kept him locked into that hated role at all times, he had a choice in how he wanted to use it— for day-to-day survival or to further his true ambitions?

---

Vox and Alastor’s first encounter was at an overlord party like something out of a Regency romance, except Vox was three feet tall and didn’t notice Alastor was watching him because he was too busy performing for his boss’ overlord friends. Alastor appreciated the skill on display in Vox’s routine and was intrigued by the unusual way his “owner” treated him. Sure, some overlords treat those under them as pets, but she was so overly cutesy and “loving” with him that it stood out, especially given the way Vox feigned reciprocation. Interesting.

---

A scene/story idea: Vox is sitting at a desk in a grand, spacious office. It’s late, and he’s just killing time, wishing he had a cigar (and a mouth to smoke it with) and occasionally scribbling down notes for future reference. The stationary he’s using has the date printed at the top, though. It’s his daughter’s tenth birthday. He reflects on how it’s been three years since he last saw her and the rest of his family and how he’ll likely never see them again. He hopes his wife is throwing her an appropriately extravagant party, at least. They’d gone all-out for their son’s tenth birthday; half the neighborhood was there, even one or two of the ladies from work who had blown him in exchange for putting in a good word with the producers. It was a great time.

And then his boss comes walking in, complaining about what a stressful day she’s had, and the illusion that this is Vox’s office shatters. He hops down to the floor, taking his dance/comedy routine notes with him. His boss is busy getting herself a drink, so he hopes she didn’t notice him sitting in her chair. He starts trying to engage her in conversation, switching to his work persona (cheerful, cutesy, and childish). She did notice him, but she just smiles indulgently and says he always knows just what to do to cheer her up— he looked so silly sitting at her big, important desk. Now, she needs a bit of comfort; they’ll be going to bed now. She scoops Vox up as easily as if he were a doll and carries him off to serve as her (very angular) teddy bear. Vox keeps the adoring smile plastered on his face and tries to put aside the burning shame and rage that this is what the afterlife has reduced him to: a child, a pet, a toy meant to entertain those who wield the actual power.

---

You know, come to think of it, there’s actually some basis to Alastor feeling a bit of a kinship with Vox. Aside from the obvious shared trait of them both being communications/entertainment demons, Alastor’s demonic form is a prey animal. Al never had to deal with the consequences of having that kind of form since he spawned so powerful (unless we’re going with the theory that he made his mystery deal right when he got to Hell and draws the majority of his power from it (which would be pretty interesting in this context…)), but still.

---

Made Vox's room in the Sims

---

Vox tried to walk out of his job once. His boss pushed him too far, and he snapped, yelling at her to find someone else to play this fucked up game with; he’d rather take his chances on the streets. Next thing he knew, he was bound, muted, and blindfolded, being crammed into a tiny suitcase. His overlord told him to reflect on what he’d said. There’s no life after second death, only nothingness. Is that really a risk he wants to take?

Vox was in “storage” for the next week. He didn’t try to leave again after that.

---

When Vox’s boss finally decided he’d had enough time to reflect, she opened the trunk to find Vox barely able to move under his own power. He was trembling like a freezing cat, having spent seven whole days bound in the fetal position, unable to move, speak, hear, or see. He couldn’t even unfurl himself from said position without her help. When she took him into her arms, he clung to her, any thoughts of hate or anger gone, replaced with a desperate desire for human connection after a week of nothingness. She cradled him in her arms— sweet as a lamb and without a shred of that odious pride she’d been working so hard to stamp out of him. Whispering kind, soothing words, she stroked his shaking, silent body as she carried him back to her bedroom. She dozed off with him in her arms, secure in the knowledge that her darling little doll had learned his lesson: being her toy is a privilege, and the only possible alternative for him is oblivion.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox and body dysmorphia

Vox hated everything about his body.

He hated being so small, not even half the size of most other sinners.

He hated his face, cute and goofy-looking. He hated his “missing tooth,” which only added to his childish appearance.

He hated his head, oversized and heavy. He hated how clumsy it made him before he became accustomed to it.

He hated not having a physical mouth and being unable to eat.

He hated his voice, higher pitched than it had been when he was alive. He hated the childish-sounding lisp he had been afflicted with.

He hated how he couldn’t swear or talk about adult topics without his voice being drowned out by an in-built censor.

He hated his body and its strange combination of wood and metal, both of which bent in ways that shouldn’t’ve been possible.

He hated his hands, soft and rounded and nailless.

He hated how he had spawned without genitals, completely smooth and sexless, like a doll.

He hated how no one perceived him as anything even remotely resembling a sexual being, even though he was a fully grown man who had once had his pick of beautiful women when he was alive.

He hated how he weighed almost nothing, making him easy for others to pick up or restrain.

He hated the way nothing in Hell was built to accommodate sinners his size, forcing him to climb (or be lifted onto) things as simple as chairs.

He hated the way his boss made him dress: in baggy outfits that made his smallness even more apparent, in children’s clothes, in silly, oh-so adorable costumes. He especially hated when she insisted on dressing him herself as though he were her doll.

He hated how often people mistook him for a child or deliberately talked down to him as though he was stupid just because of his ridiculous body.

He hated how people laughed at him and how he had no choice but to make them laugh in order to keep himself alive.

He hated how, in one fell swoop, Hell had robbed him of everything that had made him him. His good looks, his charisma, his respectability— everything. Never in a million years would he have anticipated that this would be his punishment for his misdeeds on Earth, for looking down on others and treating them like objects to be pushed around, but he had to admit, it was a pretty potent punishment nonetheless. And he would do anything to escape it.

---

Vox’s boss was kind of massively projecting her own resentments and trauma onto him. She didn’t actually know that much about him. It was pure luck that her impression of him as an arrogant chauvinist who had treated the people in his life poorly was… you know… accurate.

---

Vox realized that he had a voyeurism kink the third time his boss had sex with someone while he was still in the room. Probably not the outcome she intended, but it wasn’t like Vox could do anything about it anyway. He still felt sexual desire, but he’d spawned in Hell without genitals so that energy had nowhere to go. Just another lovely part of Vox’s Wonderful Afterlife.

---

Most sinners are horrified when they see their new forms for the first time. Vox was just devastated.

He was horrified when he first woke up, of course– transported to a strange new place, surrounded by giant monsters, and barely able to keep from swaying under the weight of his oversized head. No one paid him or his panic any mind save for a few smirks and chuckles. Vox found himself pressed up against a wall, out of the way of the flow of pedestrians, trying to process what was going on. Once he realized something was wrong with his body, he ducked into a nearby store, desperate to find a mirror (and get away from the crowds of fellow sinners). The store clerk let him in; they weren’t supposed to let newlydead into the shop since they usually just cause a scene, but Vox looked harmless, and they felt a little bad for such a tiny, fearful sinner. Vox made a beeline for the nearest mirror.

When his reflection finally came into view, Vox… he was lost for words. Seeing his childlike proportions, it finally registered that the world hadn’t gotten bigger; he’d gotten smaller. His body… there was something wrong with it. It was made of wood and metal like a puppet; only the materials seemed to bend like rubber. Worse than that, it was completely smooth and featureless; his genitals were simply gone. His hands were soft, rounded, and nailless, more like stuffed gloves than human hands. His head was encased— no, not encased, replaced with a television set that looked like it made up the majority of his body weight. Displayed on its screen was a face like something out of a cartoon: large, shiny, googly eyes, a wide mouth, and one conspicuously absent tooth. All topped off with a pair of floppy, overly long antennas that made him resemble some kind of insect.

Vox was speechless, staring at his new body. He felt tears bubbling up as he examined each part of it. He wasn’t sure how, but some part of him knew this wasn’t a dream and that this form would not be temporary. No tears fell though, trapped behind the glass of the— his screen. He couldn’t recall the moment of his death, but the realization of where he must be began to dawn on him. A soft, despairing sound escaped him, and Vox realized his voice, too, had been changed. He was not himself anymore, just this tiny, adorable thing, right out of one of the cartoons he’d been trying to repair the TV so his children could watch. A joke.

Suddenly, Vox felt someone grab him by the arm, dragging him away from the mirror, his feet barely brushing the floor. The owner had noticed a newlydead had snuck in and was having the prerequisite “What have I become?” freakout in their store. Carelessly, they shoved/threw Vox back onto the street and slammed the door behind them. Reeling, trying to wrap his mind around the gravity of the situation, Vox stumbled and collapsed on the sidewalk, surrounded by sinners who either stepped around him like he was nothing or paused for a moment to chuckle at the clumsy newlydead struggling to regain his balance under the weight of his massive head.

---

Vox's own shitty beliefs ended up being used against him during his early years in Hell.

In life, he'd treated his wife and son poorly because they complained about being unhappy with the way things were. Vox believed that if all your physical needs were met and you were able to live comfortably, you had no right to complain. He provided them with everything, and all he asked for in return was for them to be the happy, perfect wife and son he expected them to be. What was so hard about that?!

In death, the tables were turned. Vox was able to live comfortably in a safe environment, doing a job that most sinners would describe as incredibly cushy, but he was desperately unhappy. He was forced to play an inauthentic, demeaning role 24/7 and couldn't complain about it unless he wanted to be punished. Just sit there quietly and smile while the "grownups" are talking. No one wants to hear your silly little opinions. You should be grateful that you're even allowed to be here.

---

Words were Vox's boss' preferred weapon when it came to surreptitiously tormenting him, but she wasn't above using physical violence as a means of "discipline" either. Aside from the antenna and "storage" incidents, she'd occasionally employ "percussive maintenance" at the beginning of his time with her in response to breaks in character or sullen comments. Once or twice, she burnt him with cigarettes in response to particularly "bad" offenses.

---

Vox's boss would give him gifts sometimes. Little presents wrapped up all pretty with a bow. Sometimes, they were for special occasions, like the anniversary of his "coming to live with her"; sometimes, they were "rewards for good behavior." Vox would accept the presents graciously and then never open them, leaving them to collect dust in his room. There were a few occasions when she made him open them in front of her, though. Usually, they were just quaint little trinkets or clothes, but once, she gifted him a goldfish (or the Hellish equivalent) in a tiny bowl. It was the closest she'd gotten to something he'd actually want, yet it still felt like a veiled taunt. It didn't take long for the fish to die; its bowl was simply too small.

---

Vox does his absolute best to keep his past a secret from everyone, particularly Valentino. He knows on some level that it wouldn’t really change anything other than give Val and Vel something else to tease him about, but Vox’s ego is so fragile that he feels like he’d die if they found out. Unfortunately for him, Valentino is incredibly observant when he wants to be. He doesn’t know the specifics, but based on various little things from throughout the years and the pointed insults he’s heard Alastor throw at Vox, he can guess that Vox’s early days in Hell were... less than auspicious. However, he assumes Vox was just some corporate toady, and he would be just as shocked as anyone else to learn how Vox actually began his afterlife.

---

Playing with the idea that Vox’s boss hired him with no ulterior motives; she simply thought he was cute and would be an easy source of entertainment. However, as time went on and she got a better sense of what kind of person Vox was, she began deliberately tormenting him. The abuse and humiliation started off under the pretext that she was only doing it to “correct an attitude problem,” but it soon became clear that her real issue with Vox had nothing to do with his abilities as a performer.

---

It doesn’t really fit with the “lore” I’ve been putting together for this AU, but the idea of Vox trying to go in for various media/performance auditions and either being laughed out of them or told to look into less dignified roles is compelling to me. He looks and sounds so much like a goofy little child; why on Earth would anyone even consider him, especially when there are countless other sinners looking for work whose forms aren’t so distractingly cutesy?

I’ll be honest: Babydoll from Batman TAS is a significant influence on how I conceptualize Proto Vox.

---

Reminds me of fakeannafromthebox's Caterpillar Val AU. Vox is so miserable. He wants to be back in his modified body NOW, but it's going to take a while for them to rebuild it. Val and Vel tease him about it at first... until they realize that Vox is genuinely really hurt by it. He never wanted them to see him like this.

The denizens of Hell are confused as to why Vox is suddenly on a month-long hiatus when he's literally never taken a break from the media before.

---

Been considering whether it should just be happenstance that brings Vox and Alastor together or if Vox should hit his breaking point, go behind his boss' back, and send Alastor a false message in her name, hoping that it will provoke him into killing her.

---

Had a mental image today of Vox sitting in on one of his boss’ conversations with a colleague, as per usual. He’s bored and miserable until the two overlords start discussing the Radio Demon. Vox has heard stories— might’ve even caught one or two of Alastor’s broadcasts— but he’s never heard him discussed like an actual person rather than an urban legend. Vox’s boss starts shittalking Alastor, and Vox suddenly gets an idea. He begins secretly recording her, capturing all her private complaints about him on tape. Vox is terrified of what she might do if she discovered what he was doing, but at this point, he's so good at masking his true emotions that she doesn’t even notice anything is off. Vox held onto that recording until he gained access to a communications device. He hesitated for a moment, thinking of all the ways this plan could go wrong and result in his permanent death, but… he couldn’t pass up this opportunity. He couldn’t bear to stay here any longer.

Alastor figured out it was Vox who sent him that message a couple years into their friendship, but he didn’t hold it against him. In fact, he was impressed with Vox’s determination, taking his fate back into his hands regardless of the risks. He eventually told Vox so himself when the topic came up years later.

---

Vox once made the mistake of snapping that he was not a child at one of his boss’ colleagues who had been talking about him like he was too stupid to understand what they were saying. Honestly, the momentary shock on the colleague’s face was not worth the ensuing, agonizing conversation where his boss muted him, apologized to the other overlord, then prompted them to try to guess his real age, and took far too much pleasure in explaining to them that despite Vox’s appearance, he was actually 41.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox sitting in on his boss' overlord meetings like the Egg Bois in episode 3. Most of the time, his boss would hold him in her lap like a doll, but sometimes, she'd leave him sitting on the ground until the meeting ended. He wished he had a way to put the information he was “eavesdropping” on to good use, but he wasn't allowed to leave the stupid compound without being accompanied by his boss.

---

One particularly dehumanizing experience Vox remembers far more vividly than he would like was the first time his overlord stripped him naked without his consent so she could redress him in a new outfit she’d picked out. This became a semi-frequent occurrence, but it never stopped making his skin crawl. This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen to someone like him, and yet here he was, robbed not only of the freedom to choose his own clothes but even to dress himself if his boss so willed it.

Even over half a century later, Vox still needs to be coaxed and convinced by Valentino to surrender control during sex. He has no intention of ever telling Val why having someone else undress him puts him on edge.

---

cw sexual assault

The first time Vox’s overlord stripped him naked was also when she discovered that he had no genitals. Of course, she couldn’t let that fact go uncommented on and groped between his legs to confirm, cooing all the while about how perfect Vox was. Vox didn’t even have time to dissociate during the experience; it all happened so fast. Before he had time to process what happened, he was already being redressed in whatever stupid outfit she’d picked out for him that time. The dissociation came later.

In hindsight, Vox thinks it’s sort of darkly funny how he felt as though he’d been sexually assaulted despite not having any sex organs at the time. It’s really not.

---

Thank you!!!

Yeah, Vox is extremely uncomfortable with thinking of himself as a victim. It's easier to just compartmentalize the experience and tell himself that of course he wasn't sexually assaulted– sex wasn't even involved!

At the time, he had no idea how to feel about it. Before he even had time to process the event, he was expected to just move on with the day like nothing happened. Vox wished he could've just forgotten about it– it only lasted for a few seconds, it "didn't count" because he didn't have any genitals to grope, and, in his successful-white-1950s-man brain, groping wasn't even that bad anyway– but the feeling of violation lingered, no matter how hard he tried to dismiss it or distract himself. He eventually managed to push those feelings away, but the memory will still pop up on occasion and he'll have to convince himself all over again that it wasn't any different than all the other times his boss manhandled him.

---

Oh, I'm glad you liked the post!

Yeah, I can see Alastor giving that roach speech to Vox when he's trying to convince him to stop modifying himself. Vox is just like "You think I'm a bug???" He never noticed; he was too focused on the cartoon/TV thing. Message not received.

Alastor probably has weird feelings about the way Vox's old boss treated him. On one hand, it's kind of funny, and Alastor's clearly not opposed to treating people like pets, given his later relationship with Husk. On the other... he feels a weird sort of kinship with Vox in so many regards, and his relationship with his overlord... [leak discussion] it's uncomfortably similar to Alastor's with his contract holder– tricked into a bad deal, treated with condescension, and forced to pretend to adore them in public [end leak discussion]. Alastor likes the idea of helping Vox gain power and rise above his station, but not him changing himself in order to accomplish that goal– he sees too much of himself in Vox to stand that.

Vox doing ad reads/voiceovers for Alastor's show is a great idea. Perfect way to get back into the industry without opening himself up to mockery; plus, he's got a wonderful voice. Would also give him another reason to hate radio once he and Al split: audio-only work will always be a reminder of a time when he couldn't bear to be seen.

---

Might incorporate how long it’s taking me to come up with a name for Vox’s boss by making it so he’s only allowed to call her “Ma’am”/“Madam”/“Miss” instead of her actual sinner name.

---

Thoughts on Proto Vox in the RAM verse

Proto Vox thoughts that heavily feature my OCs

---

Once he finally gained the ability to project a functioning mouth onto his screen, Vox got himself into some… interesting situations trying to keep up with Alastor whenever they went out for drinks. He didn’t care that he was half Alastor’s size; he’s drinking just as much as he is! Maybe even more!!

Those were some of the funniest nights Alastor had (and still has) ever experienced.

---

Thinking about Vox, dead for a week or so, with cracks in his screen and dressed only in a button-up shirt he'd stripped off a corpse double his size, pitching himself to his soon-to-be overlord and trying not to come across as desperate as he truly was. The streets of Hell aren't kind to anyone, but especially not to defenseless-looking, newly arrived sinners with body parts that could potentially be resold. In his short time in Hell, Vox had already had multiple people try to strip him for parts and had only escaped them by the skin of his teeth. He'd barely been able to sleep since he arrived, constantly on guard for more attackers. He looked a fucking wreck, but that only added to his charm, in his boss' opinion. He looked like a starving Victorian orphan trying to give a serious business pitch– so cute!

---

Vox wishes he could feel comfortable in his bedroom at the compound. Being in there means he’s away from his overlord— that he can finally drop the act and just breathe. It’s a nice room, too, especially compared to the living quarters of most other employees. Vox feels as though the privacy and comfort should be enough. But… it isn’t really his room, is it?

His overlord chose the decor: soft and twee and old-fashioned. She can start pounding on the door, ordering him to come out and join her at any moment. The fact she’s too tall to fit in the room is small comfort. It feels like living in a dollhouse; there’s the illusion of privacy, but one wall is missing, allowing the owner to move things around or snatch up the doll inside at a moment’s notice.

---

Honestly, Vox's boss definitely got her "money's" worth out of Vox. He wasn't lying about being a multi-talented performer; he had a wide array of skills.

He had extensive training and experience with dance and comedy (although he was 25 years out of practice) from his childhood on Vaudeville. He was a consummate singer, good at improv, and familiar with a handful of instruments, particularly the piano. He could act fairly well (although he was always more convincing when he came up with stuff on the spot) and had even become a perfect mimic due to his demonic form.

Vox's overlord couldn't have asked for a better entertainer, and she counted herself lucky that he just happened to wander into her building one day looking for work– she didn't even need to place an ad!

Vox was proud of his various skills– he sure as hell hadn't spent years working himself to the bone to hone them for nothing, after all– but he missed being the host rather than the entertainment. He hadn't had to perform like this since he was a child, and it was just as exhausting as he remembered.

---

Vox's primary job was to be a jester for his overlord, but he was also somewhat of an assistant to her. He'd make or serve her and her guests drinks (alcohol, coffee, whatever), carry things for her (which would often be embarrassingly difficult, given his size), and run very minor errands for her (usually just delivering messages to employees a few doors down). Additionally, once she discovered that he could record audio, she started using him as a living tape recorder. She'd bring him to meetings, have him record the conversation without the other party knowing, and then play the audio back once they were in private so she could take note of the exact phrasing and use it against them later on. This last use for Vox ended up being her downfall; she kept him so cloistered that she never thought that he'd be able to use her own words against her one day.

---

Up until the incident where he tried to quit, Vox’s boss would sometimes casually threaten to replace him if he didn’t immediately bend to her will. There were countless other sinners and Hellborn that were perfectly capable of doing his job without an attitude problem; why shouldn’t she just trade him in for one of them? Or perhaps she should employ another entertainer to work alongside him (i.e. compete with him). If Vox thought he was too good for this job, then he could go back to the streets whenever he liked. These threats almost always succeeded in getting him to comply, and she was a bit disappointed when she realized they were no longer as effective as they’d once been.

---

Honestly, Vox’s boss getting another “pet” would be a whole shitshow. When Vox was alive, he once outed a coworker as gay because he was getting more airtime than him, which led to the coworker’s family institutionalizing him. And that was when the stakes were just career success. Vox may hate his job, but it’s what keeps him safe and alive. He’d feel so threatened by the new person that he’d probably end up getting them killed just to protect his position. His overlord is 100% aware of what's going on, but she gets a kick out of watching Vox do whatever it takes to stay in her favor.

---

Vox actually starts initiating affectionate interactions with her out of desperation not to be replaced. His boss (who lowkey only wanted make sure he didn’t grow complacent in his position) is delighted. The poor imp she hired has no idea what they’ve been sucked into. Vox is cold and hostile when they’re in private but then will turn on a dime the second he sees their overlord. Their boss is constantly doing subtle little things to pit them against each other, but the imp feels like they never truly had a chance of surpassing and replacing Vox. All the imp wants to do is make enough to feed their family, but in the end, all they get is being ripped in two by vines when Vox snitches on them for taking a few extra bucks from his boss’ desk.

---

In the modern day, Vox and Alastor disagree about how they met. Alastor will say that he rescued Vox from his overlord and took him in afterward. Vox will say (or rather, would say, since he never speaks about his past) that he rescued his damn self and chose to stick with Alastor because it was the best possible option at the time. Neither of them are wrong, but their mutual bitterness skews their perception of the situation; Vox, the "helpless charity case," and Alastor, the "means to an end."

---

velvette seeing the kind of clothes vox used to have to wear for work and just. vomiting on his behalf

---

Vox thought he was at a bit of an advantage when his soon-to-be boss offered him a simple deal sealed with a handshake: serve as an entertainer for her and she'll give him a safe place to live. Verbal agreements aren't as enforceable as written ones, and the vagueness of the deal left him plenty of room to wriggle his way out if need be!

What Vox didn't realize was that things in Hell don't work like they do on Earth. Sure, vague deals have loopholes, but it's the person with more power who's usually able to take advantage of them as opposed to the "victim." Additionally, written contracts have clauses– specific stipulations that must be abided by. If he'd negotiated things a bit more closely, he could've demanded that she allow him freedom of mobility or had to accept any attempts at a resignation. As is, she was able to keep him at her side at all times and threaten him into staying because there wasn't anything in the deal that said she couldn't do those things; as long as she was giving him a place to stay, she was upholding her end of the bargain.

Vox definitely remembered this lesson when he started drawing up contracts/deals of his own during his later endeavors. Deals can be just as binding as soul contracts. Vagueness is an invaluable tool when it comes to tricking people into bad deals, although granular specificity certainly has a place too, so long as you can get the sucker not to read the fine print.

---

Out of all the things Vox had to do to entertain his overlord, slapstick was his least favorite. It was just so undignified. He already hated having to play dumb and childish, but being the butt of the joke was so much worse than simply being doted on. He couldn’t stand being laughed at, but he didn’t have another choice; if his boss wanted comedy, he had to give it to her, otherwise he’d be punished. For as much baggage he had regarding dance, he would chose it over pretending to hurt himself (or genuinely hurting himself) for his boss’ amusement every time.

This hatred of being laughed at persisted even after he escaped his overlord’s clutches. Vox eventually learned to use his unthreatening appearance to his advantage, but back in the day, a good way to get your shit rocked by the Radio Demon’s tiny apprentice was to laugh at him when he wasn’t trying to be funny.

---

As of right now, Vox's sinner name has always been "Vox." He's eternally grateful that he'd already picked out his sinner name by the time he approached his overlord, because who knows what ridiculous name she would've saddled him with otherwise. However, if Vivziepop ever talks about Cockroach Vox and it turns out he didn't used to be named "Vox," then that name would've been the one he went by up until he met Alastor.

---

Vox was not an overly foul-mouthed person when he was alive, although he certainly wasn't afraid to swear if the situation called for it. However, that casual relationship with tasteful speech went completely out the window after he died. Aside from the in-built censor that kept him from audibly cursing or talking about subjects like sex, he now had a very restrictive persona that he needed to play into. Having to say shit like "Gee whiz" or "Golly" in order to keep up the "cute little cartoon" act was maddening. It was such a relief when Alastor figured out a way to shut off the censor; Vox finally had complete freedom in how he chose to speak again. Honestly, he may have gone a bit too far in the other direction, but given the culture of Hell, it's more unusual to be excessively clean with your speech than it is to swear every other sentence.

---

I wonder if any of the other, older overlords remember Vox from his early days. His boss had a habit of bringing him to meetings and having him perform at parties, so someone like Zestial would’ve probably encountered him at least a couple of times.

On one hand, Vox is beyond grateful that none of the old-timers recognize him as “Lantana’s little lapdog.” On the other, he’s slightly offended that no one paid him enough mind back then to remember him.

Zestial 100% knows who Vox used to be, he’s just choosing to keep that information to himself for the time being.

---

Thinking about a scenario where Vox gets stuck in a hopelessness spiral that causes him to break character in front of his boss. He asks her why she’s doing this to him; what does she get out of all this? Lantana is annoyed by his self-pity and asks him if he has any idea how lucky he is.

Oh, poor Vox, forced to live in the lap of luxury. Condemned to perform wholesome little routines for one of the most powerful overlords in the city while other sinners (female and male) have to prostitute themselves to survive. What an awful fate, having to let her spoil him, love him. Countless sinners would kill to have half of what he has, and here he is complaining because his ego is too fragile to handle not being “in charge” anymore. She’s shocked he’s so ungrateful that he can’t appreciate the gift she’s given him; childhood is a beautiful thing, after all.

Vox knows it’s all lies— she enjoys humiliating him, forcing him to smile through gritted teeth as he plays the demeaning role she’s picked out for him— but after years in her clutches, a small, animal part of his brain wonders if she’s right. Is she being honest when she says she only hurts him to correct him? Does she actually believe that taking away his freedom and keeping him in a gilded cage is love? Is he really better off here than he would be out in the world, struggling to force people to see him as the man he really was used to be?

No. No, he can’t let her get in his head like this. He’s had to give up so much of himself to her; she can’t have his thoughts too. Just don’t say anything. Let her think she’s made him second-guess himself. Don’t allow her to wrestle what little control he has left from his grasp.

---

Vox’s slogan, “Trust us!” started off as “Trust me!” After a while with Alastor, Vox learned to start playing into his harmless appearance in order to gain people’s trust, only to lead them to their deaths or otherwise betray them later on. Most people thought he was either a literal child, stupid, or so weak that they could easily overpower him if need be, so it was easy for him to convince them to let their guards down. Vox managed to get his first few contracts using this method. Trust him! He couldn’t hurt a fly, honest!

Alastor loved this routine, not only because it was hilarious to watch people unknowingly dig their own graves, but because it was useful to him as well. Alastor’s reputation had become so fearsome that it was difficult to get people to stick around long enough to ensnare unless they were truly desperate. It was helpful to have Vox around to lure people in, or to just run errands that would’ve otherwise been a pain due to people’s annoying habit of fleeing at the sight of him. They were a good team, he and Vox; Alastor couldn’t understand why he would choose to give that up in order to become an off-brand copy of him. Yes, it wasn’t the most dignified niche, but it was an important one! And one that very few could pull off even half as well as Vox!

---

Random thought: Vox’s original voice made it impossible for others to tell whether he was a child or an adult. He didn’t quite sound like a real child, but his voice was pitched in such a way that he didn’t read as an adult either— sort of like when adult voice actors play kids. Vox could still hear Himself in certain inflections and in moments when he was allowed to drop the act, but it was extremely alienating, never truly feeling like himself even when he was doing something as simple as speaking.

---

I don’t subscribe to the “Valentino started off with his own abusive pimp” theory (not because I think it’s implausible, it’s just that my HC version of him only worked under the previous overlord of the sex trade for like a year before killing them), plus I think Vox and Val met after Vox was already somewhat established, but whoo-boy, the two of them meeting while they’re both still under the thumbs of their respective abusive bosses would be fun.

---

Two concepts:

Vox’s boss brings him along to an overlord party that Val happens to be performing at. Some drunk dumbass picks him up and shoves him onto the platform where Val was pole dancing— they thought it’d be funny to make the sexless little clown interact with the dirty whore. That was Vox and Val’s first meeting. (Loosely inspired by some of kibbles-bits’ art)

Vox and Val’s respective bosses start up a casual relationship, resulting in the two of them visiting each other’s bases semi-frequently. They get to talking and eventually come to realize that, holy shit, the other guy is an actual person?? And a fun/interesting/clever person too???

---

Vox: Yeah, my #%$!@ of a boss makes me sleep with her sometimes. Val: Ohhhh, me too! Well, at least Mantis Bitch is sexy~ Vox: What? No, I mean she literally makes me sleep in the same bed as her. Like kids do with stuffed dolls. Val: …Huh. Well, I guess that must be somebody’s kink. Vox: $?*@&€# %*¥=…

---

Self-indulgent 4 am whump thought (cw involuntary surgery)

what if proto vox spawned with his childhood leg injury intact? it’s usually not an issue as long as he doesn’t exert himself, but his new job requires him to spend most of the day standing and perform physically intense routines for his boss. for the first several weeks, he doesn’t let on that he’s in pain since he’s terrified of being thrown back out on the streets, but eventually, either his boss confronts him about why he’s suddenly developing a limp or he makes the mistake of mentioning it to her himself, hoping he can convince her to be a bit more restrained with her orders. either way, when vox explains that he’s had this issue since he was a child and that there’s no way to get rid of it, lantana just casually says that she’ll see to it, no problem. vox is concerned by her self-assured tone, but when he asks her what she meant, she abruptly changes the subject with a finality that tells him this is not a matter to be debated.

for the next week, vox is left wondering what she intends on doing. just as he was starts to forget about it, he gets his answer. one day, vox wakes up to find himself in an operating room-turned workshop, held to the table by a few flimsy straps and a nurse(?) gently restraining him. there’s no need to be frightened! they’re just going to see if there’s anything they can do to fix his leg, that’s all. vox tries to reign in his panic as the head doctor examines his leg, but it soon reaches a fever pitch when it’s determined they can repair the damage! by replacing the “bone.”

it’s painful, having someone saw through several layers of his wires, but not as painful as vox imagined it would be. the horror of watching it happen, though, makes it all so much worse. watching someone reach into the mess of his leg and slowly pull out a long, metal rod is like something out of a nightmare. the “surgeons” measure and examine the rod (his bone), then cut a replacement to his size and insert it back into his leg. his wires (his flesh) quickly knit back together with only a bit of help from the doctors, and suddenly vox is back on his feet, being told to return to work as though he didn’t just watch his own leg “bone” be forcibly cut out and replaced.

it taught him that his body could be modified. he never had to deal with his old injury again. vox chooses to focus on these things rather than the absolute terror he felt watching them operate on his leg. he doesn’t need (doesn’t want) to think about the experience itself, only the outcome.

---

3am thought: Vox at the beginning of his employment, trying to figure out what his boss’ limits are and what he can get away with. He’s not thrilled that her idea of “entertainment” seems to mostly consist of song, dance, and comedy, so he starts trying to engage her in conversation instead. Vox is a great conversationalist, and he knows it. His plan is to pull her in, convince her that they have some kind of genuine connection, and then use that to his advantage. That plan is dashed though when, after two or three attempts at engaging her in substantial, adult conversation, she cuts him off and briskly tells him that she didn’t hire him for his conversational skills, she hired him to entertain. If she wanted to hear him speak, she would tell him, but right now, it’d be prudent of him to shut up and do as he’d been told.

-

Random wondering: What would it take for Vox to finally snap? Or would he just become so good at staying in-character that he appears to have snapped/given up to everyone around him?

Idea: Alastor acquiring Vox after he’s cracked and fully given into his boss after decades in her service. It’s only with Alastor that Vox slowly starts pulling himself back together, allowing elements of his original/real personality to re-emerge. Alastor doesn’t even mean to do this; he just treats Vox with a modicum more respect than he’s used to and gives him positive feedback when he acts more like himself. Vox idolizes Alastor for “saving him from madness,” so of course he flies off the handle when they have their falling out.

-

Idea: Vox developing Stockholm Syndrome in this scenario. He was trapped with Lantana for so long that he had no choice but to accept that she “loved” him and only wanted what was best for him. When Alastor kills her and takes Vox home with him, Vox sees it as a kidnapping. He cries when Alastor isn’t around, mourning the loss of the master who’d kept him safe and in the lap of luxury for more than a decade. Everything’s so hard now. He hasn’t had to (hasn’t been allowed to) make any choices more complex than “what act should I perform today” in so long; it’s overwhelming. He wants to go home, but this is his home now. It feels like arriving in Hell all over again.

He tells himself he doesn’t understand why there’s a small part of him deep down that’s relieved Lantana is gone.

---

Vox was lucky his body operated on rubber hose physics. The size difference between him and his boss was so extreme that if it didn’t, she could’ve easily shattered his bones (if he had any) or dislocated his limbs, simply by handling him too roughly. All the better. She was usually fairly gentle, but since she knew she could treat him like a rag doll, occasionally, she did. It hurts, dangling in the air by the arm while the person holding you gives you whiplash every time they move too suddenly, but not as much as it would for an organic demon.

---

Three random thoughts:

1) I checked, and the height-difference between Proto Vox and his boss (and Valentino) is directly proportional to that of the tallest and smallest women in the world.

2) Shirley Temple would probably be a good inspiration for Proto Vox’s style of performance.

3) It could be interesting to play with the way Vox’s innocent and wholesome persona would interact with Hell’s general culture. Lantana kept him pretty desexed and infantilized while at “home,” but when she made him perform for groups, the comedy of the routine would be derived from contrast. Most demons wouldn’t get the appeal of his usual schtick played straight, but contrast that cutesy shit with Hell’s usual fixations (sex, profanity, and violence)? Now there’s something worth laughing about. It’s like teasing a fallen cherub.

---

the mental image of lantana telling vox to “go play” at a party will not leave me

“darling” “baby” “sweetheart” “dear”

i am slowly giving in to the whump urges

---

random fact: the way vox is treated by his boss in this au is heavily inspired by the way some imps (particularly the smaller ones) seem to be treated in the hellaverse

---

thinking about the first time lantana struck vox.

it was just so unexpected. vox could hardly even remember the last time someone had hit him— maybe when he was a rowdy young twenty-something? his parents had occasionally struck him as a child, but that was rare.

a week or two before, he’d made a comment that was a bit too sullen for her liking and she’d suddenly grabbed his arm, striking it once with an object like a schoolteacher with a misbehaving student. it’d caught vox off guard, but it was more shocking than painful, and lantana instantly moved on like nothing had happened. he didn’t expect things to escalate so quickly.

he spoke out of turn— that’s what prompted it. he’d been listening to his boss discuss business matters with an associate, and he’d tried throwing in his two cents. it was still early on; vox was testing what he could and couldn’t get away with and had thought the two of them might find his feedback worthwhile. he was wrong. he’d only gotten a couple words out before he was suddenly knocked to the floor by a blow from one of his boss’ lower arms. she didn’t even say anything, just returning to her conversation while he was left stunned on the ground.

when the colleague finally left, lantana picked vox up, sat him on her desk so they were at least somewhat closer to eye level, and laid out exactly what she expected from him from now on. he would not speak unless spoken to when in the company of others; she brought him along to these meetings to be visual stress relief, not to participate. on that note, he would not talk to her about business at all. she had no interest in his opinions, and going forward, she would not hesitate to discipline him if he kept trying to stick his nose where it didn’t belong. finally, and most importantly, he needed to remember his role. he was there to entertain her— to be a sweet, silly little distraction from the stresses of overlordship, and she expected him to act like it. it didn’t matter if she wasn’t playing with him right at that very moment, he was still “on the clock.” amuse her when she wasn’t busy, sit quietly and look cute when she was, and above all, stay in character. she would strike him as many times as was necessary in order to get that through his head, and would throw him out if he still refused to comply.

lantana asked if she was understood, and vox, terrified of returning to the streets, agreed. he left the room hating her, but also felt a strange, unwanted sense of embarrassment that he had overstepped to the point where she decided she “needed to” hit him. he should’ve known better. this woman was not to be “trusted” any more than she was to be manipulated.

---

Random thought: Proto Vox's unofficial theme would be "Make 'Em Laugh" from Singin' in the Rain

---

was thinking about female or trans male proto vox recently and got to wondering what lantana would be like in that scenario since i've made gender dynamics such a big part of her character. came up with a few different options.

---

#Just infuriating things about being three feet tall in a world where the average height is 6’6: door knobs.

Vox had three options when encountering a closed door back in his early days: knock and hope someone on the other side heard him, ask a nearby person to open it for him (which always made his skin crawl), or try to figure out a way to reach it on his own. The worst was when someone saw him struggling to reach the door knob, took pity on him, and opened the door for him, usually with a condescending comment tacked on at the end. It was such a blessing once he finally unlocked his electricity/teleportation powers and didn't have to deal with that crap anymore.

---

Random cheesy idea: Three moments in Vox’s life when the phrase “children should be seen and not heard” was relevant. The first is a time his parents applied it to him, the second is a time he said it about his own children, and the third is his boss using it against him in Hell.

---

thinking about option 2 vox. she says something snappish to her boss about not being a child. next time they go out, the clothes lantana gives her to wear are different than usual: clothes that are exactly to her taste from back when she was alive. they're somewhat oversized.

vox looks ridiculous with her stylish, refined dress hanging awkwardly on her sexless wooden frame. she's sliding around in too-large heels, and the gloves reach all the way to her shoulders, sagging pitifully around her arms. she looks like a child playing dress up; a little girl wearing her mother's clothes. it was like a slash to the heart, seeing herself like this; knowing that even if she had the freedom to choose how she dressed, she would always look like a joke.

the cocktail dress and heels got her laughed at and mocked more than usual. the pinafores and bows just made people gush about how adorable she was sometimes. it was easy to see which was the better option.

it was years before vox felt comfortable enough to start occasionally dressing her age again. alice wouldn't mock her for choosing to dress as an adult. she'd mock her for a whole lot of other things, but at least they were never tied to her appearance (aside from her peculiar modern head, of course!).

---

I know I said this verse’s Vox died while trying to fix a TV, but what if he still got electrocuted on set, but instead of a quick little zap, there was a massive, cartoonish explosion

---

Idea regarding the "storage" incident: The thing that prompted that confrontation was another overlord/business associate showing an interest in Vox. They were involved in the movie industry and thought they could put him to good use in their films, so they asked Lantana if they could purchase him or even just rent him out for a bit. Vox was thrilled– finally, a chance to get back into the industry and out of this fucking building! And it'd just fallen right into his lap! He immediately tried to say "yes," but Lantana cut him off and turned down the offer. She had no intention of giving him up, so she wouldn't let him get away that easily. Vox was pissed when she said "no." He usually held his tongue when his boss did something that upset him, but he was not about to let this person who didn't even own his soul take away this opportunity. He dropped his cutesy persona, demanded she give him a reason he couldn't go, and then tried to accept the other overlord's offer. Lantana sharply grabbed him by the arm, saying something along the lines of "Because you still haven't learned to do as you're told." She denied her now rather uncomfortable associate once again and asked them to leave. Vox tried to shout to them as they turned to leave, but Lantana just muted him, then started twisting his antenna when he tried to unmute himself. Once the other overlord was gone, Vox exploded at Lantana and tried to quit right then and there, but of course, she wasn't going to let that happen. Once he was let out of "storage," Vox was too scared of what else she might do to him to try to quit/escape again (at least, not openly).

---

Idea: Whenever she’d take him to parties, Lantana would pin an orchid to Vox’s lapel/shirt to serve as an indicator of who he was with. It worked— everyone who saw him immediately understood that he was part of Lantana’s entourage— and probably protected him from some of the more violent harassment that goes on at sinner parties, but lord, he hated walking around with a clear sign of who he belonged to pinned to his chest.

---

Thinking about Vox begrudgingly trying to remember and adapt some of his old Vaudeville routines for “special occasions” (i.e. when Lantana makes him perform for associates or at parties). That’s a time in Vox’s life that he prefers not to think about, but now that he seems to have been condemned to relive a twisted version of it, he doesn’t have much of a choice. His boss will allow him some repetition, but she expects him to come up with new material on a regular basis, and it’d just be stupid to refuse to use his pre-existing back catalogue. He’s both surprised and not surprised at all that even 25 years later, he still remembers his childhood acts so clearly.

---

Alastor knows full-well that Vox is an adult and treats him with the usual respect he’d afford one, but like… it’d be kinda funny if at least on a subconscious level, he saw Vox as a kid he was mentoring.

Like, imagine the scrappy little orphan you’ve let live in your house for the past several years suddenly confesses that he’s passionately in love with you, and you’re abruptly reminded that, oh yeah, this guy’s actually a grown man. Of course Alastor wouldn’t react in a particularly graceful manner.

-

Also would put Alastor's condescending treatment of Vox during episode two in a new context. He knows being talked down to drives Vox nuts because of his past, so he purposefully treats him like a kid throwing a tantrum in order to further get under his skin.

---

Aside from his performance skills, another reason why Vox was considered such a novelty was his head. Televisions were not common in Hell at the time (even among the elites), so his ability to project things on his screen was seen as quite unique. He’d sometimes have to stand still for extended periods of time and let people watch as he played whatever he could come up with in the moment on his screen.

---

Thinking about Proto Vox sitting in front of a mirror, trying for hours on end to retrain himself to talk without lisping or stuttering, or simply to speak in a lower register of voice than his new default. It never works.

---

Decided what the sequence of events leading up to the whole “first time being stripped naked” incident were:

Vox manages to get a meeting with Lantana and enters into a deal with her: he’ll be her personal entertainer if she gives him a safe place to live.

The first week or two is a “trial run” to see if Lantana likes Vox enough to keep him. During that span of time, Vox only has one or two sets of clothes: the ragged shirt he stole off a dead body while on the streets and some clothes meant for imps that Lantana provided. When Lantana decides to keep Vox, she orders a whole new wardrobe for him without telling him.

When the new clothes arrive, Lantana tells Vox that she’s decided to let him stay and that she got a gift for him to celebrate. Vox is relieved to no longer have the threat of having to return to the streets dangling over his head. He’s kind of weirded out by Lantana, but she hasn’t revealed her sadistic side yet, so he’s cautiously optimistic about his future; this “gig” may be embarrassing, but he can make it work.

Lantana leads Vox to either his or her bedroom and presents the new wardrobe to him like it’s some kind of wonderful gift. Vox is startled to see what kind of attire she picked out for him: children’s clothes, outfits that are clearly several sizes too big for him, and a handful of cute costumes. Vox tries to hide his consternation and think of a polite way of declining the “gift,” but Lantana barely lets him get a word out, going on about how happy she is that he’ll be staying with her and how sweet he’ll look in his fancy new clothes.

Before he can object, Vox feels the top he’s wearing suddenly being pulled off; Lantana wants to see him in his new clothes now. He tries to object and pull away, but it’s all in vain. His shirt is removed and now she’s going for his pants. A mortified Vox implores her to stop— he’s never experienced this kind of sudden disregard for his personal agency in his adult life— but Lantana just cheerfully talks over him, assuring him there’s nothing to be frightened of… until she catches sight of his crotch.

Lantana pauses for a moment, caught off guard by Vox’s lack of genitals. Vox shrinks away, humiliated to have someone ogling his hated naked body. His reprieve only lasts for a few seconds though, as Lantana’s face lights up with delight. Vox suddenly feels a hand groping between his legs, long fingers probing experimentally, searching for an opening or a protrusion of some kind. Her voice sugary sweet, Lantana coos about how perfect Vox is as she runs her hand across his smooth, sexless crotch.

Vox barely has time to register the awful (and totally unfamiliar) feeling of violation blooming inside him before the hand is gone. Lantana’s riffling through the wardrobe, trying to decide which outfit she wants to put him in first, while Vox struggles to wrap his mind around what just happened. Before he even has time to catch his breath, a new bundle of clothes is thrown in his direction. Lantana “asks” him to help her put them on him, and Vox, disoriented and degraded, faintly agrees. The words aren’t even fully off his lips yet before Lantana starts pulling the new outfit onto him.

Bonus F!Vox version. Warning for discussion of dark sexual topics.

Vox has been uneasy around her new boss ever since they met. He's so serene and indulgent whenever he's with her; it just doesn't seem right for an overlord of Hell to be this gentle. So far, all the attention he's given her seems to be purely platonic, but there's something about the way he looks at her that makes Vox fear that he might start coming onto her at any moment. She's been around enough wealthy, powerful men in her human life to know how this situation could go.

When he shows her the wardrobe of little girl's clothes and cute costumes, she's horrified. She immediately assumes he got them for sexual/fetishistic purposes and blurts out that she's not a child, trying to discourage him from what she thinks he's planning. Vox's overlord patiently tells her he knows she's not a child; this is just how he wants her to dress while working for him.

Not waiting to see if his reassurance actually convinced her (it didn't), the overlord abruptly starts unbuttoning her dress. Vox panics and starts begging him not to do this– there's no point in doing this. She's utterly convinced that he's about to assault her and is terrified of how he'll react once he realizes she has no genitals or breasts. Will he throw her back out on the street if he can get what he wants? Kill her in a fit of anger? Or just find some other way of getting gratification from her?

Heedless of her pleas, Vox's boss just chuckles warmly and tells her there's nothing to be afraid of as he peels the imp dress off of her off her struggling body. Like his female counterpart, he freezes in surprise for a moment when he catches sight of Vox's featureless wooden body. Vox squirms under his gaze, terrified of what's coming next... but her overlord just smiles adoringly, runs a hand across her crotch, and tells her she's perfect before handing her a new, oversized dress and asking if she'd prefer it or something else.

Vox stands there, frozen in fear. Her boss cocks his head in puzzlement, asking what she's afraid of. Vox answers "Nothing" as quickly as she can, but the truth of the matter suddenly dawns across her overlord's face. Acting affronted, he denies that he'd ever dream of hurting her like that. What a repugnant thing to do! Kneeling down to Vox's level, he swears to her that she has nothing to fear from him and gently starts trying to coax a smile out of her. Vox, fearing what might happen if she doesn't comply, reluctantly forces a smile onto her face, relieved that he's not going to try to rape her (“Yet,” she thinks), but not trusting him any further than she can throw him.

When she smiles back, Vox's overlord glows with fondness and tells her to put the incident out of her mind; for now, they should just focus on getting her dressed. Vox puts on a forced, awkward smile, accepting the new clothes graciously. This is leagues better than being assaulted, obviously, but... she still doesn't want to dress like this. But she dare not argue with her overlord; she needs to show him that she's grateful for his "kindness." She tries to forget the feeling of his hand groping between her legs.

---

cinderella has proto vox energy in this

---

During his first year in Hell, part of Vox’s “charm” was that he often struggled under the weight of his disproportionately large head. It made it difficult to maintain his balance given how it made up the majority of his body weight, and, when fatigued, he sometimes had to resort to using his hands to hold it up. People thought it was funny how clumsy he was during that first year. Eventually, he got used to it and regained his sense of balance (after many hours of physically demanding performance, of course), but if someone pushed him, he was still liable to collapse in a heap.

---

Thinking about Vox dissociating from his work persona. He feels like he’s in a completely different frame of mind when he’s performing; like he’s just a passive observer in his own body. It’s the only way to keep his ego intact— to convince himself that the words he’s saying/choices he’s making aren’t his own. He never actually severs the connection between his work identity and his real one, but seeing “Work Vox” as a different person made it all the easier to consign “him” to the past once the opportunity presented itself.

---

Kind of a nothing idea, but wanted to post about it anyway

If Vox had actually died as a child and somehow found his way to Lantana, their relationship would genuinely be as sweet as it seems on the surface. Lantana has a soft spot for children, and here’s this lost, vulnerable little boy who’s wandered right onto her doorstep. The fact that he’s actually very talented and incredibly eager to please just made the whole situation even more perfect.

Vaughn doesn’t understand why he’s in Hell (he’s not even ten years old, for goodness sake…), and he misses his parents (well, mostly his mother) terribly. It feels like a stroke of good luck that he happened upon an overlord who was willing to take him in and treat him so well. He doesn’t even need to do anything that hard— just all the same performance stuff he was already doing back on Earth, and with a less busy schedule at that. It doesn’t take long for him to get attached to Lantana; she’s just like momma, except she’s less demanding and always wants him around, even when she has something more important going on.

[pagesfromthevoid]

Sources of Strength | j. s. | 2

Jake Seresin x school counselor!reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Haphazard navy knowledge

Author’s Note: Woops

Masterlist | Talk to Me! | AO3

“Absolutely fuckin’ not,” Jake practically hisses at Maverick, giving the captain a pointed look. “I’m not gonna give a tour to a bunch of kids who don’t give a shit.”

“That’s not what this is,” Maverick argues, shaking his head. “It’s a group of ten kids. All of them have applied to the Naval Academy, all are excellent candidates. We invite a group every year –Bob and Rooster did it last year. It’s you and Rooster this year.”

“It’s not that bad,” Rooster interrupts, leaning against the door frame. “The kids are usually pretty good; ask questions, and are actually interested. Their counselor makes them prep beforehand –,”

Jake looks between Maverick and Rooster, and he swears his eye twitches. “It is not the counselor from the Future Fest school, is it?”

Maverick says her name, like he’s asking a question. Rooster has a stupid grin on his face, and Jake wants to bang his head against the nearest wall. Of course it’s her. Of course he’s going to have to be professional and civil to the woman who absolutely read him to filth the other night.

Jake has accepted that –maybe, just maybe –she got a few things right about him. He knows his flaws; he’s not so egotistical that he’s not aware of what makes him the way he is. But the fact that some stranger –some random woman who works with kids all damn day –is able to tear open the can of worms that is his business really gets to him. 

“Why? What does that matter?” Maverick asks, looking to Rooster now with his brow raised.

“She ripped him a new one the other night when he tried flirting with her,” he explains, and there’s definitely an underhanded smirk on his face as he does. “Hangman here couldn’t take the heat.”

“I’m not doin’ it,” Jake finally says, shaking his head. 

“This isn’t voluntary,” Maverick states, and his tone has shifted to stern. Jake curses under his breath. “You’re either doing it or you’re doing two hundred pushups every day for the next week. Your choice.”

Jake almost chooses the pushups.

Almost.

“You’re going to be polite,” she says, pointing at the group of students that are standing in front of their bus. Her voice is serious, leaving no room for arguments. “You’re going to be professional. When we stop, you will line up properly so everyone can be seen and heard. And you will not act like you did on the bus on the way here –because that’s not only embarrassing for you but it’s embarrassing for me. And I don’t take kindly to being made to look a fool by your behavior.”

There’s a chorus of “yes ma’ams” that satisfies her, and she motions for them to walk towards the visitor’s center. Two men in uniforms stand in front of the doors, clearly waiting for them, but she’s not wearing her actual glasses (one day, she’ll have prescription sunglasses. Not today, but one day), so she can’t make out who it is. Usually it’s Bob and someone else, but since Bob and his fiancee have officially moved to Bremerton, she’s not sure who it is today.

Until they get close enough that she can see.

And she has to try her hardest not to cuss under her breath in front of the seniors.

On what planet is it fair that the same man she verbally abused on Saturday is the same man giving her students their tour on Wednesday? 

The students stop and line up –just like she told them to –in front of Rooster and Hangman. She’s staring at the paperwork, like she hasn’t memorized it already, to avoid looking at the blonde pilot just yet. The kids are antsy, clearly excited to get started on whatever their tour entails, but they’re waiting on her to introduce them. When Rooster clears his throat, she looks up from her paperwork finally and gives a professionally polite smile.

“Lieutenant Bradshaw, Seresin,” she offers with an extension of her hand. “Nice to see you both again. Thank you so much for taking the time to show us around the base.”

Rooster takes her hand with a grin, looking over his aviators at her then at the group. “Any time, ma’am.”

Hangman takes her hand next, and there’s definitely…something in the way they shake each other's hand. Not a spark, because that implies that there’s some sort of attraction. But it is not a friendly feeling. He’s squeezing a little too hard, but she’s also squeezing a little too hard (though she doubts he realizes that she’s putting in way more effort than he is) as he gives her a tight lipped smile. He’s definitely sizing her up behind his sunglasses, but she’s doing the same to him. Like they’re both deciding how mean they can be to each other in front of the kids. Unfortunately for him, she’s very good at being professionally mean. 

She’ll be the bigger person, of course, though. 

“Pleasure is all ours, ma’am,” he says, and that stupid accent is exaggerated just like it was Saturday night. And she’s not sure if he’s doing it on purpose or not. Then he drops her hand, turning to the students and she immediately steps away from him. “We’re gonna show you guys what you’re actually signin’ up for today –not whatever you think you’ve learned in ROTC or online. You ready for that?”

The students let out a variety of answers, all excited and all interested in whatever they’re about to experience. She can’t help but grin some as she slips her paperwork into her bag, adjusting her sunglasses as they begin the actual field trip finally. Rooster is taking up the front of the group, explaining the same information she’s heard every year for the last four years –since she became the college and career counselor. Hangman is off to the side, just barely in front of her as he talks to one of the boys who is taking notes on everything he says.

“Aaron, ask him what you asked me this morning,” she prompts, and Hangman glances back at her.

Aaron looks back at her and quickly nods, as if he suddenly remembers his question. “Oh, right –how long did it take for you to get through the TOPGUN program, sir?”

“It’s thirteen weeks,” he explains, watching as Aaron jots that number down. “But that’s after you’ve graduated from the academy –that’s at least four years, dependin’ on what you do there. Then you have to be commissioned as an Ensign, which isn’t the hard part, but it’s the tedious part. You need to make sure you got enough hours in the air or you’re outta luck entirely.”

“But most people who get in graduate, right?” Aaron asks, and she’s grinning as she watches him flip the page in his notebook. Hangman is telling him to fix something that he wrote down wrong, and she thinks for a moment that he’s at least being nice to the kids. “Like I’m not gonna get in and not graduate.”

“Most of us do. I was top of my class,” Hangman brags, glancing back at her for a second. She swears he winks at her. “But you’re a glutton for punishment if you get in and don’t graduate.”

Aaron, satisfied by this, thanks the pilot and catches back up with his group, showing them the notes he took. Hangman falls into step with her, and she glances up at him over her glasses. If this had been the guy she met on Saturday, she thinks, he would have had a much better chance with her. 

“Aaron is probably the most likely to succeed out of all of them,” she explains, and there’s definitely a hint of pride in her tone as she returns her attention to the group. “Not that all of them aren’t good enough –but he’s…worked so much harder. I’ve done this for four years now, and I’ve never seen someone so determined to get out of where they are.”

“That is usually what it takes,” he offers, and she watches as he slips a toothpick between his teeth and rolls it. There’s a moment where she’s distracted, but she scolds herself as she turns her attention back to the students. “Everyone’s got somethin’ to prove.”

“I bet you do,” she teases, and she doesn’t mean for it to sound flirty but it does. But she doesn’t take it back.

He lets out a laugh, shaking his head as he looks down at her over his glasses. “You sayin’ you don’t have somethin’ to prove?”

“Not to you.”

He’s about to say something –she’s certain it’s something snarky, too –when she hears her name being called. 

“Miss!” A student calls back to her, and her attention snaps to the girl that’s half jogging back towards them. "Lieutenant Bradshaw said he’d take us to see one of the F-18s, as long as you were okay with it.”

“Oh no,” Hangman suddenly says, shaking his head, pointing at his fellow pilot in annoyance. “That’s my job, Rooster. How dare you take credit for my idea.”

“If you weren’t flirting,” Rooster points out with a teasing lilt to his tone, “I wouldn’t have had to.”

“Oh, no, that’s not –,” she starts, but her students are doing what students do best: be annoyingly nosey. “Guys, you need to stop –that’s not –,”

The kids aren’t stopping though, and she’s getting frustrated that they were doing so well until Rooster’s comment. Classroom management has never been her forte, but even this is more than she’s used to. The kids are teasing her, and teasing Hangman –which is totally inappropriate –and she’s about to rip them a new one when Hangman speaks up.

“I think that this is an excellent time to show these little ones just how important it is to listen to their captain.”

The kids look between each other, suddenly falling silent.

“You know what happens when we act like idiots during training?” Hangman questions, and he’s got a devilish grin on his face.

Rooster is smirking too, and she’s thinking this is not going to end well for her students. Or for her when the administration hears about it. But she doesn’t stop the pilots, letting them handle the students however they want. The kids are standing board stiff, a little panic in their eyes. 

“We do push ups,” Rooster explains, moving to stand in front of the group next to Hangman.

The kids seem to relax, now a little too cocky for her liking. Aaron is the only one not relaxed, watching the two pilots with mild horror on his face.

“You can laugh all you want,” Hangman points out, taking off his glasses. He hands them to her and she knows this time that he winks at her. “But it’s the truth. We’ll start you off easy –hundred push ups. If you stop, you restart.”

The kids look to her, but she puts her hands up as if to say it’s not her call. They want to be here, they get to experience the real deal. Reluctantly, the group drops down and starts their punishment. Rooster keeps count as Hangman crosses his arms over his chest beside her. 

“I’m going to get in so much trouble for letting you do this to them,” she sighs, shaking her head. 

“Oh, we’re gonna get reamed for this too,” he reassures, but he’s still grinning. “We won’t make them actually do that many.”

“Do you actually do that many?” She asks, looking up at him with her brow raised.

“I had to choose between doing this tour or doing two hundred pushups every day for the next week,” he explains. “I almost chose the pushups.”

“You’d rather do a thousand push ups than give a tour to high schoolers?”

“I’d rather do a thousand push ups than spend the day with a woman who can read me like a goddamn book,” he corrects, but he’s got his eyes on the students as they struggle to get past their twenty-first pushup. 

She swallows hard, turning her attention back to the students as well. Deep down, she knew she had gone too far on Saturday. Especially when her friend texted her later and said that he had complained about her the rest of night, calling her an asshole. But damn, the fact that he would rather choose to do physical punishment over seeing her again? That’s a first, and she doesn’t like that he’s probably right –she is an asshole.

As she’s about to say something –apologize, maybe –he calls out that they can stop. The kids drop and lay on the ground for a few moments, complaining about how sore their arms are.

“Next stop, mess hall. You think the push ups were bad?” Rooster teases, and he’s got a grin on his face as he herds the kids to the next stop. “Wait ‘til you eat what we get to eat on deployment.”

The kids groan, but follow obediently. Hangman is still at her side as they follow close behind the group, though neither of them say anything as they enter the hall. There’s a handful of people inside, including the Daggers, who join the kids for lunch. All seems to be forgiven as they all find someone to talk to about their futures, and she leans back against the table to watch them all. This is what she wants to be focused on, but she can’t help but think back to Saturday.

Then she takes out her phone, sighing.

Okay, so I might have been an asshole on Saturday and now I kinda feel bad.

There's a pause as she watches the bubble from her friend pop up. But her response is less than helpful.

I could have told you that lol. Have you considered apologizing?

She glances up at the group, and frowns slightly when she catches him staring at her.

Yeah, so you know how I don’t like doing that?

The next reply comes just as she hits send and looks away from him.

You and Jake have more in common than you think.

[catboy-beckett]

Someone on the Tokyo Debunker subreddit brought up ships for MC (as in, not just the characters players like/are attracted to, but ones we actually think would go well with the protagonist) and I haven't stopped thinking about it. I find it an interesting question, because my preferences for myself are pretty noticeably different from who I think she would like! So here are my compatibility assessments!

Disclaimer: I have only played through most episodes once, so my memory of TDB lore may be lacking in certain areas. I also have not completed all affinity stories and have not spoiled myself on them. Also note I will be using "you"/"me"/"us"/"I"/etc. to refer to MC interchangeably with "MC"/"her" because that's just how I'm used to talking about video game protagonists. Spoilers avoided for newest episode but only newest episode.

JABBERWOCK

HARU: I honestly think he is MC's favourite! He's the one she's most often happy to see, and in return he is always grateful for her help. MC seems to volunteer at Jabberwock reasonably often and with little prompting; this isn't necessarily because she's infatuated with Haru, but rather I think it shows they have similar priorities.

REN: He's giving a whole lot of nothing. A lot of the opportunities given to him in-story to bond with her, he outright rejects. He doesn't seem interested in getting into a relationship, or even forming a friendship that could lead to a relationship. I'm all for "enemies to lovers" but you've gotta show the attraction from the beginning! Otherwise it just feels like a shoehorned-in plot twist.

TOWA: Very romantic. Very mysterious. Compelling, and they clearly like each other. My biggest complaint here is that Towa is someone who needs more screentime for an arc. He's not a simple character. I also think MC would be a little afraid of him if it ever really clicks for her what he's capable of. (Both power-level-wise and morals-wise.) I know fans love Towa's yandere tendencies but MC shows no enthusiasm for that type of man.

SINOSTRA

TAIGA: My favourite man! Terrible for MC. She is pretty much trembling in her boots whenever he's around. I can't see a romantic future for them. Taiga's ideal wife is Romeo, and MC just doesn't have the backbone to be Romeo. That said, I think MC having an inconvenient physical attraction to Taiga would be narratively interesting (and fuckin' hot), as who doesn't love the tension between a dangerous violent freak and a shivering field mouse? There are a couple of other points in Taiga's favour too: the fact that he's the ghoul who seems to react to MC's personality the most (he's always noticing how timid she is and seems to find that cute/attractive) and the fact that he eats anomalies (😳) set him apart from most other love interests. Taiga is down to fuck but he's not really a viable option to date.

ROMEO: This might be controversial but I think Romeo is one of those ghouls who has his own love interest, and it isn't you. I'm not even sure he likes women. I've never once felt like Romeo had an interest in my character and the only time he flirted with us was to make Kaito jealous. Honestly that felt more like ship teasing between him and Kaito if anything. As for how MC feels about him, I think she's about as intimidated by him as she is by Taiga, though it's slightly easier to get Romeo to Not Murder You than it is Taiga. Romeo can at least be reasoned with.

RITSU: Never shows an ounce of attraction or even warmth. Even when he smiles at someone, it feels more like professional courtesy than a reflection of his feelings. How would someone like Ritsu fall in love? It's a fascinating question, but the game is not yet interested in giving us an answer. He tends to bully MC into doing what he wants just like Romeo does. He uses social pressure rather than violence, which I think she finds preferable to Romeo's method, but not pleasant. There's also the fact that Ritsu is dedicated to becoming Taiga's lawyer, and I honestly think he would continue trying to defend him if MC ever wanted to press charges for, say, the time he shot her, or the time he tried to throw her out of a train. Taiga's romance potential is already shot because of these things; what can we say of someone who would take Taiga's side?

FROSTHEIM

JIN: Oh boy. Okay, this is the "canon" ship. Jin gets all the tropes, all the sparkly panels of heroically rescuing MC, all the jealous NPCs treating MC like she's already his girlfriend, the works. They could not be pushing this any more clearly. And... it's serviceable. It feels a little out of place in a game like this, and maybe that's why I'm not fully on board, but it works when it works. I just think Jin doesn't have enough screentime to really make the "canon bae" thing stick. Does he KNOW how close we've been getting with 20 other ghouls while he's been absent for several chapters in a row? Does he know he's on a 1-year timer for his slow burn bullshit? I like Jin, and he's one of the most shippable-with-MC characters for sure, but I just think it could be better. It should also be noted that MC is scared of Jin in a similar way that she's scared of Taiga or Romeo. I think honestly she would pick one of the men who hasn't threatened her life yet.

TOHMA: Like Romeo, I judge him one of the "does he even like women?"/"I think he's just using me to get to his husband" type ghouls. He has a flirty manner, but he uses it with everyone, so it means nothing to me when he talks to MC with that same expression. That said, he's more of a simp than Romeo, so while I think Romeo wouldn't care if you fucked his husband, I think Tohma wants you to. I think Tohma is into MC in the way that a stalker might be into a pair of dirty socks once worn by their crush. (And, on a less perverted note, he wants MC to pull Jin out of his depression since he realizes he can't do it by himself--especially now that they're fighting.) I don't think Tohma/MC works as a ship unless it's a complicated situationship with Jin.

KAITO: I don't think MC likes Kaito. She might just be very oblivious (very very VERY oblivious), but she's had many opportunities to respond to his advances and she just kind of no-sells them every time. To me, that kills off any possibility of romance. If MC were more of a self-insert avatar for the player, this wouldn't be an issue, as it would be up to the players to decide whether they liked Kaito or not; but TDB MC has her own thoughts and feelings, and we see them frequently during the episode where she meets Kaito, and the lack of reciprocation is deafening. Another, more possibly controversial point: I don't think Kaito likes MC. I think Kaito wants a girlfriend, and he has gotten it in his head that MC Is Girl, Therefore Perfect For Be Girlfriend. He treats her in a way that he's heard you are "supposed to" treat girls. He doesn't even NOTICE her suspicious behaviour when they meet because he's too busy metagaming the situation; he even gets it into his head that she's "nice" while she's lying to him. He never updates this perception of her. There is nothing about the character, or the way that players play the character, that Kaito actually LIKES. He just wants a girl. Any girl. Bad ship.

LUCAS: Another character who never really expresses attraction to the player character or anyone else. MC has a better relationship with him than she does with Kaito; Lucas doesn't freak out or get jealous or play 4D chess trying to get MC to fall in love with him, so MC can speak to him more honestly. That said, I believe Lucas isn't the sort of person to hide his feelings from MC (or even be able to), so I can't help but read his complete lack of flirtation as a lack of interest. I could believe MC has a one-sided crush on Lucas (which would also make for a really funny group dynamic), but that's about a best-case scenario.

HOTARUBI

HAKU: He really is just "the nice, chill guy" of the roster. Normally those don't compel me at all but Haku is really enjoyable. He's also, at unpredictable points, one of the more horny/flirty characters. Definitely has an attraction to MC, which is a big plus. MC never really gets the chance to respond to his advances, which in this type of game is the closest we get to a canonical attraction from her. (Because of course, they don't want to force players into a romance they might not want.) Good ship! Hard to write about or anything considering Haku is such a mysterious character, but I believe the attraction is real and not part of a dastardly plan, at the very least. Haku definitely puts MC at ease and I think she needs that in a partner.

SUBARU: Another "not sure if he even likes women" situation. Subaru doesn't even come close to the way he acts around Sho, when he's around MC. Subaru is a very cute-and-flustered-around-crushes type, and I think if he were into MC at all, we would see it. I think MC likes Subaru okay as a person but that's it.

ZENJI: This is going to be my most subjective one yet, I think. Zenji is very in his own head. What do I mean by that? I think he would compose seven love ballads for MC and none of them would really be for her. I think he's more attached to the artistic value of love than the feelings themselves. This harms his compatibility with anyone, MC included. As for MC, she actually seems to like Zenji more than the average person does! Or at least more than Haku does. Haku seems to mostly tolerate Zenji, while MC shows enthusiasm for his art in campus stories. Note: this ship becomes untenable in the event that Jiro demonstrates feelings for MC, as I don't think Zenji would compete with him.

MORTKRANKEN JIRO: Does not demonstrate feelings for MC. There are crumbs there, but you have to squint and squeeze to make a ship out of them. I could see MC being attracted to tall, gentle, reliable men, especially ones who made her feel secure during a difficult time in her life... but all we know for sure is that she didn't want to watch him undress for the bath.

YURI: I can see this guy as being the #1 strangest relationship she has with any of the ghouls. At times, he bullies and belittles her, like Ritsu or Romeo or Jin do. Other times, he is working tirelessly to cure her condition and taking the curse more seriously than she's seen anyone else do. He is a very confusingly-supportive love interest. I do not think MC would realistically find romance with him; tsundere that he is, she would need to be more active to really get through to him, and she's a pretty passive person. For Yuri's part, he is embarrassingly infatuated with MC. The man goes beet red when she grabs his hand, for fuck's sake. This is very funny as a one-sided ship and would be equally funny if Yuri decided to actually try confessing, but he is not the best match for MC.

VAGASTROM

ALAN: What do you get when you cross two shy people? Nothing whatsoever, that's what! Alan likes MC but has trouble expressing it and worries about hurting her. MC has a tendency to make herself small and placate people. I'm not sure their relationship can get off the ground in the first place, but if it does, I expect them to have communication issues right away. Mutual conflict-avoidance is not a great foundation for a relationship.

LEO: A great ship for MC if you hate her. Leo is toxic for anyone, but he openly hates MC and wants to get rid of her. If they get into a relationship, it will be one of those dastardly plans I warned of in the ancient scrolls (Haku's paragraph). Has the potential to be really hot though. I don't think MC hates Leo, but I think she avoids him because he seems to hate her. She could be easily manipulated if Leo is so inclined.

SHO: Viable! Sho has never been anything but nice to MC, and it shows in the way she greets him without hesitation. Sho in turn seems to actually like MC, in contrast to Leo. I can't say whether there's any attraction, but there's mutual trust.

OBSCUARY

RUI: Easily one of the most viable ships! There's the romanticism of their mutual curses (as is immediately pointed out by Rui), Rui's open flirtation with MC, the convenient excuse for why they can never hook up (because as stated before, when the excuse is botched it just makes it look like one or both characters isn't interested), and in addition to all that, Rui is one of the nicest and friendliest characters, which is something MC responds well to.

EDWARD: Definitely also a viable ship. MC isn't as intimidated by Ed as she is by characters like Taiga or Jin or even Yuri. The fact that he can overwrite her curse by making her a vampire adds to the intrigue. Ed is both openly horny for MC and expresses interest in being with her forever. The only potential speedbump here is that MC doesn't seem to consider Ed's offer a significant option; her default fear is still "I'm going to die/become a kyklos" rather than "I will have to become a vampire".

LYCA: Has a little potential, but once again the attraction is lacking. I could see Lyca growing to have feelings for MC over time, but it doesn't seem to be the case yet. MC seems to trust Lyca even if he is capable of violence.

In summary BEST SHIPS FOR MC: Haru, Rui, Ed MOST INTERESTING SHIPS: Yuri, Leo WORST SHIPS FOR MC: Taiga, Romeo

[chocobje]

I saw your aroace goob hc. So I bring you writing (mostly about the aro and about Goob discovering he's aro. Not the ace part yet).

—

Goob has never really understood what love was.

He doesn't mean the kind of love he has for his sister or his friends. He loves them very much! And sometimes, he wishes he could bury them with endless hugs to prove it.

He means the kind of love that makes your heart flutter. That makes you feel lighthearted. That makes you head over heels for someone.

His sister had once told him about it. Seeing her gush about a toon specifically that she had not named (because he's terrible at keeping secrets, sadly), with her cheeks painted a small hue of pink or red, was really confusing. He had just tilted his head about it.

"So, do you love them like a best friend?" he asked. And she stared. Not out of annoyance, but out of confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you talk about them so happily! Are they your best friend?" he asked. The question was purely innocent, but Scraps just stared, her confusion now shifting to curiosity.

"No, it's definitely not that. I love them in a sense of I want to go out with them romantically." she explained "Have you never experienced that, brother? Romantic feelings?" she asked. No, he had never in fact, experienced romantic feelings. He didn't even know what romance felt like.

"All I care about is giving hugs to my friends!" he beamed. And Scraps just smiled at that, petting his head.

Later, he had asked Rodger about it. About not being able to discern or feel romantic feelings. He had looked curious about it, probably because it was Goob who was asking. But he didn't judge.

Aromantic. That's what he had called it. Someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction to others. And, for Goob, that checked. He had no recollection of ever experiencing such feelings before.

"Of course, it could also be that you may be in the aro spectrum as well. But, if I can be honest, you barely seem interested in engaging in such activities." Rodger had said once he had closed the book and placed it back on the shelf "No offense, Goob."

"None taken! If anything, this was really helpful, Rodger!" Goob smiled "I feel like I understand myself better!"

"Really now?" Rodger asked, raising his brow curiously. Goob just nodded, pulling the other in for a quick hug.

"I'll see you around!"

"Stay safe."

Oh this gem,, I appreciate this so much I've always seen Goob as AROACE tbh it's just the vibes in general..

There are Goob ships I like but in the context of my moots' versions of them most of the time :] Though I see Goob themselves as aroace, loving everyone but it does not HAVE to be romantic.

Awh I love how Rodger helped Goob here tho that's so sweet!! Much love

[mayora97]

I'm usually with the Lily critical posts, but I don't think this level of blame is warranted. Just because I do believe she thought she was helping.

She told Severus he was wrong for hanging around aspiring deatheaters and going as far as breaking curfew to stalk the marauders around in order to catch them doing something wrong.

Is this bad advice? No. It's actually excellent advice.

Is it fair to shift all the blame and responsibility on to Snape to have 'better' friends and deal perfectly with the constant stream of harassment and bullying from the marauders?

Is it helpful to ignore all context and go straight to looking at Snape's faults and shortcomings?

Is it mindful to take the time to nag at James WHILE Severus is suspended in the air, upside down, blood rushing to his head for like a solid 10 minutes, after being quite viciously and randomly attacked, when a simple hex to the back of Potters head would've at least afforded Severus some dignity, stability and time to recover.

... I'd say no. And man do the interactions between Severus and Lily stress me out.

Lily is trying to be helpful by giving unsolicited advice, holding people accountable, and telling them how they should handle themselves. I don't think she's being manipulative or self-righteous. I think she's incapable of understanding why someone like Snape would struggle to 'act right' because she's comparing it to how she would handle it. How she handles Petunia's bullying, the glaring racism from the purebloods, and James's... err.. attention.

Not taking into account that, unlike her, Snape:

1. Snape was born into poverty and raised in a chaotic and unsafe household

2. Was clearly neglected and overly self-reliant (dressing himself in mismatched, oversized, clothes and taking it upon himself to teach Lily about magic) meaning this kid has had no guidance, has had to 'wing it' with limited recources all his life, and is grasping for any sense of belonging or self-worth

3. Likely enstranged from everyone in their muggle neighborhood besides Lily, so little to no practice with social interactions outside of their little friendship that he has had to 'earn' by teaching her things she might find interesting

4. I'm not saying he's definitely autistic, but... the obsession/hyperfixation with dark arts, struggling impossibly to explain things to Lily, pissing James off in the train on accident (if his suprise at his reaction is anything to go by), the intense eye contact, the way he walks, the way he talks, not reading the cues when Sirius practically lead him to his death. Like, the full list of signs can be a post by itself, but any of these will make you very unliked/unsafe even to the best of your efforts/intentions.

5. The marauders don't treat her anything like the way they treat Snape, just as the deatheater hopefuls treat Snape differently than how they treat her.

6. Snape has never known a day without disrespect. I don't think he was excluded from being called a mudblood by his housemates (or his mother for that matter), and I don't think it registered as the worst of his worries. His experience of this word wouldn't be the same as Lily, and while you can blame him for abusing others with it, he can't be blamed for feeling whichever way about it when it applies to him too.

7. Lily being non-compliant in Gryffindor gets her somewhat nagged at by her friends. Severus being in Slytherin and non compliant can get him targeted and blacklisted. The consequences just aren't the same.

8. After years of magical education, both of them are essentially incompetent in the muggle world. But if they had to resort to moving back, at least Lily has her family for support, whereas Severus has his family as an additional detriment.

9. Lily is never critisized, and people NEED someone to hold a mirror to them in order to improve. Whereas Severus is constantly criticized and invalidated no matter what, so where tf is he supposed to go if left, right, up, down, backwards, and forwards, are all the wrong answer deserving of divine and worldly punishment?

It makes sense that Lily gets frustrated and feels done with Severus because he's refusing to take her advice and 'be better'. It makes sense that she prioritizes her own happiness when it becomes clear that nothing she says or does to 'help' Severus pays off. To her, he never shows a sign of improvement or even readiness to follow her advice.

She's a child. She's not a therapist. She's not clairvoyant. Her empathy and understanding of the world are limited. Her energy and time are limited. The weight of trauma and the lens of a neurodivergent person are unfamiliar to her.

To ask her to be a good friend to Snape is like giving abstract algebra to someone who gets good grades in math. The support that Snape needs is beyond anything that can be reasonably asked of one teenage girl. Especially while they are both trapped in an environment that compounds and preys on his trauma, and demands of them to pick one of two sides.

Not to mention her own circumstances. She's being asked to give loyalty to someone who is prancing around with people who wish her 'sort' harm, never truly knowing who Severus feels loyalty to until she pretty much got her answer. She's being pressured by her peers, under a ton of stress because of the political environment at the time, she's the only somewhat reliable prefect from Gryffindor, her sister is an asshole so she is always around at least one or more asshole not knowing a day of peace from the unrelenting assholeness of people... Give her a break.

Blame any of the adults.

Lily Evans was incredibly lucky that Severus had his self-esteem in the negatives and was emotionally dependent on her because if it had been me, and a so-called friend watched me get bullied and abused for years by a gang of rich kids she lowkey thought were funny (like, seriously, that alone is insane), and then gaslit me about the abuse I was experiencing, only to cut me off because I lashed out under intense emotional distress… I swear, I’d lose it.

Like, no, I wouldn’t literally hurt her, but if I’d been Severus Snape, I’d either have smashed her smug little face in or come up with a twisted, slow-burn revenge plot to make her beg for mercy.

Lily Evans: the queen of double standards and moral inconsistency. No sense of loyalty, no real ethics, absolutely no personal code.