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warnersister · 29 days

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Make a mockery of Me.

Robert (Bob) Floyd x Reader

In which Bob introduces his girl to the rest of the dagger squad, but needs to remind you just who you’re talking to with that tone.

Warnings: just pure filthy smut

“Baby on board has a girl? How’s he pull you gorgeous?” Hangman asked, surprised: boisterously laughing as Bob introduced you to his work friends seeing as you had both ended up in Miramar due to work. “What do you mean?” You ask, leaning into your boyfriend’s side as you got acquainted with the other aviators and some familiar faces. “Well Bob is.. Bob’s Bob! But you.. you are a total babe!” Jake said matter of factly, taking a swig out of his beer; toasting to Bob “gotta hand it to you, you must have some game Bob” you crease your brows and look between your Robert and the others who seemed just as shocked as Hangman that you were a living and breathing thing.

“What hangman’s tryna say honey,” Rooster begins, dropping his sunglasses to the end of his nose in order to get a better look at you “is ol’ shy Robert Floyd here couldn’t pull a feather with a rope tied to it. Just a bit shocked you’re real, tha’s all darlin” he says with a shrug and you fairly pout, looking up to Robert with an almost shocked expression. “Bobby have you gone all shy?” You ask in a slight baby voice and the man tightens his grip on you, jaw clenching as you absentmindedly join in on the mockery with his coworkers. “Bobby here’s the most outgoing one back home, ain’t ya babe?” You ask, elbowing him. “Bob? Nah!” Coyote says and you nod “got a video of him doing body shots on the bar-” “Mkay that’s enough babe.” Bob says shortly, starting to pull you away from the hustle and bustle of the surrounding aviators and beginning to weave you through the bustling crowd of growing Hard Deck customers and straight into the large bathroom, locking the door as soon as he’d managed to shove you in.

“Bobby what-” “who the fuck do you think you’re talkin’ too little lady?” He asks, trapping you against the door as you quieten. “Bob I was just-” “just making a mockery of me in front of my friends, thought it was funny, oh Bobby’s gone all shy.. hmm?” He asks, using one hand to grab your jaw so you couldn’t look away. “Funny.. you didn’t think it was so hilarious when I was fuckin’ you stupid that night?” He eyes your face as you begin to notice the expression of lust developing in his eyes; there he was - there’s your bobby.

“Just had to go be a damn best didn’t ya?” He asked and shook his head, “guess you need reminding. Just because I call you princess, don’t mean you gotta act like one.” He says, fumbling with the perfected belt adorning his summer whites. “Why don’t you be a good girl and put that bratty mouth to good use huh? Go’on now, get on your knees angel.” He says as he releases your jaw and you slowly drop to the ground, careful to not let your dress get caught under your knees so it didn’t rip, taking his best dressed in your hands to skilfully unclasp the confinements and revealing what was being so painfully constrained.

You draw out a few testing swipes before taking him into your mouth, but this time he didn’t give you time to explore him, he just rutted at an ungodly pace into your mouth, allowing himself to use your throat as some kind of scape goat and fucking your brains out as intended. “See how you make fun of me when you can’t fuckin’ speak, huh angel?” He asked rhetorically, taking a few more fast paced thrusts before cumming into your throat and forcing you to swallow around him.

He took himself out of your mouth, a small string of saliva connecting him to your plump lips, eyes dilated. “‘M sorry Bobby.” You slur. “Ain’t good enough girl, ‘nd it’s sir to you girl” he tells you, picking you up off the ground only to push you against the door again your legs instinctively knowing to wrap around his toned torso. A hand wandered under your dress, only to discover what was.. or rather, what wasn’t there. “No underwear? Fuck you’re just tryna get fucked ain’t ya? Stupid slut.” He mumbled, positioning himself only to force himself straight back into you at an unwavering pace, your hand shooting over your mouth to prevent the agonising yet blissful screams that retaliated his motives. “Don’t wanna let them hear? Don’t wanna let them hear how shy ol’ Bobby fucks ya senseless like some cheep slut?” You shake your head “should think before you speak then, yeah girl?” He asks, but doesn’t offer an opportunity to reply as his pace increases “Bobby-” “Hm?” “-sir please” you whine between your fingers. “What was that? You’re mumblin babe” he taunts and you bring your hand away. “Sir please. Need to cum,” you beg and screw your eyes shut. “Hm, think you deserve it?” He asks and you nod reiteratively “so fuckin’ desperate.” He says “alright darlin’ seeing as you asked so nicely” he allows and you cum around him, him following suit a few moments following, time stopping as all movement was halted, the only sound a few rasped and desperate breaths.

“You alright angel?” He asked, bringing you down onto shaky legs as you nod and he holds you to get your balance momentarily. You move to try get some toilet paper to clean yourself but he grabs you “nuh’uh that’s gonna stay right where I left it.” He says, pulling you against him again “go wait at the truck” he unlatches the door “but Bobby, your friends” “go wait at the truck angel. I’ll be out in a minute” he instructs, pushing you out the door and you notice no one had taken note of your disappearance, only a bustling crowd of packed-in aviators.

You managed to walk out and stand by the red truck parked out front, leaning against the door for some sense of stability. Robert had headed over to Penny to pay his tab and bid farewell. “Did Baby on board just get laid?” Hangman shouts over the music but Bob just swallows and blushes slightly, b-lining for the door to see you struggling against the side of his old pick up. He smirks, unlocking the car and opening the door for you, picking you up to rest you down again in the car, staying silent only to walk around and get into the drivers side. He sits in his seat, reaching over to pull you into his lap so your back was against his door and sat between his legs. “Breaking a traffic law? Who knew Robert Floyd was such a daredevil!” You fawn with a gasp and he smiles down at you, stroking the back of your head as he offers you a deep kiss.

He starts the car and pulls out, ready to head back to the small house you’d both been put on for this station. “You really that shy?”

“Watch your mouth”

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keep-on-burnin · 1 year

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this short little piece was requested by my lovely friends, you know who you are😇 enjoy some drunk and lovey bob<3 also unedited cause I’m lazy ;)

the only sounds in the house were the washing machine rumbling quietly in the background and an old record you’d thrown on. You sat lounging on the couch of your living room, book in hand and half empty wine glass on the table. A stupid rom-com that you weren’t too interested in played on mute across your TV screen. The sun had already set and the sky was now filled with stars. A cool breeze from the ocean blew into your little home through a slightly cracked open window, gifting a pleasant scent of salt water.

You didn’t get much alone time nowadays. All the hustle and bustle that comes along with being a US Naval Aviator rarely let up, and when it did, you’d usually be enjoying a few pints and a round of pool at the Hard Deck with your fellow officers. Tonight though, you’d decided to let Bob go off on his own in favour of finishing a couple loads of laundry and a bottle of wine.

It was nice every once in a while to have time alone with yourself to catch up on all the missed self-care. Bob was always good at reminding you to take care of yourself, though he was kind of a hypocrite.

Tonight was yours to unwind and his to let loose. He was always the one to stay sober at the Hard Deck, politely declining every beer in favour of a glass of water to ensure that both of you and your friends had a way of getting home safe. He was ever the gentleman. Before he left though, you had told him to go have fun and if he needed you would pick him up when he was ready. So, it was quite the surprise to hear the crunching of gravel in your driveway and the sight of old yellow headlights beaming through your open window.

You heard faint slurred sentences of, “I can walk by myself,” obviously Bob, and “You’re plastered, Robert” which could be non other than Rooster.

You could only assume that Bradley was the designated driver tonight, poor soul. You’d had your fair share of DD nights and taking care of drunk aviators was not easy, especially a light-weight like sweet Bobby.

The sound of your front door flying open and a muttered “shit” could be heard from the entry way. You thought about getting up to help your boyfriend, but ultimately decided to sit back and enjoy the show. In your defense, you never got to see Bob drunk, like, ever. Once he passed through the threshold into your softly lit living room you realized just how drunk he really was. His normally gelled back and neat hair was askew, his cobalt eyes drooping, and his signature tipsy smirk was sitting on his lips.

He leans, a little ungracefully, against the doorway.

“Honey, I’m home!” He chirps, that stupid smirk growing wider.

Shaking your head and huffing out a laugh, you slide your bookmark into place and set your paperback next to your now empty wine glass.

“How was your night?” You ask, already full well knowing it must’ve been great.

Bob doesn’t move from his spot against the door frame, he just looks at you and smiles. That fucking smile that makes you weak in the knees. Thank god you’re sitting on the couch or you probably would’ve fallen face first into the carpet, but despite that, you rise to your feet and make your way over to him. Once you’re standing close enough, Bob practically throws all of his body weight on you, making you stumble back a couple steps. You laugh heartily as you let him nuzzle your neck and leave kisses along your skin.

“Night was good. I missed you though.” He confesses, breathing in the subtle scent of your perfume and sighing out once you begin to comb your fingers through his soft hair.

Moments like these were your favourite. Just you and Bob in your own little world, loving each other, holding each other. It was true bliss.

After a few minutes, Bob pulls his face away from your neck and smiles a lopsided, lovesick grin at you. Oh yeah, he’s hammered.

“How much did you drink?” You ask with a giggle, moving your hand down from his hair to the side of his face.

“Too much tequila.” He all but whispers, not wanting to speak too loudly in fear that this moment between you two would end. His soft eyes bore into yours, and now your sporting the same lovesick smile he is. Bob begins to sway back and forth slowly to the new song on the record. Of course it’s a classic love song from the 50’s that he knows by heart, so he sings it to you. It’s romantic, slurred words and all.

It truly feels like a movie. You and Bob dancing under the soft yellow light of the living room, one of you tipsy from wine, the other one plastered from tequila and cheap beer and both smiling like idiots in love.

The silence was nice and comfortable, until Bob said something you’d never thought would come out of his mouth, especially in this state.

“Will you marry me?”

“What?” You ask back in disbelief, chuckling at the very sudden question.

Bob would normally recoil while his pretty face flushed with a dark pink, but drunk Bob is a different breed. He just smiles wider, if that’s even possible, before continuing,

“I love you so much honey, and I wanna love you everyday for the rest of my life.”

The confession surprises you to say the least, but you know that drunk words are sober thoughts, you also know that sober Bob has probably been stressing about that question since the day he met you. So of course, with a teary eyed smile you answer his question by saying,

“Ask me again when you’re sober” and you sealed the deal with a kiss.

#lewis pullman #bob floyd #bob floyd imagine #bob floyd fluff #bob floyd smut #bob floyd x reader #bob floyd x you #lewis pullman x reader #lewis pullman imagine #top gun fluff #top gun bob #top gun x reader #top gun imagine #request #Spotify

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antiqueanimals · 2 years

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do you have any…….. bears………… thank you……………. 🐻

Have some bears from The Bear Master(tm) Bob Kuhn

#bears #black bears #brown bears #polar bears #replies #requests #anonymous #Bob Kuhn

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xivdl · 2 years

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hi I'm back with tgm doodles, wips & sillies

these are so therapeutic

dagger doodles (I tried so hard to fit them all in lol)

also these were for my very specific target audience on twt I'm sorry for non-Indos but these are funny I swear

and thanks for 1000+ 😭 especially for yall who have been here since day one! I've been switching between so many fandoms so thanks for sticking around :D

I'm so so glad that there are people who enjoy my works :] I'm sorry that I don't reply to every comment and else (I'm bad at keeping tracks here) but just know that they mean everything to me :((( thanks for all the kind words! I hope I can keep creating and sharing my works here! (I have so many wips hehe)

anyways I'm more active (and responsive) on twt feel free to follow me here!

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saltsicklover · 4 months

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Title: Fated to Run - Fated to Fly ꨄ︎ Part Two

Read Part One

Part Three Coming Soon!

Prompt from THIS ASK

Pairing: Robert "Bob" Floyd x Fem!Reader SOULMATE AU

Word Count: 4000+

Rating: T

Warnings: Swearing, Lots of Crying, Parent Trouble and Reconciliation, Insecurity,

We don't get to meet Bobby yet, I'm sorry!

My father's office looks the same. Honesty it has looked the same for as long as I can remember, and it's not just this office either. Every single one of my father's offices has looked just this way. Tan walls, that sort of sad, off beige color that every military installation, from this side of the world to the next, think outfit them so well. There's always a strong oak desk, sometimes it's pine, but either way it's always a sturdy piece of furniture that has no business around the thrown together particle board of the neighboring pieces.

My father has always brought in his own chair. It's faded leather is always well conditioned and it's warn in. Warn in just the way that when you sit in it, you can almost feel the ever lasting presence of the many years my father has sat in that very seat. He has hauled it with him all around the country, always in unaccompanied baggage so it would be sitting in his office and ready for him upon his arrival. He used to joke that if he made it there before his beloved chair, his time stationed there would be hell in a handbasket.

The day he got stationed at Top Gun as the Air Boss, that chair took it's rightful place behind the new desk. The same desk with empty drawers and too many files preemptively stacked atop it. But that's just how it is, right? After all, it's been that way since my father made Commander and things don't look to be changing anytime soon.

The decanter on his book shelf has been wiped clean of dust and fingerprints. No doubt filled with any run of the mill whiskey that may find it's way into my father's hands. It's an office staple, that decanter's about as old as myself, but the crystal still shines after 25 years, especially after a good cleaning. There's a bottle of good whiskey in the bottom drawer of his desk, sat beside a bottle of the best vodka he could find. Always ready for the COMPACFLT to drop by on a moment's notice, though the Admiral has never made himself known long enough to break it out.

I sit and stare out the windows, the ones that make up the back wall of his office. There's always windows, but strangely the size seems to correlate with rank. One might think it would depend on the building, on the base, on the climate or area of the world, but what I've come to find out is the higher the number on your Pay Code, the bigger your fucking office widows.

That, and the less time you have for your family. It seems the higher that Pay Code number, the more time I've managed to spend with clerks and assistants. More visitation with office windows and the low reflection that stares back at me as I try to focus on the air field. Aircraft take off and land, the service men and women knocking out their required flight hours as the sun moves its way throughout the sky. But still, there are times I catch my own eyes in that low light reflection, but there are less tears now. Or there had been, until that fucking incident at the airport.

Truth be told, I haven't stopped shaking. In that damn reflection of my father's office window I can see both my tear stained cheeks and the confused looks on Rhett and Jake's faces. The images twist together. It's all hurt, every last piece.

I'm sure the three of us would be a sight if we were all standing in the same place, the boys with those same lost looks, hurt flashing through there eyes, and me, red rimmed irises and damp skin. Skin that is already threatening to chap over from the way it stings. I should have savored the way they so fiercely defended me. The way they folded me into themselves and kept me safe. Isn't that what home is, if only so briefly? A lifted wing to a chick in the same way their kind eyes were to me. It's a shame, the way it all came crashing down with those four little words.

There's not even a part of me that doesn't ache when the memory of only hours ago runs through my head. Their touch still ghosts over my shoulders. Phantom fingerprints left upon my upper arms, still smoldering, smoking as they cool.

Friendship has to be written into the strands of the universe, it just must be. Hidden deep within the stitching, taking a back seat to the drips of ink that are marred into skin, so easy to see. Because if it isn't, my soul shouldn't feel this heavy. It couldn't feel this heavy. So it must be. It must be.

There's mumbling coming from just beyond the fire door of the office, voices that I can't make out by ear but I know those tell tale footsteps that can't help but get closer. My heart pounds in the same way his footsteps all but reverberate through the floor. The voices get closer, and closer, but I can't seem to focus on anything but the air field- the vision of my own red rimmed irises in the glass of the O-9 sized window.

"Sir, I'm trying to tell you that-" The words come through muffled then clear as the door nearly squeaks open. A call to DPW and those hinges wouldn't grind, but I know door hinges aren't exactly on the high priority list for a Vice Admiral.

"Birdie?" That damn nickname's spoken by my father, in that surprised tone that is just a little too irregular completely flattens all my resolve. The floodgates open, or moreover, they break, just as I turn to meet his eye.

"Hi Dad," The words come out too wet and too close to a sob, but we both just stand there looking at one another. In the time we stare at each other, the Earth has rotated almost two hundred eighty miles around it's access. Four hundred fifty kilometers in roughly fifteen seconds. His hand is still curled around the doorknob, the brass of the handle turned down just so. A Lieutenant stands next to my father, an apologetic look hung upon her features. The tightness of her bun pulls her eyebrows up, barely noticeable, but it makes her look a little more surprised, a little bit more of herself that's usually hidden under the mask, just barely breaking through.

It's another two hundred eighty miles before my father makes a move. He enters further into the office while the Lieutenant slips the door shut. I can almost feel how the handle must be warm beneath her slender fingers. The same warmth is rolling off of my hands; all of the nervous energy having nowhere to go but cycle out to my fingertips only to crawl back up my arms once more.

"Hey, kid," My father speaks after another moment passes, another few miles, "I- uh,"

There is so much hanging between us. After spending so many years arguing, instead of words left unsaid between us they all seem to be hanging in the air. Stiff and starched like a uniform collar, textured underneath my fingertips. The way they brush against my skin makes me itch as I inch closer. I wish to choke on them; on the words, longing for a moment that I had something else to say. Some sort of words found stuck somewhere between the tightness of my throat and the stickiness of my gums, lips dry and cracking under the pressure. Instead, they all still hang between us, a rickety old rope bridge while the few feet between us is a canyon's expanse.

The average argument lasts ten minutes, and families tend to have around a hundred arguments a year. That's a thousands hours of disagreements that stand between us over the last year alone. A hundred and twenty five words per minute. That's one hundred twenty five thousand words and I can feel each and every letter that hangs between us in this moment, thick between us like a fog. I can't seem to breathe.

The only thing that seems real is the hot tears falling down my cheeks and the sight of my father's downturned smile. There is so much pity there, or maybe it's remorse in the way one is remorseful for not appreciating a song the first time it's played through. It's the missing of the baseline and the way the bridge carries through to the end of the score. His eyes are gentle, in the way roses are- pricking, piercing from just the right angle.

"It's been a long time, Dad, I've missed you," The words have been hidden in the spaces between my molars, stuck there so long I barely recognized their honesty as they fell from my tongue. My lips catch on their sharp edges and I swallow down the acrid taste of bile and copper. Wiping at the new found streaks of tears, smearing them across the heat of my cheeks, my fingers come back tinged with watery mascara smudges.

"It's been too long, Birdie, sweet pea, too long," There's a slight hesitation in his tone, but it's all too genuine, in a way that makes my stomach turn. The nausea isn't new, not today. "How was-" I know he's going to ask about the last year, about the travel and the time spent in-between our arguments but I can't keep the words from slipping off of my tongue.

"I need to know about your Aviators," He stops, the words hitting him straight in the face leaving mouth hanging open mid sentence. His eyebrows scrunch with the narrowing of his gaze, the confusion evident in the way his head cocks gently to one side before he straightens it right back again. Parts of my father are slipping past the Admiral, like sand through fingertips, but he does everything he can to hold onto his hardened exterior.

"My Aviators?" There is so much hidden in the way the syllables crackle from his throat. He looks as though he has words still stuck to the roof of his mouth, words he keeps tonguing at to keep them hidden behind his teeth.

"I- yes," My brain is spiraling just a little to fast for my mouth to keep up. I can almost feel the way my nervous system is spiking, my neurons firing as my tongue tries to say the words in the forefront of my mind. The deep breath I force into my lungs does nothing to slow my thoughts, but my father's shoulders relax at the sight of my own shoulders dropping slightly. It's a shallow effort but it helps, if only a little.

"I met one of your Aviators today, at the airport," He nods in understanding, "Blond, tall, from Texas. Super nice. Said his name was Jake,"

"Jake?" My father huffs out, scrubbing a hand over his face. "A Texan with one of those shit eating grins?"

"He had a nice smile, if that's what you mean," I reason. The feeling of an impending argument is like static in the air, the hair on my arms standing on end as gooseflesh breaks out over my bare skin. That feeling is acknowledged with a quick glance between us, a look that has him moving closer to his desk. He picks up a framed photograph from it's corner before holding it out to me. I finally move closer, separating some of the distance between us. It's strange, being so close together after spending so long apart. I often wonder if that's how all children's relationships with their parents are after they grow up, or if my father and I are stuck in a unique form of perpetual misunderstanding. I take the photograph from his hand.

"This him?" He points at a man in the back row of the photograph, big smile and kind eyes. It's definitely him, that much I am certain of. There is just something so recognizable about that smile of his, the way the lines on either side of his mouth bend with a dash of mirth, bracketing perfect teeth. It's sick, really, how nice his teeth are.

There are a handful of other people shoved into the photograph together. Jake has his arm thrown around another man who sports a mustache and messy hair. That man looks at Jake like he emits pure light. Eyes squinted slightly with a smile too big to be contained with a closed jaw. That's Rooster. That's Jake's soulmate. There's no other explanation as to why the blond would be holding the other man so incredibly close, with his hands gripping into the material of Rooster's flight suit.

To Jake's other side is a woman. Her smile is smaller, almost practiced, but true joy emits from her eyes. With slicked back hair and sharp brows, she looks all business, like a woman not to be fucked with. But a friend, maybe? Her nametape is too small to read, but as one of the only women in the squad, she won't be too hard to pick out of the crowd. It's the man standing next to her that throws me. Another familiar face stands to her side, Rhett, only with shorter hair and glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. My eyebrows scrunch, mimicking my father's expression.

"Yeah, that's him," I confirm, my eyes still tracking over the faces in the photograph.

"Why do you ask, sweet pea?"

"I met a man on accident, really, his name is Rhett, and his friend was with him, this man here, Jake. We actually ended up on the same flight" I watch my father nod in understanding, one of his hands coming up to brush at his nonexistent five o'clock shadow. I huff, averting my eyes for the next part. "I might have had my soulmate sentence encounter earlier this afternoon," The confession is sheepish at best. I don't meet his eyes. There's no point. I know the expression he wears now and I know I can't handle it in this moment. There's already been enough crying.

"Was it with him? With Hangman?" I watch from the corner of my eye as my father's eyebrows knit together impossibly tighter. His voice is pinched at the callsign, lips tight around it.

"Yes, it was him, but that's not really the point, Dad," My eyes trail over him in the photograph again, but I'm pulled back to Rhett, confusion gnawing inside of my skull, just behind my eyes, "How old is this photograph, because this is Rhett right here, and he told me he wasn't military," I want to ask him if he really knows his aviators all that well, considering the lack of acknowledgement on his features.

"That photo was taken after their last mission, wasn't more than a few weeks ago, right after they all graduated their advanced training. It's recent, and there's nobody in that squad named Rhett,"

"There has to be! This is him, right here next to that woman. I swear it's him!" My fingernail, all chipped polish and sparkles, clinks against the glass, my father leaning closer to get a better look before plucking the frame from my gently shaking hands.

"Sweet pea, I think you're mistaken," His tone sounds like his words are treading a minefield somewhere deep in his throat. I can't help but cough at the thought. That tension bristles between us again, electric like a storm. My fingers knit through my hair to keep from chipping more of my nail polish from my already scraped up nails.

"That," My father taps the glass with his finger, "Is Lieutenant Floyd"

"Lieutenant Floyd?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Floyd," There's a faux confidence in his tone, the same one he used to use when he would call home to say he'd only be gone a little while longer.

"Dad," I raise my eyebrows as I finally swing my eyeline back up to meet his, "What is Lieutenant Floyd's first name?"

He sputters a bit, a hand rubbing at the lack of stubble on his chin. There's a sort of furrow to his brow, one I recognize, even if the rest of his features are laid out in a way I have never come to know. My father has always been a sure man, steadfast in his actions, information spread out in his brain easy to access. This grappling for an answer is unlike him, but it makes him seem impossibly more human.

"Oh, Dad," The words are spoken with slight exasperation laced in the low chuckle that springs forth from deep within my chest. "If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I'll just ask the very nice Lieutenant who let me in earlier, she seemed... knowledgeable,"

I am met with the deep roll of my father's eyes, his hands no longer scrubbing over his face, instead he rubs carefully at his temples. His reaction makes me grip a little harder at my hair. It's stupid, this battle between us. Something left over from the strife of my youth; what we clung to with white knuckles and bloody nail beds just to keep a semblance of a relationship. It's all adolescent animosity stripped to adulthood anonymity, achingly arduous.

"Honestly, Birdie," The words travel on an exhale, "I don't know his first name. Hell, I don't know most of them, especially if they don't give me trouble. I've always called him Lieutenant, barely ever needed Floyd tacked on the end,"

My father shrugs his shoulders unceremoniously, plopping the photograph back down onto the corner of his desk. He leans back into the long line of his desk, his usually pristine tan uniform wrinkling with the way he almost folds in on himself. My tongue flicks over my teeth as I fight the grimace I can feel rising over my features. I try and school my face back into pleasant nonchalance, much like my father usually does, however I think it's a skill better mastered with each star pinned to his collar.

"Can I say something?" There's too much honesty in the way the words crackle out. I nod; it's easier that way. My hands find home near my hips, my thumbs tucked into my belt loops in a shallow attempt to keep from continuing the pull on my roots.

"For what feels like forever now, it's just been you, your brother and I against the world. Just the three of us, and I know not having your mother has been one of the most challenging things, for all of us. I know there has always been this bond that Arrow and I have had, and maybe it's because he is my son, or because he decided that the Navy was his calling too. Either way, I know that there's a foundation there, one that you and I just don't have," I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes, but I do my best to blink them back. The more he speaks, the more the sight of him swims.

"But, I want you to know that even though you and I have struggled," There's a little trace of humor there, but neither of us comment on it, "I love you so fucking much, kid. So much that my chest aches. And I knew this day was coming- your soulmate encounter. God, kid, I am so excited for you, but so fucking scared because you're my baby bird and I don't want anything bad to happen to you, I love you too much,"

There are tears steaking down his cheeks, a sight I haven't seen since my mother passed away. It makes my own chest ache in turn, seeing the strongest man I have ever known begin to crumble. With two quick steps, I am in my father's embrace. His arms are warm, cradling me into his chest, my face into the sandalwood scent of his collar. The stars pinned there less of an obstacle between us, now. He lets a land run over my spine, palm flat to my back, the warmth pooling through my top.

"I'll love you no matter what, kid, even if your soulmate is some military rat like me," He laughs, low and rumbling, into my hair.

"I love you, too, Dad, so much," I mumble into his collarbone, a smile pulling at the corners of my mouth. I can feel my tears sinking into the cotton of his shirt, the tan darkening with moisture. He doesn't seem to mind, or if he does, he doesn't say a thing. We stand there like that for a while, embracing. It's my father who breaks the silence.

"So, kid," He clears his throat in an attempt to hide the mangled bit to tears that still sits on the back of his tongue, "Tell me, how did it all happen? What did Hangman say?" The distaste in my father's tone is evident. I pull away from the embrace with a rueful laugh, one that stirs around that anxious feeling that's been ever present since the airport.

"Well," The word is all sigh, "Jake, Hangman or whatever you call him, was on the phone listening to his voicemail and Rhett had asked him who the message was from, you know? It was a pretty long message," I babble out the last sentence, trying to get to the point, but the words are stuck somewhere under my tongue.

My father just nods at me, allowing me the space to continue. Instead, I plop down into one of the chairs that sits in front of his desk, ones that are meant for official meetings rather than anxiety soaked realizations. I scrub a hand over my face before winding my fingers through my hair again, gentler this time. He stares at me, patient eyes and expression neutral. It's practiced, but genuine. I stare at he ground in front of my shoes when I can no longer meet his gaze.

"Rhett asked who it was," I begin again, back tracking a bit, "And Jake looked at him and said Oh, it's just Bob and that was it. I've had these words on my skin for so long that I thought hearing them would be so easy, but Dad, I panicked,"

"Oh Birdie, it's okay," My father hums, giving me a small grin on the side of reassurance, "It's not always like the stories, the fairytales are just to give us hope, but that's not how life is supposed to play out. It's alright,"

"It gets worse," My words are wet, "I ran, Dad, I ran. I heard him say that and I ran out of the airport and into the first cab I could find. I came straight here, I didn't know what else to do. I didn't even stick around to figure out exactly who Bob is to Jake. God, this whole situation gives me as much anxiety as a baby on board a pond jumper, look at me, I'm shaking like a fucking leaf."

"What did you just say?"

"I said I'm shaking like a leaf, look at me!" I laugh, but it catches in my throat and comes out all gargled. I hold my hands out, watching the way they tremor at the thought of it all.

"No, not that," My father shakes his head, "The thing about the pond jumper,"

"I dunno, Dad, it was an analogy," I reply, it's all furrowed brows and tired voice. as if it could be anything else at this point. I watch my father's expression turn quizzical, his eyes tracking though the air as if he's watching a hop. His nose twitches for a second before he schools his expression back. His hands tighten a bit around the edge of his desk, then he's clicking his tongue to punctuate a sort of silent eureka moment.

"Come with me, kid, I think there's someone we need to go talk to," Then he's pushing himself form the desk and heading towards the door with the same conviction the Admiral meets everything with.

"What?" I push myself from my seat but can't keep my shoulders from sagging. He's stopped at the door, turning back to offer just a hint more.

"I think you and I need to go see Captain Mitchell," There's distain in his voice at the name. I bite at my lower lip, tucking my hands back through my belt loops.

"Why do we need to see Captain Michell? Isn't he the man you can't stand?" I ask, following after him. The whole thing seems futile but a curiosity thrums between my ribs. We pass the nice Lieutenant's desk, her seat vacant, before turning down the hall. It's not long before we are out on the air field and heading towards one of the large carriers.

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