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warnersister · 4 months

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Stay in your lane

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x Reader

Inspired by the song ‘Stay In Your Lane’ by Bronson Diamond and Greta Stanley

Summary: Jake finally realises it’s time to settle down when this mission could become fatal, especially when he sets eyes on the woman he knows is destined to be his future wife - but with his ‘Hangman womaniser’ reputation floating around Top Gun, it won’t be that easy.

Jake had seen you at the bar for a few weekends running now. And each weekend he had drunk enough Dutch courage yet never actually managed to speak to you. He’d first seen you the evening he was first reinstated at Top Gun for the uranium-plant ‘suicide mission’ and with this evening being the penultimate one before Maverick would construct his final flight crew; he’d decided now was a better time than ever. He’d die a happy man knowing he’d at least taken the jump with you.

He was enamoured; whipped the moment he’d first laid eyes on you. The moment all his ‘fuck-boy’ antics and aspirations melted before him and some homeliness grew. He’d always been teased for his charming bed-side manner: before sneaking out the morning after, not forgetting to delete his number from the poor girl’s phone then dashing out the door with another mark to his name and a victorious smirk on his lips.

But recently he’d been sick of the reputation he’d grown to be so proud of, almost embarrassed by his own name and face - he wasn’t blind to the two strands of grey hair that appeared behind his left ear, he wasn’t getting any younger. He didn’t want to be the unmarried sailor who had too much fun as a bachelor in his earlier years and never settled down. Jake didn’t like the idea of dying alone.

Especially not now this mission was looming ever closer.

You’d walked into the bar just before Rooster began serenading the piano, when Hangman was teasing the ‘old timer’, soon to be instructor and throwing him out of the bar for being unable to pay for the tab the aviators and civilians had accumulated for him as a consequence of his phone being on the table top. Jake had turned and winked at you when he’d ordered another beer on Maverick, one for you too for which you just rolled your eyes, unimpressed. Needless the say for once that actually bruised Hangman’s indestructible ego. Normally he wouldn’t have batted an eye when being rejected by a girl at a bar; simply moving onto his next endeavour to take some gullible girl home by the end of the night.

But you didn’t seem like that kind of girl: you seemed like a lady - a woman. And your rejection wounded him more than any bullet or stab any could.

And now you were here for the third weekend running and he was ready to finally try ask you out, especially before he got too drunk too - already racking up his eighth beer and fifth whiskey, even chancing some of the sailor’s rum sitting in the glass cabinet with all the expensive liquor. “Man, just go.” Javy said, elbowing Hangman deep enough to wind him slightly. “What if she rejects me?” Javy laughed. “Jake ‘womaniser’ Seresin is worried about being rejected?” But his chortle died down when he saw the serious conflicting expression on his fellow aviator’s face. Javy thought for a moment before walking over to Rooster and concocting a plan with him. “Hangman won’t talk to lady?” The sunglasses-clad man laughed. “Funny.” Javy shook his head. “No man I’m serious. Look at him.” They both looked across the bar to the man looking helplessly at the newly familiar girl chatting with Penny with a comfortable grin on her face.

“Damn if Hangman doesn’t want her I’ll have her.” Rooster commented, pulling his sunglasses to the end of his nose to look at you properly and whistling lowly. Javy slapped his chest, having a lightbulb moment “I’ve got it. You go and tell him that.” Rooster raised a brow waiting for him to elaborate. “Go over there, tell him you’re gonna go chat her up and watch how fast he moves.” Rooster smirked, loving the fact he was being offered the opportunity to wind up Hangman. “Next rounds on you.” He told Javy, hitting him on the back as he strutted over to the lovesick man by the pool table.

Rooster mirrored his actions from a few moments prior, eyeing you like a tall glass of water after days stranded in the heat-infested desert. He whistled, gaining Hangman’s attention, forcing him to drag his attention away from you. “Who’s the honey at the bar? She is mighty fine.” Rooster commented, biting his lip slightly. “Found my mission for tonight, wish me lucky.” He patted Hangman’s shoulder, who was getting progressively more aggravated by Rooster’s comments - not even noticing how tight his grip was on his beer before it was slammed on the table and he raced past Rooster. “Back off, porn-tash.” He grumbled and the tanned man smirked, his job was done.

Jake marched straight over to you and leant against the bar beside you, ordering another beer off of Penny and requesting she get you another of whatever you were drinking, turning to smirk at you gently. You looked at him, unimpressed but with a small smile on your lips. “Evening darlin’” Jake nodded at you, trying to make his charms work one last time. “Evening.” You replied, thanking Penny for your new drink, and him too. “Thanks for the drink, but I can pay for myself.” You say, not trusting the khaki uniforms regardless of what the face wearing them told you.

“And I don’t doubt that, allow me to apologise for treating the gorgeous lady at the bar.” He says jokingly, taking a seat beside you. “What’s your name darlin’” you laugh slightly and tell him. “And what’s yours?” You retort. “Jake. But my coworkers call me Hangman.” He told you, trying to woo you with his Naval charm. “Hangman? What, did you lose a game? Not enough consonants?” He laughed at you. Normally now he’d made a joke about him being ‘hung’ in more ways than one but he stopped himself, wanting to impress you/ not seduce you.

He continued to attempt make small talk with you throughout the evening, you hardly entertaining his antics. “Look, Hangman” you say straight, after your third drink, compliment of him of course. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but if your goal is to get me in your bed by the end of the night, you’ve got another think coming. You have a reputation around this base and I don’t intend on becoming another one of your one-nighters.” You throw back the rest of your drink. “So thank you for the drinks, but this ends here.” You say, about to stand up before a rough yet gentle touch reached out to keep you sat, prompting a frustrating and challenging look in return.

“I’ve been shot and I’ve been stabbed but I’ve never been so madly in love as I am with you.” He said all of a sudden, causing you to sit right back down in your seat; shock overcoming you. “Excuse me?” You say, almost thinking you hadn’t heard this infamous aviator you’d only known for the past two hours admitting his adoration for you. “Look I that my reputation proceeds me, but seeing you for the first time three weeks ago made me realise somethin’, darlin” he licked his lips in nerves, gathering his thoughts: prepared to admit to you. You cocked your head to one side, almost unable to speak “I know we just met, but if I had to bet I´d say you feel the same way too”

“Cause I’ve realised that when I first looked at you, in that gorgeous dress with that bright smile, self-sufficient and head strong I knew I’d have to drop my ridiculous play-boy persona sometime soon. Especially if I wanna settle down with a mighty-fine gal such as yourself.” He admits, looking down nervously and swallowing - adam’s apple bobbing as you question his intentions and think that he may be more gentle than his reputation had told you.

Suddenly The Righteous Brothers’ infamous song amongst Miramar pilots began playing; You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ and Hangman smirks and an idea develops within his mind. He stands and offers a hand to you “dance with me, please?” You give a small smile, allowing your heart to lead instead of your preemptive mind familiar with his kind and laced your hand in his, standing and smoothing your dress which he found incredible endearing.

He began swaying back and forth, talking so loud you could barely hear the band. As he sung along to the sound, keeping his hands respectively on your hips and eyes never straying away from your own. When the song had finished he necked the rest of his beer, drinkin´so fast you were surprised he could even stand. Even trying to be endearing; making a fool of himself dancing just to hear you laugh, dancin´ like a crab running over the stinkin´ hot sand.

Eventually you both moved to the cracked-open door adjacent to the beach, sitting on the deck as he eyed the hand closest to him, but you were still hesitant - the infamous ‘Hangman’ reputation weighing heavy in your mind. His pinky inching towards your own and you chuckle gently, shaking your head “and I was hopin’-” you cut him off “you were dreamin´ if you thought you were gonna be holdin´ my hand” you inform him.

“Later Hangman!” You both hear and turn to see the rest of the dagger squad making their way out of the bar, Nat winking at you unbeknownst to Jake and you requite her gesture. “Later!” He waves them off. He stands and struts to the bar, taking you with him to jot his details on a napkin “here is my number, call me when you get home” he slides it to you, to which you reverse his action, pushing it back to him “that number ain’t no good to me, ´cus I don’t own a telephone” you shrug, but he knew it was in your jacket pocket.

“Well then,” he scribbles again “here is my address, write to me if you could” he suggests and you shrug “well, I never finished school, my writin´ just ain’t no good” he grits his jaw slightly “the way you carry yourself tells me otherwise, ma’am.” he says and you smirk, leaning closer to whisper in his ear “that’s doctor to you, Jake.” He shivers at the way you say the name he’s been used to hearing since birth. But hearing you say it was so raw: so true. So right.

He raises a brow “Doctor? News to me” “y’never asked.” You say gently. “Final call! Another round or get your asses safely home ladies and gents!” Penny announces in a holler from her position behind the bar, to the final few stragglers at the Hard Deck; including yourself and Jake.

He opens the door for you; winking as you feign flattery and naming him a gentleman, you both thanking Penny for the evening and leaving to your respected vehicles. “Now the bar’s are closin´, and we’re leavin´ at the same time” he comments, entwining your hand with his which you begrudgingly feel absentmindedly closing around his, also. You shake your head and look up to him “So stay in your lane, boy and I’ll stay in mine” you say and his eyes sadden slightly, reaching your car and you lean against it, welcoming him trapping you against the driver’s-side door “Ive been shot and I’ve been stabbed, but I’ve never been so sad knowing I’ll never see you again” he says, pulling your hand up to kiss each knuckle, not allowing himself to disrupt eye-contact; fearing that as quick as you came into his sights, you’d be gone.

You smile, using your free hand to caress his cheek slightly; him leaning into your soft touch. “Don’t be so dramatic, I’m at this bar every damn weekend” you say matter-of-factly, leaning to kiss his cheek before pulling away and climbing into your car. “Goodnight, Hangman.” And you reverse away, a pang in his heart until he felt for his phone in the back pocket of his summer whites, a small strip of paper falling out alongside it. He picks the unknown scribe from the gravel and inspect it - your phone number written in a neat hand and he grins - maybe his bedside manner was improving.

And that mission crept up on the daggers quicker than they’d ever hoped and Hangman found himself antsy in his cockpit, about to take off to go save his instructor and career-long buddy: not that either of them would ever admit their comradeship. He closed his eyes and pictured your tired face that gleamed back at him at the twilight hour he’d last saw you, knowing you were the reason he’d return from this final task - listening to the air traffic control counting down until his take-off.

Before he’d realised, he’d acquired another air-to-air confirmed kill under his belt of a fifth-generation fighter and was headed back to base to celebrate. “Well done aviators, helicopter paramedics Reaper and Sunny are waiting on deck to check you all over.” The voice instructs over comms. “Reaper? Why’d they call ‘em that?” Hangman asks with a chuckle and the voice was dormant for a few seconds. “We usually send her when we think there’s gonna be dead needing reviving.” And soon the callsign wasn’t a joke and they realised the higher-ups were more prepared for this suicide mission than the pilots were.

Hangman climbed out of his aircraft and shook hands with Rooster, all just happy to be safe back on deck after a successful mission. “Lieutenant Seresin!” One of the engineers called “you’ve been instructed to go be checked over by Reaper.” Jake nods and walks through the crowd giving him pats on the back, to the helicopter. “Reaper? I’ve been told to be assessed.” The paramedic pivoted to face him and his facade dropped, as you stood before him in your pilot get-up and medical equipment strung onto your shoulder.

You sighed heavily “thank god you’re okay” you say and he wordlessly approaches you and dips you in a long-awaited kiss “please give me a chance, don’t make me stay in my lane, princess”

“Wouldn’t think of it, cowboy”

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libraford · 1 year

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The Pickle Ball drama is wild!

For those that don't know, pickleball is like if you played ping pong on a full size tennis court. It is generally considered an 'old people's game.'

Retired people wake up early in the morning and the first thing they do is go play pickle ball with their likewise early-rising friends. I'm talking like... 5:30am. And the first thing they do when they get there is complain that the bathrooms aren't open.

Of course they're not open. The park employees don't get to work until 7 and the facilities don't open until 9 at the latest because we only got two guys to unlock the whole city. Calm down. Go before you leave the house or get comfy with the bushes.

Well, someone gave the Head Complainer a key to the bathroom. Because we seem to reward this kind of behavior, I guess. So when I get to Madeline Park at like 8:30 the bathroom is already unlocked. But I still have to clean it.

Before I do that, though, I have to take care of the trash. Today, it is full to the brim with beer bottles. I'm pissed about this because it was clearly the pickleball folks who were drinking, which is illegal on the premises, but as previously mentioned- I'm not a cop.

But more than that I'm pissed that there's broken bottles in there, which is a hazard to me. I have to double bag the trash and be really careful or I'll have a sparkly glass shard bracelet.

I run my arm along the rim of the bag and it comes out...red? I didn't think I got cut. It is undeniably blood, but more notably it belongs to someone else.

Well, I'm washing that arm thoroughly. I scrub it off my arms in the women's room and use hand sanitizer, and then clean the bathroom while im there.

I go into the men's room to do that one next. There is blood on the sink, the floor, and the toilet. And y'know, I'm used to blood in restrooms, I'm just not used to blood in the MEN'S restroom. It's not like... a fatal amount of blood, but more blood than should be outside of a person.

Well, that's no good. I clean it up, but it's eating at me that I've already encountered human blood twice and it's not even 9 yet. So I go over to the Head Complainer and I ask him:

"Hey uhhh... there was a lot of blood in the men's room. Is everyone alright? Do I need to file an accident report?"

He gives me a good-natured laugh. "Oh, that's just Greg. He came over from Kauffman Park and I have to say- didn't like the rules he played by."

Oh my God what a vague and horrible answer. I cant tell if nes joking or not. "Is... is Greg okay?"

"Oh, ha hah ha! He's fine, he's just back at Kauffman Park where he belongs."

"Oh! Okay then. Ha...hahah..." Absolutely terrifying.

Day 7/50.

#blood mention #parks and wrecks #life as a temporary twig pig

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tishalfdeadwaffles · 2 months

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(The secret history spoiler warning)

unironically the thing I love most about the secret history is that it’s messed up by all means. Each character from the Greek class is messed up one way or another, and their faults, their fatal flaws—they’re not just any flaws no, they’re flaws that make these characters horrid. Yes they had cute interactions, yes I always think about their time in the countryhouse, when they were by the lake and Camilla injured her foot, Francis in his robe and Henry in his suit with the trousers rolled up to the knees, looking like a banker in an old impressionist painting, as he wades into the water, Charles saving Richard a sandwich and almost getting in trouble for it, bunny being kind to Richard at the start of the book and trusting him to the very end, the way bunny and Marion were so old married couple coded, Judy Poovey talking Richard’s ears off and being a girl 🎀, Henry beating up that jock for Camilla

Despite all this, Charles remains an incestuous drunkard and an abuser, Francis remains a melodramatic man who’d ask just about anyone he thinks attractive to bed on the first meeting, he’s also an anxious mess and refuses to believe there are consequences to his chain smoking, Camilla is manipulative and we know little of her bc of Richard’s idolisation, Richard morbidly longing for the picturesque at the expense of others’ lives and viewing the Greek class through rose tinted glasses, bunny was a homophobe and racist and leeched off everyone’s money—he literally put Richard on the spot during one of their first interactions in the book when he took him to the Brasserie and had Henry pay for everything—and looking through his sick friend’s diary and he was so darn annoying I couldn’t stand him at all in the first read, and even that might as well be exaggerated because it’s only Richard’s perspective on him, and bunny seemed to be well liked in the university by those outside the Greek class. I don’t even know where to start with Henry, I’m gonna have to make a separate post for him alone at this point. And even Judy, remember when Richard met her in the bathroom and she was talking about her slamming into Camilla when Camilla JUST entered the place, and when Camilla called her out Judy just dunked her beer on her because being drunk is a perfect excuse to see that as the right thing to do? And then when Henry and Charles went up to defend Camilla Judy called them abusers for defending her? 😭 though Henry breaking Spike’s bones is another thing to be honest. and don’t get me started on the bacchanal—the four of them killing an innocent man in their frenzy and getting away with it and brushing it under the rug later on. They’re literal murderers, and that’s before the plan of murdering Bunny was introduced

and ALL of them are chainsmokers and alcoholics to a dangerous point, can you even imagine the smell?????

anyhow, the main point of this ramble, is that to get a good sense of what this book is really about, I’d suggest rereading it at least once. Donna is a master of her craft, and this work of hers is anything but shallow, even the flaws are so perfectly placed and shadowed by our unreliable narrator to the point where there’s a big bunch of readers who completely ignore them (think of how there’s critics and readers who assume that Lolita is a romance novel) , but if you look from a more rational angle you’ll understand what Donna was trying to communicate

and I love love love how she did all of this

#thank you for coming to my ted talk #tsh #the secret history #the secret history Donna tartt #henry winter #richard papen #bunny corcoran #francis abernathy #camilla macaulay #charles macaulay #The Greek class #tw spoilers #tsh spoilers

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hermionewrites · 8 months

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femme fatale

summary: a morally dubious personal investigator takes a holiday to virginia as she had heard that aaron hotchner was in witsec. he was not.

warnings: MDNI!!!!! blowjobs, slight d/s dynamic, slight rough play, open ending.

a/n: This is my first smut like work! so please give me the benefit of doubt as i know i need to improve lol. Hope you enjoyed!! Happy reading <3 SEND ME REQUESTS PLEASE. I know aaron doesn’t come back after witsec but for the sake of plot, he does.

word count: 3062

In the past twelve years you had been everywhere in the world. Paris, London, Milan, Sydney, Nigeria, Moscow, and in forty nine of the fifty states. Every one held a different passport and a different name and accent. There was one state, however, you avoided like the plague. Virginia. Named after the virgin queen, birth place of the first president and home to Quantico, the FBI office and unit chief of the BAU, Aaron Hotchner.

Through the grapevine of criminal connections, you had heard that he had been pushed into WITSEC by Mr Scratch. Him and his son were in Michigan, living a normal life. So you decided to make your way to Virginia.

Your week was spent going around to all the tourist attractions, you had hazy memories of. The Smithsonian, the national gallery of art, and the Lincoln memorial but steering clear of the Capitol. Too risky. Finally, the nightlife.

Holidays in your line of work were rare and short. A night out in a bar, for fun and not information on a suspect was even rarer. You were going out for fun, to get drunk and find someone to pull back into your cheap motel before you were back on the road again. Lightly curled hair twisted around your face, framing it and highlighting the dark, sultry makeup that was precisely painted onto your skin. Dark liner pulling attention to your eyes and a deep red lipstick, surely to leave a mark.

The dress was black, tight, showing everything you had off. It fell around mid thighs that were covered in a silky black stocking that ran down to your feet that were held in expensive black heels. The red bottoms were unmistakable and were a subtle hint at your wealth, steering all of the right people your way.

You’d looked up the bars in the immediate vicinity by your motel. One was a club, that was too young for you, it would be full of college kids looking to score with an older woman. The other was one an older bar with a snooker table and a dart board. This one was too old, filled with older men. The one you’d decided on was called O’keefes. It had a dart board and a moderately sized dance floor. It was the perfect medley between young and old.

The sign outside was glowing red, lighting up the immediate area. Brown wooden doors had little glass windows and you could see the inside was dark with red accent lights, matching the sign in the front. Pushing open the doors, you immediately make your way to the bar and do a scan of the place. The bar was in the middle of the room in a square shape, you sit with your back to the door.

“Can I get a gin and tonic please.” You ask, in a strong french accent, the bartender and she nods, whisking away to go and mix your drink.

“I’ll pay.” A voice says from behind you and you turn around. He’s a blonde, tall, muscular man. “You’re French?” He asks and sits on the red bar stool next to you while nodding to the bartender for a beer.

“Yes, I’m on a vacation?” You say, feigning pauses between your words, giving the impression of changing your dialect to American. “It’s fun here.” You smile at him and rest your chin in your hand.

“Ah I was born here, lived here my whole life.” He tells you and grabs your drinks off of the bartender and you sit and begin to chat. “What do you do for work?”

“I’m an accountant. What about you?” You ask him, not breaking your eyes from his, they were bright blue even in the red light. Not your usual type but he would do.

“I’m a gym instructor.” He comments and subtly flexes. Your toes curl in cringe as he does this but you grit your teeth and make a face of recognition.

“That makes sense, you’re very” You look down and sigh, pretending to think of the word. Looking up you make a grunting noise. You look down again, coyly this time.

“Muscular?” He offers and you make an ‘o’ with your mouth and nod at him. “Yes, I go to the gym every day. I do all sorts of things.” Immediately you had regretted talking to this man. He started to go on and on about all the types of workouts and weights and how long and what muscles it works.

He talked your ear off. He didn’t stop. Your eyes roam around the room, watching all of the other people and they’re conversations that seemed miles more interesting. There was a blonde woman and a bald man having the time of their lives on the dance floor, clearly drunk out of their minds, they looked familiar. The red light bounced around the room and your eyes follow it, taking you on a journey of people watching.

There was another couple, this time in a booth, snogging each others face off. They looked absolutely enamoured with each other. Her hands were in his hair and his hands were on her hips.

Your eyes followed the bouncing light to a round table in the corner of the room. There was a group of five people all laughing and drinking, pointing at the people on the dance floor from a second ago. They were close friends. In the background of your thoughts was the blonde man, still rambling on about the gym and being buff.

The light took your eyes to the door of the men’s bathroom as someone stood out of the doorway. His shoes were black leather oxfords, polished and shining. Black slacks that were perfectly tailored and were tight around his thighs. The same could be said for his white long sleeved shirt, tight across his chest with two buttons undone. A small amount of chest hair peeking out in the gap. Now he was more your type. You looked up to his face to study it.

Your heart drops to your stomach as you take him in. The stool squeaks as you stand up from it quickly and the two of you just stare at each other. You’d also realise you’d walked into a bar full of FBI agents and the one who disliked you the most was looking directly after you. Glancing over to the table of the large group of people you had just observed.

“I am not feeling to well, I have to go.” You say, leaning down to the man, who you didn’t know the name of and watched him look confused. “The gin didn’t sit with me. Goodbye.” You put your hand on his shoulder and grab his beer which he hadn’t touched yet.

You had never been so glad to sit near the door. The split second decision to bolt out of the door was risky. Running out of the bar, you rip the door open and made your way onto the Virginian streets. First mistake, wearing heels. Being a PI provided you with a generous amount of funds. However, expensive heels this high we’re for being walked down the the street in the arm of someone. Not pelting it down paved streets, you already regretted your choice to go out tonight.

Second mistake, coming to Virginia in the first place. You heard the bar door open again and he ran through it, bolting after you. He had the upper hand here, knowing the streets. Quickly, you run into the back alley’s. You didn’t stop running, checking the street signs as you ran. Desperate to get back to your motel, you don’t look back once.

Guessing wasn’t your strong point, you think as you randomly pick another alley to run through, hoping to find some familiarity. All of them started to look the same, maybe you’d already been here, or maybe it was the panic. There was a T shaped turn, you could either go straight foreword or turn right in a couple yards. You run straight foreword.

Suddenly, as you pass the right turn you are slammed against the brick wall. You feel the backs of your tights get stuck to the brick and rip and you wince.

“You prick.” You groan and pull your hands up to shove him off of you. “What you do that for?” Bending down you bring your hands to your knees and puff for breath.

“What job are you on?” He says, with his interrogator voice. Eyebrows creased and shoulders squared to make himself look more threatening.

“I’m not on a job, Hotch.” You tell him and stand up straight, looking at this face close up for the first time in a while. Your mind short circuits for a second as you contain yourself. “You have a beard.”

“You’re always on a job.” He states, clearly not believing you.

“I’m on holiday!” You exclaim, throwing your hands up into the air. “You.” Dragging out the word you point at him. “Are supposed to be in witness protection.”

“How’d you know that?” He asks, confused. He takes a step forward, his chest rising and falling.

“Everyone knew?” You roll your eyes at him. “You had to disappear because of Scratch, you were in Maine.” You shrug. “Now can I please, go back to my motel.”

“No.” He says and takes another step foreword. “You’re a murderer.” He states. “I’ll walk you.”

“Alleged, you have no evidence.” You answer quickly, “You have a bias against me. I’m innocent.” You sigh and start to walk away from him. “We can’t be seen together.”

“I know.” You look at him confused. “To all of those things. But it’s dark, I’ll walk you.” He jogs to catch up to you and the two of you walk at a leisurely pace in the direction of your motel. It’s silent for a while and you take in the streets. “You’re British?” He questions, turning toward you.

“I assumed you knew, all these years.” You laugh slightly. “You have reading glasses yet?” You joke. He doesn’t find it funny. “One day, you’ll laugh.” The silence comes up once again, you swing your arms back and forth. “What did you tell your friends?”

“That I had to go.” He states and you turn into the street of dodgy motels. “Why did you mention my beard?” He asks as he walks you to the door. You turn the key you had in your bra, and lean against the open door way.

“It suits you, you look fit.” You shrug and smile. His face doesn’t move. “It’s a compliment, accept it.” You roll your eyes again and scoff. “You want to come in?” He shakes his head and goes to open his mouth but you interrupt.

“I don’t want to fuck. Calm down.” You walk into your room and wait for him to follow. “Close the door.” You hear it click closed. “It wouldn’t be a good idea for us to have sex again anyway.”

“Why?” He says with a strong breath out of his nose.

“You might get attached.” You smirk at him and he finally laughs. It’s a deep baritone, but silky like honey, you wanted to drown in it. “Also because I think someone knows we’re friends.” You sit down on your bed and pull your red bottoms and frown at the scuffed paint. You look up to him as you peel the ripped tights away from your legs, leaving you in your dress.

“What do you mean?” He asks and you rummage through your bag, pulling out a white envelope. You toss it towards him and watch him pull out pictures of you from vulnerable times throughout the years. “Are these not yours?”

“No, my blackmail is in a safe.” You give him a smile and lean back. “I was served them, like I was being sued.” You explain. “I’m trying to find who’s they are, don’t worry.”

“I will lose my job, if these get out.” He says flicking through them again.

“I know. They won’t.” You assure him and take the photos back, taking them back and sliding them into the envelope. The air in the room feels thick and you bury them back into the bottom of the bag. The dynamic was strange. He didn’t like you because he thought you were a murderer. You didn’t like him because he thought you were a murderer. However, you couldn’t deny the tension the two of you had. You had kept your meetings short for this exact reason, the room heating up. You look up and meet his brown eyes.

“Is that all your things?” He asks and you nod. “It’s not a lot.” He states and stands up rigidly straight.

“I don’t live anywhere for more than a month.” Zipping your bag shut. “I close my cases quickly. You can sit down.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “I should go.” You nod and watch him turn to the door and take two long steps towards it. You never said goodbye. This time though, he hesitated to twist the door knob.

“One more time, couldn’t hurt.” You stand up and the two of you meet half way, wrapping around each other. Your lips hit his neck and you start to suck gently while simultaneously unbuttoning the buttons on his shirt. Your hands dive into the hair on his chest and generally feel him up through the open shirt. “You been working out?”

“Occasionally.” He says nonchalantly as your hands wander south. Down to his toned stomach and your fingers fiddle with the button on his slacks. You look up at him for permission and he nods. Slowly, you use both hands to unbutton them and teasingly pull down the zip. “Hurry up.” He grits and your hand slides inside the trousers but stay over his boxers. You felt him get hard in your hand.

He leans down to your neck and licks up to your ear and whispers. “Get on your knees for me.” You do exactly as your told and lower yourself down to the carpet.

“You’re so lucky you’re hot, this carpet is gross.” You say up to him and pull his black slacks down to his ankles. His mouth perks up at the compliment. You learn on the backs of your feet and wait. Your fingers trail up and down his thigh. He pulls down his boxers and that was a sight you missed.

Just looking at Aaron Hotchner, every one could tell he wasn’t small, in any shape of form. His build was big, his chest was big, his hands were big, you could go on. His dick was certainly big, you observe as he holds it close to your face. “Look up at me.” He instructs and you instantly do what he says.

You didn’t know what view you preferred. On one hand, his dick was pretty. On the other, he had grown a beard out while in WITSEC. They were both equal.

“Can I?” You ask, swiping your tongue over your lip but he cuts you off.

“Patience.” He states sternly. He liked to make you wait. You roll your eyes again but do sit there patiently. He pulls you gently from the back of your head closer to him. You furrow your eyebrows at him, wondering what he was doing. An uncontrollable red flush crawls up your skin as it dawned on you, he was measuring up to your face. Dirty man. He smirks and leans back, “Go ahead.” He finally says and you sigh in relief.

“Patience is not one of my strongest virtues.” You snark and lean in, taking a long, slow lick up his length. In the past few years, you had forgotten what he had tasted like, you didn’t want to forget again. Something you’d never forget was the noise he would make when you finally took him into your mouth.

That groan was music to your ears, a symphony that makes you blush. He’s heavy and warm on your tongue. You look up at him through your eyelashes and his eyes are screwed shut as he pants. Hallowing your cheeks, you slowly bob your head along him.

“Nor is it mine.” He moans out and runs his fingers into your hair. “Can I?” He strokes your hair and you nod, mouth still full of his cock. “Use your words.” He commands and smiles down at you as you pull off of him.

“Yes, you can.” You confirm and he grabs the back of your hair in a fist. He then guides you down on him again, but deeper than before almost breaching your throats and you couldn’t stop yourself from groaning, vibrating on him and the grip on your hair tightens slightly. “Christ.” You feel the leg muscles you have gripped in your hands twitch as he moves his hips forward to meet your movements.

The frequent small spurts of salty taste into your mouth signalled that he was getting closer to the edge. You try not to smirk and you take him deeper and he throws his head back with a throaty groan.

“I’m not going to last long.” He grits his teeth together and his legs twitch again, gripping onto the back of your head as you control your breathing through your nose.

He calls out your name, a word he rarely even whispers. It falls out of his lips as he finishes into yours.

He pulls out of your throat and you swallow, standing up and then perching on the edge of your bed. “Let me pay you back.” He says and takes steps towards your, lips landing on your neck. A soft moan leaves your mouth. But suddenly, the two of you are ripped apart by the phone ringing. He pulls away and answers, it’s not work, you can tell by his softer than usual tone.

“I’ve got to go.” He awkwardly says, pulling his trousers back up and buttoning his shirt. “It’s my son, Jack, he’s ill.” He grabs his wallet that had fallen on the floor in the chaos. “I’ll see you soon.” You follow him to the creaky door to see him out.

“No, you won’t.” He begins to walk away into the dark of the night. “Goodbye Aaron!” You call out into the darkness as he disappears.

#criminal minds #fanfic #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #ficlet #fluff #oneshot #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner smut #smut #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader smut #aaron hotch fluff #aaron hotch smut #first smut #hope you enjoy!!!

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laguezze · 10 months

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PAC: What you should be confident about

Theme: Focus by Ariana Grande

I am kinda back guys! Feeling better and ready to step into a new, confident energy! So here are some reasons why you should be confident!

Warning ⚠️: it's honest, also there is a +18 pile soooo. Minors DNI.

Let's see the piles!

Pile I

Pile II

Pile III

Pile IV

Pile I

(+18 only bc i don't wanna be calling a minor sexy and alluring)

You are sexy. Period. Like you have something so alluring and attractive about you. There's something so seductive in your aura. You're charming and talk well. I'm hearing your voice may be very attractive and siren-like. You might get tons of compliments on your voice.

Your calmness also makes you incredibly mesmerizing. You seem mysterious, but also playful. You're like a femme fatale fr (no matter the gender, it's the energy they bring to the table)

You just know, subconsciously at least, how to pull people in.

You speak well and are educated. You understand social customs and the way conversations work, so you make people very comfortable.

You should be more confident of your energy, like you're so charming and hot like genuinely charming and irresistible.

Look around at the room, see all those eyes? Yeah, they're looking at you bc you rock. That's why.

Pile II

The way you walkkkkk like we got a strutter here. I'm hearing the way you walk accentuates your curves very well and makes your body look very good. People notice the way you carry yourself. I'm seeing someone walking around the city with a handbag and a good fit. Fashion may be your strong suit too.

People might see you as someone fashionable and confident, whether you are or not. You definitely carry a strong energy with you. People love it.

You make heads turn a lot more than you realize. Like omg feel free to ignore this but I'm hearing you may have a good dump truck if you know what I mean. Like you're just built different in that department what can I say? People admire that. People wanna be you and be with you.

You also have such a positive energy to you, like your confidence shines through and people want to be around you a lot bc of it. They want to be like you.

Pile III

I knew I was gonna get this pile. You guys are my brains pile. The smart ones, very intelligent people. That's one of your strongest suits and I think you know that. You definitely do, yeah. Well, I'm here to tell you what you already probably saw coming. You should be confident about it. Own that IQ babes. But ALSO I'm hearing some of you are not satisfied with this answer. Maybe you read some of the previous piles while scrolling and you're like "bro why is everyone being called hot and I'm out here being called smart??? Am I not hot or what?" Calm down. You are hot. Your intelligence makes you extremely hot. Sapiosexuals would kill for a day with you fr.

BUT since you wanna hear something physical maybe, I will mention, there's something about your cleavage area and eyes. Maybe some of you wear glasses and people love that look. Your look compliment your personality. Very neat and clean, it's effective and attractive. People love that.

You might not be physically strong, a lot of people like how dainty and fragile you look because of your strong personality and brains. They love the contrast and so should you.

Pile IV

Hmm... You're probably expecting me to say your body. A lot of you guys might party a lot and get told that your body is hot and this and that. And although you take pride in that, deep down you are tires of hearing it. You want to be called "beautiful" while someone stares at your face. Not looking down.

You are beautiful, I'm seeing your soul is wounded a little bit. You may have had a rough time and got over it but the scar still hurts sometimes.

Your soul is beautiful. It really is. You want the real thing, you're passionate about life and love. You came out of a Renaissance painting literally like you're just so idealistic and it's hard to be that way in such a dull world full of hookup culture (note! I'm not judging anyone for hooking up. I respect decisions and personally don't see anything wrong with it. I'm just saying for some people that are more hopeless romantics looking for their one true love it might be hard to navigate a world in which hookup culture is very prevalent)

Your soul and your inner life makes you stunning. Your body is, of course, hot and beautiful. But the main thing you should be more confident about is your inner self. Your kindness and deep thoughts.

You will be loved the way you love one day 💕

The End

#tarot readings #tarot #free readings #tarot blog #free tarot reading #pick a card #tarot pick a card #tarot pick a pile #pick a pile #Spotify

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ohtobeleah · 2 years

Text

Clover Club // Robert Floyd

Summary: After a near fatal accident, Bob comes face to face with the reality that time really is fleeting. Deciding that taking the leap to love you while he has the change is better than to not have had the chance at all.

Warnings: Robert Floyd x Reader. Mickey Garcia x Stepsister!reader. Depictions of injuries sustained from a serious car accident. ANGST! & a lil bit of fluff.

Word Count: 8.3k

Author Note: I don’t wanna hear shit about this one. This is 100% Whump. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m sick in the head—but this entire concept was inspired by Claire’s accident in McLeods Daughter’s. If you aren’t Australian and haven’t seen it just look it up on YouTube. SAD BOI HOUR. Also: this also serves as a milestone post—thanks for the 2k following.

Bob hated his birthday. He had for three years. Not because he didn't like presents or because he didn't like cake. It wasn't because he did have friends and family who would celebrate with him each and every year that passed. It wasn't because he was a lonely person or someone who didn't mind the day being about him.

It was because it served as a memory of the women he lost. A memory he could never ever forget even if he tried. How could he? Reaching out across his bed to be met with emptiness– Bob opened his eyes with a long drawn out yawn. Looking around the bedroom to be met with just himself. Sitting up, Bob threw his legs over the side of the bed. Noticing the date on the alarm clock that sat on his bedside table.

His Birthday–

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

Three years earlier

“This is just perfect, he’s gonna be thrilled—“ Rooster placed his hands on your shoulders excitedly as he shook you slightly. Standing behind you as he admired the birthday decorations that you’d worked hard to hang up around the entirety of the Hard Deck. Fairy lights and birthday streamers. Helium balloons in all different colours, and the birthday banner that read Happy Birthday Bob. “Bobs gonna love it.”

“You think so?” Rooster thought that you and Bob should have gotten together a long time ago. He thought you were two of the best people he knew and the undeniable chemistry you two both gave off whenever you were left alone to your own devices together just seemed like a perfect match. But that was just his opinion. The matter of fact was you and Robert Floyd weren’t even dating. It was more of a situationship than anything else. A blooming romance that enjoyed taking its sweet sweet time developing. “I just hope it’s not too much.” Planning Bob a surprise party for Bob’s birthday wasn’t something you thought you’d ever do, but it had been fun nonetheless.

“No, this?” Rooster questioned as he jumped over the bar, working quickly to pour himself a glass of beer from the tap. “It’s perfect.” Snatching the schooner from Rooster's hand before he could take a sip, you sent him a warning glare. Having followed him right around the bar before he could get too comfortable.

“Penny doesn’t like it when you flyboys come behind the bar—“ You reminded him, watching as Rooster rolled his eyes and slumped his shoulders in defeat. Trudging along as he went to sit at a barstool. “I need to pick up Mickey from the airport and stop by Bensons to get the cake. Can you finish getting this place all decked out before the birthday boy arrives?” You wouldn’t consider yourself a hard task master. Simply a bartender who had a thing for the big eyed bigger soul weapons systems officer who’d always given you the time of day. But with the way Bradley Bradshaw was looking at you like you’d just asked him to cut off his own arm—perhaps a hard task master was more appropriate. “Rooster—?”

“Two on the house beers and a bowl of fries and you got yourself a deal.” Rooster beamed as he leaned on the bar. His elbows pressed against oak as you looked at him dumbfounded.

“On the house just means out of my paycheck you jerk!” Sighing as you fished your keys from your back pocket. “But fine, whatever—I really don’t have time to argue.” Stepping out from behind the bar you threw Rooster the keys to the bar. It wasn’t yet open for patrons. “Don’t do anything stupid till I get back.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Rooster shouted back as you raced out the door. Looking at your watch you had about an hour and a half to get Mickey and Bobs birthday cake before meeting Rooster and the rest of the TopGun gang back at Hard Deck. You’d planned everything perfectly, even reached out to Bob's family. His hometown friends, everyone who was important to him. “Drive safe!”

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~

“So, are you and Bob a thing yet?” Mickey Garcia had been in your life since you were about five years old. His mother had been dating your father and as the years went on? He became your step brother. Officially. “I mean—if you’re planning the guy a whole ass birthday I think you should at least make a move don’t you think?” Mickey had been visiting your parents in Seattle on his annual leave, coming back just in time to make it for Bob's birthday.

“I’m pretty content just waiting in the shallow end.” You’d been hurt before. Pretty bad as a matter of fact. Driving back towards the Hard Deck with precious cargo in the back seat. Bob's birthday cake—the massive three layer sponge cake with fresh cream and white chocolate caramel. “We have time, I’m just trying not to get too involved, I mean—I think he might be interested. But I also just don’t wanna get my hopes up. And I’ve already told everyone to say it was you.”

“Me! I haven’t even been here!” Mickey laughed to himself in disbelief. “Bob is gonna know straight away that this was all you.” Mickey was probably right, but you weren’t about to put yourself out there like that. Not when you weren’t entirely sure where you stood. Sure, you’d really like to be exclusive? If that’s what you’d even call it. There’s been a handful of dates, a few moments where eye’s lingered and lips almost connected. But maybe Bob just wasn’t in it. Or maybe you were reading too much into it to begin with. “Besides, he’s different. I don’t think Bob would ever hurt you, not like—“

“Mickey—“ Cutting off your brother with a sigh, you shook your head softly as you drove down the road. “You don’t need to bring him up.” Your ex boyfriend had been that bad, that when you finally managed to get away all you took were the clothes on your back. Mickey was the whole reason you ended up in Miramar—when he’d found out that the daggers were staying as a specialist unit, he hooked you up with a job working for Penny. Keeping you close by surrounded by people who’d always protect you. He never expected you’d stay on your own accord. That accord being one Robert Floyd.

“All I’m saying is Bob is good people, he does like you, talks about you all the time to anyone who falls victim to it.” That made your heart skip a beat. You hadn’t really felt this way about someone since high school. It felt childish—but in the best of ways. “Maybe just try to get him to yourself tonight?”

“Can’t, working behind the bar—“ It wasn’t uncommon for you to get side tracked talking to Bob as you cleaned tables and collected discarded glasses. Although you knew Bob wasn’t a drinker, he was one of the only few you’d ever bring a fresh glass to every so often. His order always the same every time. Lemonade with lots of ice, lime wedge on top.

“That has never stopped you before.” Mickey taunted as he looked down at his phone. “It’s beyond me how anyone actually gets a drink whenever you’re working and Bobs in the building.” You couldn’t help but to laugh with Mickey as you felt your cheeks heating at the embarrassment. The smitten kind of embarrassment. “You’re like a moth drawn to a flame—“

“I’ll drop you on the side of the road if yo—“ In an instant, what had been a simple drive back to the Hard Deck as the sun set, turned into a horrific scene of twisted aluminium and bloody bodies.

“WATCH OUT!!” It came out of nowhere, leaving you with little to no time to react more than slamming your foot down on the break. Only to be completely cleaned up by the car coming at you at what felt like the speed of goddamn light. The sound of tires screeching and glass shattering rang through your head as airbags did the best they could to stop your head from smacking violently against whatever part of your car you were thrown against as you rolled and rolled and rolled. Your car ended up at the bottom of the embankment just a five minute drive from the Hard Deck. If you looked close enough with your eyes squinted slightly, you could see it. The lights that had begun to glow a people that looked the size of ants swarmed in.

“Mickey?” You cried as you tried to move. Trapped. “Mickey you there?” There was no response as you listened closely for something, anything to give you a sign of life. Nothing. “Oh, oh god—“ Panic set in quickly as you felt yourself disappearing, the edge of darkness threatening to take you victim as your head spun and eyes rolled. Blood dripped from your mouth. The last thing you consciously remember thinking before coming to a complete stop was the cake sitting in the back seat. The car kept slipping down the embankment, slowly but surely creeping further and further away from the line of sight of oncoming cars. There’s no way it survived. Dizzy and feeling like you were hanging from the roof, you let the taste of iron consume you. Tired, you just needed to close your eyes for abit.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bob had the slightest inkling that you had been up to something. He just wasn’t entirely sure what that something was. But as he came through the front doors of the Hard Deck and was taken aback by all the decorations, the balloons, the birthday banner that read Happy Birthday Bob. He knew in that moment you were behind this entire get together.

“SURPRISE!!!” Everyone in the entire bar cheered and shouted as Bob looked around at all his friends and family that had all come together to celebrate his birthday. It wasn’t something he did every year. Not one big on birthday celebrations. But as he looked around—his eyes scanning the entirety of the bar, looking amongst a sea of people? How could Bob not love his birthday even for a moment. You’d done this all for him he knew that the second he saw the specific way the streamers were twisted. But where on earth were you?

“Happy Birthday man, how’s it feeling huh? Another year older?” Hangman teased as he handed Bob a birthday hat. Something childish alright but it kept with the theme. Bob Accepted it with a smile and nodded in response as he tried to hide the blush creeping over his cheeks.

“Feels good—yeah, hey have you seen Clov?”

“Is she not behind the bar?” Jake responded with a questioning brow. If you weren’t here where the fuck were you? “Ah well, she can’t be too far away right?”

“No, yeah no I guess you’re probably right.” Bob tried to shake the almost gut wrenching feeling he had. Checking his phone to see if you’d messaged him, if he’d missed a call. The last text you sent being the one you sent him on his lunch break—reminding him to arrive on time. Sending you a quick message asking where you were before joining in on the festivities the best he could.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

It was the smell of gasoline and burning rubber that broke Mickey Garcia out of his unconscious state. His first instinct was to unclip his seatbelt which had him hurtling towards the roof of the car that had somehow become the floor. With a groan, he crawled out of the broken passenger side window—army crawling his way along the dirt and grass that shattered glass had covered without a rhyme or reason.

Laying on his back, Mickey closed his eyes as dry blood covered his face. A deep gash still dripped fresh blood down the left side of his cheek. He could feel it dripping.

“Fuck—“ His torso hurt from where the seatbelt had locked up against him. Probably the only thing besides the airbags that saved his life. “What the hell—?” It shouldn’t have come as an afterthought but it did. “Oh fuck, hey—Clover!” Scrambling to his feet, stumbling as he held his hand to his torso, Mickey crouched down near your window. “Clover can you hear me?” It wasn’t your name, Clover. More so of a designated call sign the resident Aviators you surround yourself with had given you. You’d brought the cocktail with you when you started at the Hard Deck. Asked Penny if you could redo the cocktail menu. A Clover Club had quickly become the special. The mix of raspberry, gin and egg whites winning over the crew who seemed to take you under their wing. “Clover, hey—!” It looked like the scene from Carrie, the one where blood was just dumped over her entire being. Your seatbelt doing God’s work holding you into your chair upside down. Unconscious.

“Help!” Mickey could smell the gasoline leaking from somewhere close to him, so close and so strong it burnt the hair in his nose. “Help me–!” A voice so panicked sent shivers down Mickey's spine as he turned to see the other car. The one who had hit you, the one that had come out of absolute nowhere at a million miles and hour. “Please–” Checking your pulse carefully and as gently as he could, Mickey left you for much longer than he liked as he raced across to the other car, the man trying to claw his way out of the driver's side window. glass cut and dug into his skin as he fell to the ground. Bloodied, broken and bruised.

“You alright?”

“Does it fucking look like i’m alright! You guys hit me!?” Mickey couldn't believe what he was hearing, he did his best to assess the man as he kneeled beside him. “What the hell even happened.” Without question, Mickey knew the man was drunk. He could smell it just as prominently as he could smell the leaking gasoline.

“Okay, we need to get some help out here.” Looking around Mickey could see the Dard Deck just off in the distance. He could run it if he really needed to. Where was his phone? Patting himself down he realised it must have gone flying in the wreck somewhere. “Do you have a phone sir?”

“I did, somewhere, I was arguing with my wife.” Fucking perfect. A double whammy if there ever was one. Drunk and using his mobile. With a throbbing head and a weak constitution for blood, Mickey stood to his feet, making his way back to you. Just in time too, you were coming back to him. Squeezing your hand to gain your attention, Mickey crawled slightly into the car. Assessing if he should hit your seatbelt buckle or not.

“Mickey?” It came out so soft. Barley even audible as you came to. “What–what's going on?” Trying his best to keep you as calm as possible, Mickey sent you a soft smile. Looking up at you as you looked down at him. Blood dripping everywhere.

“Just had a bit of an accident–” Mickey squeezed your hand as he shimmied further into the car along broken glass. “But I feel like we should try and get you out of here, I'm not a big fan of the smell coming from the engine Clov.”

“Oh god, Bob–” It actually pained him to hear you say it. “It’s his birthday, the cake.”

“They’ll be other cakes Clover, but not another you alright?” Trying to keep his voice as calm as he could, Mickey's heart sunk into his chest. Your legs had been jammed up under the steering wheel column. Jagged edges of plastic from your dash stuck into your thighs, ripping them apart like no tomorrow. So deep he wore he saw bone. “How are you feeling?”

“Been better.” Coughing slightly, blood bubbled up forcing you to cough a little more aggressively. “Im so sorry Mic–”

“Not your fault at all.” Mickey was trying his best to keep himself together as he tried to look for his phone, to no avail. “But I do have to go get help so I can get you outta here.” It was almost as if you’d just woken up and realised what was actually going on. Because the minute you felt Mickey slightly pull his hand away from out of your grasp, you panicked. Tears fell with the gravity of being trapped upside down.

“No no no, don't leave me.” Begging as you cried, trying to unbuckle your seatbelt. It had become jammed from the impact. “Mickey don't you leave me here to die, please–please don't leave me.”

“Clov I can’t not get help.” Mickey tried his best to convince you, but you weren't having a bar of it. Clawing at your seatbelt trying to set yourself free as your steering wheel column dug deeper and deeper into your thighs. “Clover stop!” Mickey tried his best to still you, your hair caked with blood as he held you still. He assumed that there was so much adrenaline pumping through your veins that you couldn’t feel the damage being done to your legs. Either that or shock. “You’re stuck, please don’t make it worse by moving—“

“Get me out Mick—“ It was the worst kind of plea for help because Mickey Garcia was in over his head. He didn’t know what to do. On one hand he could find a way, but the damage he could do in the process might outweigh the cost of setting you free. On the other hand? He leaves you here to get help, what if you weren’t to make it? How could he ever live with himself? “I’m serious, get me out!” Screaming at the top of your lungs as you tried with all your might to free yourself.

“Hey shh, shh—listen?” Mickey looked around the roof of the car which had become the floor, your phone lit up across the other side. With his emotions running wild as he tried to reach it Mickey groaned. It was Rooster trying to get a hold of you. “Shit, I can’t get to it.” Just as Mickey was reaching for your phone it stopped ringing out—a loud overpowering explosion consuming you both entirely. Sending the car rolling over a little more down the embankment. Mickey had smacked his head as the car rolled, rendering him unconscious as you laid pressed against the steering wheel still trapped.

“Mickey?” It hurt to breathe. “Mickey!?” It hurt to speak. “MICKEY!” You didn’t know what had happened—what had caused the car to shift again. To roll over. Whatever blood had rushed to your head while you had been upside down was now pumping back through the rest of your body.

And fuck did it hurt.

Rooster stood on the front porch of the Hard Deck biting his cuticle as he listened to your voicemail for the third time. Where the hell were you? You should have been back by now? By a while.

“Dude? Where’s Clover? I thought she was the one who set this whole thing up?” Jake questioned as he came to stand with Rooster, picking up on the decorated pilot's worry.

“Should’ve been back by now.” As Rooster clicked on your contact once again—Jake jumped slightly beside him at the explosive fireball that shot up in the near distance. Just down the road.

“Holy shit what the hell was that?”

“Whatever it was, it can’t be good—“ Watching as the fire ball dissipated and thick black smoke followed in its tracks, Jake and Bradley were both too scared to admit to one another that they both had the same gut wrenching feeling. What if it had something to do with you? “We should check it out—“

“Yeah no doubt.” Before the two men could get very far down the front steps of the Hard Deck, Bob was coming after them.

“Oh my god, what happened over there?”

“We’re gonna go check it out man.” Rooster explained. “Stay here, enjoy the festivities! It’s your birthday.” Bob didn’t want to admit it, but without you there to taunt and tease? He wasn’t having all that good of a time. “Sure it’s nothing.”

“Well if you’re sure it’s nothing we’ll be quick and be back before anyone even notices, right?” Bob stood his ground. Hesitant to drop the subject because what Rooster didn’t know, what Jake didn’t know, what Bob didn’t know—was that they were all thinking the same thing. But no one wanted to say it out of pure fear. “So what are we doing still standing here?”

“He’s right, let’s just check it out and get back before everyone throws a tantrum—“ Jake had become a little less jerky and a whole lot more tolerable since the success of the uranium mission. But he still had his moments.

The road was pretty much a straight shot to where the explosion had been. The three aviators all jogged somewhat seriously towards the fire. The smell of gasoline and what could only be described as a mix of burning rubber, aluminium and human flesh completely consuming them the closer they got.

“Oh shit–” Jake saw it first. The familiar silver of your Toyota Corolla caught his attention as it sat crumbled up in the embankment next to what he could only imagine had been another car. Completely engulfed by flames. “Fuck–” Pausing in his tracks as he gripped Bob by the forearms. Pulling him back as his eyes widened. Realising it was your car. His heart immediately racing in his chest. “Don't do it to yourself man, go back to the Hard De–” Ripping his arm out of Jake's grip, Bob raced down the embankment, sliding down on his arse to avoid the steep incline and force of gravity. “Call an ambulance man–” Jake's voice was soft as he gestured to Rooster who stood completely gobsmacked by the sight before him. There was no fucking way anyone would walk away from this?

“Clover!!” Bob shouted as he stood to his feet. “Clov? Are you there?” In retrospect, yes it was a stupid question to ask. But Bob didn't know what else to ask. “Clov!” When he finally laid his eyes on you Bob held back his imident automatic response to throw up the entire content of his stomach. “Oh my god–” With a hand over his mouth to sooth the urge, Bob tried his best to open the door. Pulling at the handle to absolutely no avail.

“Won't work–” With your head resting against the steering wheel, you mumbled softly with your eyes closed. Conserving whatever energy you had left. Whatever light. “Bob–”

“Hey pretty girl.” Bob’s bottom lip quivered as he pulled himself through the broken window. Being careful enough to avoid the shards that threatened to slice his torso. “What happened, hey? Do you remember?” All he got as a response was a soft moan, anguish evident. “Can you open your eyes for me?” Bob was careful as he moved your blood stained hair from your face. Dried and stuck in the cuts and gashes that covered your cheeks, your forehead. Watching as your eyelids fluttered open and blood dripped from your slightly open mouth. “There she is, hi Clov.”

“Hi–” It was all you could muster up the strength to say. Small almost inaudible responses. “Mickey?” Bob wasn't thinking straight, he hadnt even thought that Mickey would be with you. He hadn't noticed Mickey sprawled in the back after being thrown around when the car rolled again.It was supposed to be a surprise. Pulling himself out of the window to turn back to Jake who had managed to find a way in, retrieving Mickey from the back before placing him on the ground.

“He’s got a good pulse, I don't know shit else Bob, they aren't in a good position–can you get Clover out?” Statement, question, statement, question. That's all Bob heard. He couldn't think straight. Couldn't see, couldn't hear. This was the woman of his dreams he was dealing with. He’d been too afraid to make a solid move on. “Bob!”

“Sorry, Sorry–ill uh, i'll try.” Shaking himself out of his own head Bob turned back to where you sat trapped in the driver's seat. Assessing the situation. “Clov, I'm gonna try to unclip your seatbelt, yeah?” You’d gone back to just responding with groans, eyes closed. “Open your eyes for me.” Bob reminded you as he reached in and around to unclip the belt that had come loose in the last roll. Shifting you slightly forwards when it unsnapped. Your eyes open just barley.

“I got you–got you a cake.” Okay. Maybe Bob could work with this. Keeping you occupied with absent minded conversation while he stayed with you till the ambulance arrived.

“You did? What flavour was it?” Bob's heart dropped out of his arse when he saw the damage that had been done to your legs. Specifically your thighs, completely cut into and torn off the goddamn bone from your sternwheel column. Completing trapping you regardless if he was able to get the door off its hinges. “Clover, what flavour was the cake?” He wasn't giving up, but Bob quickly realised the best thing he could do would be to just say with you, keep you talking.

“White Chocolate Caramel.” There was not a part of you that wasn't covered in blood. Bob knew the human body held a lot, but he’d never seen it leaking from so many places before.

“Well, I'm sure it would have been perfect.” searching for your hand, Bob gripped it as tight as he could. “I'm here okay, I'm not going anywhere, helps coming Clov.” This had to be the sickest joke the universe had ever pulled on Robert Floyd. He had a plan, you see. Bob was pretty sure that tonight would be the night he finally worked up enough courage to ask you if you wanted to date. Start off slow, go with the flow. Enjoy each other's company more exclusively. He wasn't sure if he’d ever get the chance to now.

“Guys, I'm pretty sure there's a dead guy burning over near the other car–” Rooster shouted as he raced down the embankment. “Ambulance is like five minutes away.” Bob didn't reply, he was too caught up with you. His eyes weren’t leaving yours as you just sat there, resting against your steering wheel. Face squished.

“Bob?” It was a sob. Clear as day. Bob noticed the tears welling in your eyes as they fell down your cheek. Mixing with the dried blood that caked your skin.

“Yeah Clov, I'm here.” Squeezing your hand as you gave him nothing back. Your fingers just twitching ever so slightly.

“I really like you, like a lot.” You didn't feel good at all, something was very wrong and you didn't want Bob to go about his life wondering if you did or didn't like him. Despite your insecurities? Bob had been a good friend. Always. You just needed him to know that there was more than friendship on your part. Just in case. “Just need you to know–” Coughing up blood as you really struggled to keep your eyes open and tried on Bob. “Just in case–”

“You aren't dying on me.” Bob was stern when you leaned further into the car. His face just inches away from yours. “You don't get to die on me, God if you die on me Clov i'll be–”

“Angry?” Of course he’d be angry, you ruined his birthday.

“Completely and utterly heartbroken.” Bob finished his sentence before you could let your mind run wild with the thought of Bob being angry at you. “I couldn't never be angry at you.” It was the Silence that fell as your face changed. Stilling as muscles relaxed and your breathing shallow even more than what it already was. “Clover? Hey– Clov you stay with me alright?” Bob panicked as he pushed your hair back out of your face. Your hand fell limp in his as you smiled softly at him just one more time. Your vision blurred and became dark and dazed. Sirens alerted Bob to the fact that emergency services were just getting to you now. They began racing down the embankment with gear they needed.

“What I would give to know what it would be like to be loved by you.” It was the last thing you said before darkness came for you, going completely limp as a steady stream of blood poured from your mouth. Eyes still open as your entire body weight collapsed onto the steering wheel. Bob couldn't believe it. No–he wouldnt let you just fucking die on him.

“Clover!!! Hey, no no no no don't you do this to me! Don't you do this, c’mon, you're alright.” Complete denial had set in as he tapped your cheek trying to get you to wake up. “No baby don't do this, please don't leave me–”

“Sir, step aside!” The paramedics on sight were quick to push Bob to the side. The feeling of his hand slipping out of yours Bob swore he’d never forget. “She's not breathing! Let's get her out of here quickly!” Bob stumbled back as he felt his heart racing, tears streamed down his face until his back crashed against Rooster. Finally breaking as he fell to his knees. Listening to the paramedics as they worked on you. “Where's the defib?” “I can't get a pulse!” “Pass me the saw now!!!”

“Bob?” It was Mickey's voice that pulled Bob out of his own head. Watching as paramedics placed him on a stretch with his neck in a brace just for good measure. “She loves you, you know.” Your blood was all over his hands, his shirt, his jeans. Bob couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think of anything else but how he’d never get a chance to love you as fiercely as you deserved to be loved.

***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***~***

As you cleared the empty glasses from the top of the tables, you caught the sight of Bob in your peripheral. Sitting off to the side while the rest of the aviators he’d accompanied to the Hard Deck played a game of pool. Respectfully—it wasn’t Bob's thing. The pool table and booze weren’t what he came to the Hard Deck for. It was and always would be to see you.

“You want another drink Lieutenant?” Still working to clear the table before turning to face Bob with a smirk. “I can make you a mean mocktail.”

“You know I hate asking—“ Bob looked down at the empty glass of lemonade that he held in his lap.

“It’s not asking if I’m offering.” Taking the glass from Bob's hand, you stayed comfortably between his legs as his hand moved to glide against the side of your thigh, fingers playing with the hem of your waitressing apron. “One Clover Club mocktail coming right up.” It all seemed to give you a case of Déjà vu. You’d done this before.

Too many times to count.

“What about the cake?” Bob questioned as his eyes lingered down towards your thigh. Confused, you tilted his chin up with your fingers.

“What cake?” Huh, this was new. This wasn’t what you were expecting Bob to say.

“My birthday cake—“ Reaching out to cup your cheek, Bob left a bloody handprint against your cheek. “You ruined it.”

“What are you talking about?” Storm clouds were quick to take over the sunny sky that had been blistering outside the Hard Deck. Glass shattered around you as three branches smashed into the bar. “Bob! What’s going on!?” Falling to the ground on top of you—Bob protected you from the wild weather and broken glass. Bob used his body as a shield.

“Quickly, follow me!” Rising to his feet Bob took off running. Trying your best to follow him, you stumbled back to the ground. Your legs were numb. You thighs were cut up and bleeding, so badly you could see bone. Flesh torn apart. “Clover! Over here!!”

“I can’t walk!” Panicking you felt your chest tightening as the storm outside got worse. Where had everyone else gone? “Bob! Help me!” The entire Hard Deck looked as if it had been caught in the eye of a hurricane.

“I’m over here!!” His figure has gone, vanished into thin air. “I’m here Clover!” Where the fuck was he? Why did he leave you?

“How do I get to you! I can’t walk, I can’t see you!?”

“Just wake up.” Bob's voice had softened, like he was whispering right in your ear. “Please come back to me—“ Scrunching your eyes tight as you balled yourself into a foetal position a steady beeping came through the thunder. The beeping drawing you back to reality because when you opened your eyes again you were no longer at the Hard Deck. You were in what you could only assume was a hospital bed.

Cold. That’s how you would describe hospitals in one word. They were always so cold. The steady beeping of your heart rate monitor was the only sound you could concentrate on as you slowly but surely looked around. Your arm was casted. Had you broken it? Trying to shift yourself up the bed slightly you noticed how unbelievably heavy your legs were—or lack thereof. Wait—why couldn’t you feel your legs?

“I uh, I just stepped out for a coffee. Didn't expect to see you awake for a while.” Bob’s voice was soft as he stopped himself at the threshold of your room. Holding a large coffee in his hand and a fresh bunch of flowers he’d gotten to replace the practically dead ones that were in the vase across the room. Timidity, he entered. Not sure how to act even though he’d been by your side since you were moved into a room by yourself. “Not saying that you being awake is a bad thing, I just um–the doctors told me not to get my hopes up.” You didn’t say anything in response as you watched Bob fixed the flowers he'd brought you into the vase, discarding the old ones before he came to sit beside you. He looked tired. Scruff has settled in nicely across his chin and cheeks.

“It's that bad huh.” You cut right to the chase. Not wanting to beat around the bush too long with it. Bob just took a sip of his coffee as he tried to hold back tears. He’d gotten pretty good at it over the last week or two. He’d just swallow a bunch of times and clench his jaw to stop himself from breaking down over a girl who wasn't even his to break down over. “Bob?”

“I should go get your parents.” As Bob tried to leave, you reached out for his wrist, keeping him from moving away. He hated the little oxygen tube that fed up into your nose. He wanted to rip it right from your face. But he knew better than to do that. It just hurt to know you’d been through so much. That he couldn't do more to help. “Clov–”

“You won't sugar coat it, please?” You knew if your parents had a chance to explain what was wrong with you, they would give you all the odds and tell you to fight and keep strong. But Bob? He was a statistics guy. A realist. He knew exactly how bad things were. You could see it in his eyes. “I wanna hear it from you.” Running his hand down his face as he placed his coffee on the table beside you. Bob reached for your papers. Sitting back down in the chair beside you as his free hand squeezed yours. The pad of his thumb rubbing softly against the skin of your palm.

“Um–so–” Bob didn't really know where to start. Clearing his throat as he looked back to the woman he loved so dearly. “So you had an accident, a pretty serious one.” Explaining what had happened the best he could with the information he had. “I think a good place to start is that Mickey is already discharged, he’s good, a couple of broken ribs and bruises here and there but otherwise he walked away pretty unscathed.” That in and of itself had been a miracle. It was good to hear though. “A little bit of a concussion but that was to be expected.”

“Why can't I feel my legs?” You really just wanted to get to the worst part of all of it. Bob was reluctant to explain but he knew you would appreciate him just cutting the cord. “Rip the bandaid off Flyboy–” It was something you called him just to tase him. Flyboy. Even as you laid practically on your deathbed, you still had a massive thing for Robert Floyd.

“You broke your back in two places Clov, doctors said you had a pretty high risk of losing function possibly from the waist down.” Bob's entire demeanour changed as he lost the smirk that crept across his face at the pet name you called him. Settling for something more serious as he held your hand and explained what was going on. “They tried to operate, you know, clear the bone fragments that had shattered and tidy everything up. Relieve the pressure on your spinal cord.” Bob paused a he look a deep breath in. he’d had more time to come to terms with this but he still hadnt fully processed it. “The surgery offered slightly better odds on the paralysis front but you were in critical condition–the surgery came with real risk.”

“The risk being, I'll never walk again?” It cut through Bob's heart like a hot knife into butter.

“The doctors seem to think there's a slight chance, but if we’re looking at it from an odds perspective here Clover it's like one in one hundred.” But he told you the truth like you asked him to. Didn't sugar coat the situation at all. He told you openly what you were facing. “There's options like rehabilitation, but the chances of ever walking without aid again are pretty slim to none.” the silence lingered as you processed what Bob had just told you. Frowning, you simply tried to change the subject.

“Did you ever get another birthday cake?” Bob looked at you like you were on some sort of medication he wasn't aware of. “I think if anything you need a cake.” Pushing the hospital blanket off your legs you tried to sit up. But couldn’t on your own accord. “Bob, help me up would you?”

“Y/n” Bob hardly ever used your name. Noone really did these days. It always always callsigns and nicknames. So when Bob said your name it struck a nerve that someone was severely wrong. “I'm not gonna do that alright, just–let me get the doctors for you and ill–”

“I'm fine, see–?” Pushing yourself up with your good arm. A jolt of pain flashed up your spine. Gritting your teeth you tried to act cool. “See, now help me off this goddamn bed.” Trying your best to throw your dead legs over the side of the bed, Bob had to reach out and physically stop you. Forcing you to stop what you were doing. “I'm fine! I'm totally fine!”

“Clover your paralysed, please–don't make it worse just, please, i'll go get the doctors.”

“I dont need some fucking doctor! I need to get out of this fucking bed!” A nurse walking past had heard the commotion coming from your room, stopping in the doorway to see Bob struggling to keep you still in your bed. Paging for someone to come check on you before the situation spiralled out of control. “Bob if you aren’t going to help me get the fuck out!” Not knowing what to do, Bob ignored your pleas for him to leave, how could he do that when you were so clearly not alright. “Get out!! GET OUT!”

“I'm not gonna leave you here alone Clov” Bob tried to hold you still as he saw the doctors coming in. “It's just a lot right now–”

“Fuck. Off. Floyd.” At this point you didn't really know what you were saying as Bob stepped back and let the doctors who knew what they were doing take over. “Get out of here!” It was hard not to take things as personally as he did. Bob knew it was just the process of grief taking effect. It hits everyone differently. You didn't mean what you were saying, but the fact you had just been told you probably would ever walk again had your emotions everywhere. You needed someone to blame, someone to hate. Bob had just been the closet victim.

Watching as the doctors and nurses sedated you for your own benefit, Bob let his emotions escape as tears streamed down his cheeks. Standing over near the flowers he’d brought you. Settling you back into the bed, one of the nurses turned to Bob, offering him a few tissues.

“You shouldn't leave, she clearly needs someone–it’s most likely just the cocktail of drugs we’re pumping her with.”

“Oh I wasn't going to.” Bob was quick to clarify. “Just hard seeing her like this.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Bob had waited until your parents had arrived before he left your side. Since you’d asked him to leave he hadn’t been back. Well, as far as you were aware anyway. He’d slip in to check on you while you were sleeping, but he was too afraid to overstep a line you’d drawn in the invisible sand of your relationship. As days turned into a week, you’d begun to worry irreversible damage had been done to your relationship.

But something Bob couldn’t let go of was the fact he’d watched you die. He’d watched your light fade into nothingness. He’d watched the girl he’d pinned over for months with your intoxicating laugh and bright smile fade to nothing. He’d been given a chance to love you—he wasn’t letting that go.

He saw you out of bed, sitting by the window in the wheelchair the hospital had provided. Knocking gently, you didn’t turn around. For a split second—Bob was going to turn on his heels and dip. But he stood his ground. Clearing his throat as he entered your room.

“You know, I never did get to eat that birthday cake.” Bob started as he came to stand beside you. Noticing the glazed over look in your eyes as you looked longingly out the window. “So I thought, why not share one with my best girl.” A little bit of Bob's southern hospitality jumped out when he sat the small two person cake on your lap. Holding up two silver spoons as he ducked to kiss the top of your head. Chuckling softly, you shook yourself out of your daze. Watching as Bob sat down beside you.

“I'm sorry I snapped at you last week.” It was a heartfelt apology you knew Bob deserved.

“It’s not an issue, really.” Bob was quick on the draw as he shook his head. You didn't need to apologise for grieving.

“Why’d you stay away for so long then?” Silence fell for a moment before Bob decided to just be truthful, be honest.

“I just wanted to give you time, some space.” It was the truth. “I still came by and sat with you while you slept. Checked in with the nurses, your parents, Mickey.” Opening the plastic lid on the cake before he dug his spoon in as he spoke candidly. “You’ve kinda got me in a spiral here Clov and I dunno what to do.” It was Bob's first admission. Taking a spoonful of cake into his mouth as he sat back in his chair. Mimicking his actions you did the same, taking a spoonful of cake onto your spoon. “I'm pretty sure I wanna spend the rest of my life with you, but that could also be the whole I saw you die thing still making it hard to sleep.”

“What did you just say?” Coughing on the cake you just swallowed in a lump.

“The whole I saw you die thing making it hard to sleep?” Bob repeated as he frowned his brows. “I mean yeah, i just can't get the image out of my head, and then there's the blood–”

“No Bob, I wasn't talking about that–'' It wasn't that you didn't care about what Bob was going through, seeing someone die in front of you would be hard on anyone's mental stability. “What do you mean you wanna spend the rest of your life with me?” It felt so natural to say that Bob hadnt even realised how much that could weigh on a person. “Robert Floyd, you know I'm in a wheelchair right? For possibly the rest of my life– you can't do that.”

“Why not?” He was being so casual about it that for a moment you thought you were going crazy. “What law says that?”

“There's no law it just seems–” You paused as you hung your head low. Almost shamefully. “Unfair.” That really hit Bob. “I feel like you'd be more of a carer then a partner and I don't want you being stuck with a girlfriend who can't walk. Do you know how many things I'd be cheating you out of?” It really did sound like you were trying to talk Bob out of whatever decision he’d made about you. “Not to mention the process of–”

“You don't get to think of yourself as any less deserving because of this.” Bob was quick to interrupt as he brought you a little closer to him by your wheelchair. “You are the best person i know–”

“Bob please–”

“You're so funny, you light up any room you walk into.” Bob smirked as he saw your eyes get a little bigger, a smirk trying its best to take over the muscles in your face. “Do you know how many Clover Clubs i've drunk just so i had a chance to talk to you?”

“What do you mean?” You could not believe what you were hearing as you tried to hide your smile, biting your bottom lip softly as Bob softly rocked your wheels back and forth as he admitted his feelings, his little smooth criminal moves.

“I hate eggs, God the idea of drinking raw egg whites makes me want to vomit, but goddammit the way you would always ask, so nicely, so sincerely, how could I say no!” It was the laugh you let out that had Bob beaming. He hadnt heard you laugh in so long. “Even if it was non-alcoholic id still rather drink anything else than raw egg whites.”

“You should have told me!” Between genuine chuckles that evoked tears of joy, your smile had come back. Bob was certain at that moment he was going to marry you one day. “I would've just made you something else, or better yet brought you over something you actually wanted.”

“Now where's the fun in that?” Bob beamed as he leaned in to kiss your forehead. Holding you against him for a moment before pulling away to rest his forehead against yours. “Honestly, if you want to, we’ll take it slow and just see how things go? But this?” Bob gestures to the wheelchair you sat on. “Does not change how I feel about you. If anything it's made me realise just how fleeting time really is and all I wanna do with the time I've got left on this god forsaken earth is love you the way you deserve to be loved.”

“You're gonna end up resenting me.” It was hard to trust that someone could love you with how broken you really were. “For all the things i'll never be able to do.”

“I could never resent you.” Bob was as honest as he could be. “Never could I ever resent you for just being you Clov.”

***~***~***~***~***~***~

Present day

Bob hated his birthday, a little part of him died that day. He would never take life for granted again. He cherished small moments with the people around him more than most people would ever know. Not only would he take mental pictures of life's greatest pleasures, he’d taken up photography in order to make sure he could always look back on the memories he’d made with the ones he loved. If Robert Floyd was around? You’d best be sure there was a camera not far behind.

Yawning as he made his way down the hall, Bob kicked away balloons that had littered the floor of the hallway. He knew you weren't far away.

“Babe, what is all this?” Rounding the corner of the living and kitchen area, Bob froze in his tracks as he locked eyes on you. “What the hell!” Completely stunned.

“Happy Birthday Baby!” You beamed as bright as the biggest star as you stood just slightly away from the kitchen counter. Standing still on legs that had not held your full weight on their own in three whole years. Your cane close by, Bob could see it sticking out from behind the island bench. But that didn't matter. Because as you took three very wobbly steps towards him unassisted? Bob couldn't have asked for anything else besides your happiness. “Been working towards this since you told me I was still worth your love.”

“You will never stop amazing me, pretty girl.” Bob was quick to catch you in his arms as you lost your balance, crashing into him. His lips on your in an instant as he picked you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. You were his one in one hundred chance. The love of his life. “I love you so much.”

Robert Floyd hated his birthday. His birthday brought around memories of the women he lost. Forever trapped in that smashed up car. But he’d never for a moment forget how to love the women who he had the chance to love as fiercely and as passionately as he did. He knew a part of you died that day, but he was just thankful to be able to spend his days with the best parts of you that were left.

“I love you so much more, Flyboy.”

#robert floyd x reader #mickey garcia x reader #top gun x reader #top gun maverick fanfiction #robert bob floyd #bob floyd angst #bob floyd fanfiction #mickey garcia fanfiction #top gun bob

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birdiesaves · 2 months

Text

THE MARTIAN ( novel by andy weir ) change as necessary !

mankind reaching out to send people to another planet for the very first time and expand the horizons of humanity blah, blah, blah.

i’m pretty much fucked.

they got the parades and fame and love of the world, i got a firm handshake and a hot cup of coffee when i got home.

i would only be “in command” of the mission if i were the only remaining person.

what do you know? i’m in command.

it wasn’t your fault. you did what you had to do.

in your position i would have done the same thing.

it was a ridiculous sequence of events that led to me almost dying.

everyone thinks i’m dead.

ok, i’ve had a good night’s sleep, and things don’t seem as hopeless as they did yesterday.

i won’t be able to whip something up with tinfoil and gum.

fear my botany powers!

but hey, time is the one thing i’ve got.

i wonder if they'll ever find out what really happened.

i’ll spare you the math. the answer is _________

bleh. i’m going to bed

my life depends on you

i played a lot of dungeons and dragons.

i have an idiotically dangerous plan

i suppose i’ll think of something. or die.

the answer is: i don’t know.

all i accomplished today was thinking up a plan that’ll kill me

also, i have duct tape.

after a search of everyone’s personal items i found my answer.

that was sarcasm, by the way.

this all sounds like a great idea with no chance of catastrophic failure.

do you have any idea the magnitude of shitstorm this is gonna be?

how come aquaman can control whales? they’re mammals!

i expected it to be cold, but jesus christ!

now, on to my next task: sitting around with nothing to do for 12 hours.

i ask for a picture and i get the fonz?

the whole world’s been rooting for you.

really looking forward to not dying.

please watch your language.

sorry we left you behind, but we don't like you.

you're sort of a smart-ass.

your request for “anything, oh god anything but disco” is denied.

no. you’ll fuck it up and die.

i took it apart, found the problem, and fixed it.

i don’t see anything... i can hear it, but... it’s down here somewhere, but i don’t know where.

the subtle and refined “hurl my body at the wall” technique had some flaws.

named after the greek goddess who traveled the heavens with the speed of wind. she's also the goddess of rainbows.

i'm not giving up. just planning for every outcome. it's what i do.

your poster outsold the rest of ours combined.

why are you such a nerd?

you should try to be more cool. wear dark glasses and a leather jacket. carry a switchblade.

you started my training by buying me a beer.

so now i have to do boring-ass experiments with test tubes and zzzzzzzzzz....

frankly, i suspect you're a super villain.

just once i'd like something to go to plan, ya know?

no? ok... what was that!? oh, nothing? ok...

for now i just want to go home.

there's always hope

are we just watching a tragedy play out?

you’ll survive this. i don't know how, but you will.

i've defiled enough historical sites for now.

tomorrow night, i'll sink to an all new low!

tomorrow night, i'll be at rock bottom!

be a smart-ass to a guy seven levels above you. see how that works out.

i remember when you were shy

the attitude comes with the job

and by “enjoying” i mean “hating so much i want to kill people.”

there aren't many people who can say they've vandalized a three billion dollar spacecraft. but i'm one of them.

what's our role in all this? if something goes wrong, what can we do?

how do you come up with this shit?

i admit it's fatally dangerous, but consider this: i'd get to fly around like iron man.

i need you to come back in and make a bomb.

i knew that guy was a mad scientist!

i think we should just go with my iron man idea.

well if you won't let us then- wait... wait a minute... i'm looking at my shoulder patch and it turns out i'm the commander.

give me a minute. you're the first person i've seen in ______.

i think about the sheer number of people who pulled together just to save my sorry ass, and i can barely comprehend it.

i represent progress, science, and the interplanetary future we’ve dreamed of for centuries.

they did it because every human being has a basic instinct to help each other out. it might not seem that way sometimes, but it’s true.

yes, there are assholes who just don’t care, but they’re massively outnumbered by the people who do.

#space memes #space rp memes #rp starters #rp memes #rp prompt #roleplay inbox prompts #roleplay meme #feel free to reblog and share!

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sodaabaa · 9 days

Text

stolen tires, chapter three

jason returns to gotham after the world believed him to be dead. heavily inspired by the film, under the red hood.

tw: mentions of death, angst, self loathing, grief, abuse

"Those are the heads of all your lieutenants. That took me two hours, you wanna see what I can get done in a whole evening?"

I started shooting aimlessly at the table below me and the drug lords started running all over, covering their heads to try and avoid any fatal injuries. I wasn't too focused on killing those scumbags but more focused on making my escape. I ran up the stairs and made my way to the ceiling before shooting my grappling gun, attaching the hook to the ledge of the glass-made building in front of me. I jumped and swung onto the ledge and continued on until I saw my car parked about three blocks away. Hopping in my car I made my way towards my destination, Home. Also my base of operations.

As I entered through the back window of my two story apartment, I took off my red helmet and then my domino mask. Not to toot my own horn but today was a success. I persuaded Gotham's most infamous drug dealers to follow my rules and in turn they would have protection from both Black Mask and Batman. Black Mask was gonna have a hard time finding minions do to his bidding now that I've gotten control of them. Black Mask, otherwise known as Roman Sionis, was Gotham's underworld mob boss. He controlled the underworld and the crime in Gotham which included drug dealing, murder, trafficking and everything in between. I planned on getting rid of him soon by working on the inside. There was no other way you could get rid of crime in Gotham, it was merely impossible. Batman wasn't doing what was necessary for the city, he was only scraping the surface of a deep cavity whereas I was working from the inside to fill in the gaps and clean the mess of a city we call home.

I took off my brown leather jacket and combat boots, taking out all of my weapons and placing them on the desk in front of me. I made my way out of the lower apartment (which doubled as my super secret headquarters) and up to the living room. I was hungry as hell. I walked into the kitchen to see if I could find anything to eat that wasn't expired. I wasn't very good at maintaining a "home," I ate out ninety percent of the time and ate leftovers of whatever I had the other ten percent. Bending down to look through the refrigerator, a few slices of pizza caught my eyes along with a half eaten tub of ice cream and a beer. I shrugged and took out the sad excuse for dinner.

After eating I turned on the TV, flicking through the channels until I found the Gotham City News at Night channel. There I was, on the news. Masked and flying through the city. I turned the volume up and listened attentively to what the news anchor was saying.

"Is there a new Batman in Gotham? A masked vigilante was seen swinging through the buildings after having a run in with a few of Black Mask's workers. Eight drug lords were rumored to be dead earlier today and another two were shot just a few hours ago. The masked vigilante was also seen with a bat emblem on his chest. Is he affiliated with our beloved hero the Batman? Who knows what will happen next, it is Gotham City. I'm your news anchor Vick-"

I shut off the television before it could change to the endless amount of ads that came next. I laughed to myself. Affiliated with Batman my ass, I scoffed. I wear the emblem to mock him, to drive his name through the dirt. Everyone knew his one rule; no killing. I on the other hand, killed the filth to clean up Gotham. I am not affiliated with Batman. I thought about what the news anchor said, I killed two more scumbags. Good for me. Happy with my results I shut off my lights as I walked out the living room and into my bedroom, calling it a day.

The next day I woke up to my ear drums being harassed by the sound of my phone ringing incredibly loudly. I groaned and checked to see who was calling at six in the morning. It was Roy. Roy was another vigilante who was "banished" by his "superior," the Green Arrow. Arsenal was what Roy went by. I picked up the phone and got ready to yell at his inconsiderate ass.

"What the hell do you want Roy, calling at six in the morning, really?! This better be worth ruining my sleep you dick." I heard him chuckling on the other side of the line.

"Nice to see you're back in Gotham Todd, I called to let you know I'm in Gotham too and there's someone I want you to meet. Come over later today and we'll talk."

"Who is it, another girl you think I should hook up with. I told you I don't have time for silly little relationships. I'm trying to get Bruce's attention so that he can see there's someone else out here fighting crime in Gotham without his help." I replied bitterly.

"It's not someone you'd want to hook up with, trust me she's taken. You can find out when you come over." He retorted and before I could say anything he hung up.

I groaned and laid back in bed, slowly drifting back to sleep.

His laugh echoed throughout the warehouse, it taunted me. Bruce was going to show up. I know it. He wouldn't leave me here. "So little birdy, let's take this from the top shall we!" He cackled. Joker wouldn't stop. He was beating me endlessly with a crowbar. He tortured me until I couldn't move on my own anymore. I lay there waiting for him to show mercy but it never came. He swung the crowbar, the cold, hard metal came in contact with my bruised and bloody cheek. I had no energy left to scream or yell. I just let it happen. I rolled over and groaned. That's when he set the timer for the bomb. "I'll see you in hell little birdy." He said in a singsong voice. I heard his taunting cackle one last time before-

I woke up with a start. Cold sweat on my forehead and nose. A recurring nightmare that would never leave me. It's been about five years since the joker killed me. Five years since I've been resurrected. Five years of training to become a better Batman than Bruce ever was. During those five years I went all over the world.

My journey started with the League of Assassins in Nanda Parbat. I fought and trained with Ra's and his daughter Talia until I my body was screaming for rest and rejuvenation. That's where the Lazarus Pit came in handy. Anytime I felt worn out or tired, a dip in the waters of the Lazarus Pit cured all my ailments. That's how I got through the two years of Nanda Parbat. After training with the League, I found a group similar to the League but older, The All Caste. They were an ancient group of warrior monks hidden in what they call the "Chamber of All" deep in the Himalayas. They took me in and treated me as one of their own and soon I became one of their only allies. I was there for three years before I eventually had to leave to carry out my plan in Gotham.

I snapped out of my thoughts when I heard my phone ringing again. I picked it up to see who was calling and of course, it was Roy.

"What." I said dryly.

"Meet me at the Iceberg Lounge around four later for a meet up and then around seven we'll go out for a patrol of the city." Roy said, demandingly.

I rolled my eyes said,

"Roy if you ever tell me what to do again I'll cut your d-"

He cut me off, "well aren't you just a ray of sunshine today Jaybird. What's up with you, and you can't say you need sleep because it's like noon." He said.

He had a point. I was a bit mean wasn't I?

"Ok. I'm sorry, I've just got a lot on my mind. Coming back to Gotham has been tough on me I guess."

He laughed on the other side and said, "I get it, we can catch up at the Iceberg, see you then."

He hung up and I got up to get ready for the day.

#red hood #batfam #batfamily #jason todd #batman #under the red

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isaut · 7 months

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𝒌𝒊𝒔𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆 (autumn, day 1)— f!reader x chrollo lucilfer. 3.3k/57k. ao3

i said i wouldn't post any of ten million jenny on this blog, but i can't help but be extremely pleased with this chapter. you probably need to read the rest of the fic to understand this ♡ reader is part of the dead dad club, there's dancing, builds off this fic and this one too. oysters are paired with beer. read notes from the underground here.

Standing in front of your mirror, you take in your figure. Head cocked to the side, hair shifting. Only in fitted trousers and a bra. Your fingers ghost over your stomach, over where weeks ago you’d been fatally wounded. Not at any fault of yours. Now, not even a physical scar remains. Instead, your fingers drift over smooth, falsely touched skin.

Your blouse hangs on the doorframe behind you. Time is ticking. There’s somewhere you need to be– It’s important to your psyche. Your concealer is sinking into your skin. But you can’t pull your gaze away from the clear patch of skin that should be marred by a deep, embowling scar.

“Darling?” Kuroro calls from the bedroom door. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, caught off guard by his presence. “Are you ready to get going?”

“Almost,” You reply, “I’m just finishing up. Could you get me a glass of water?”

“Of course,” Kuroro replies, and pads off.

You turn your attention back to your stomach— fascinated by your reflection in an unfamiliar way. Your gut churns out of anxiety. You wonder if she churns because she remembers being on the exterior of your body.

“Water for you,” Kuroro calls again from the bedroom door.

You leave the bathroom to take it from him. He doesn’t follow you into the echoing tiled room anymore. Not even to hold your hair back while you vomit— He's always bringing you a trash bin to empty your stomach in. You’ve vomited often recently. Unfortunately. Undeliberately. Unattractively.

You don’t know why you still worry about your appearance.

Kuroro is dressed for the cooling weather. Trousers and a turtleneck, tattoo covered by dark fabric. His fingers slide against yours as you take the glass from him.

“I’m almost done getting ready,” You say. “I’ll be ready to go soon.”

“Take you time.” Kuroro’s words kiss your forehead. “I’ll drive us in.”

You don’t want to argue about parking, but you equally don’t want to argue about how you’re getting to work. You simply don’t want to argue.

The leaves have yet to begin falling. They hang to branches, still green from the summertime and rustle in the cooling winds. The courtyard of your university is barren. Students aren’t back yet, and professors are squirreled away in their offices doing last minute preparations. You stand outside the building that houses both your office and classes, an unlit cigarette in your hand. Your work bag is slung over Kuroro’s shoulder, and shifts as he leans into your space to light your cigarette. His frame blocks the wind from whispering to you, and you find solace in the ashen smoke that fills your lungs instead.

“I would have loved to take classes here,” Kuroro comments casually.

You turn your head to blow smoke away from the two of you. “I think it would piss you off.”

“Do you?” You can imagine his eyebrow raising.

“Mhm. You’d argue all your grades.”

“You think that little of me?”

“You argue my students grades with me,” You reply. “I can only imagine what you’d do as a student.” Late nights. Wine glasses. Glasses perched on your nose. Watching Kuroro expectantly as he reads over the essay you’d handed him in frustration.

“I see it as more of a debate,” Kuroro replies, brushing off the comment. He lets his gaze linger over you. “Are you excited to be back?”

You do. The normalcy of it all is a welcome gift after everything you’ve been through. It feels like a warm heating pad applied to horrible cramps. Just enough to wean the pain. You take a deep breath of the chilling air, letting your cigarette dangle between your fingers.

“How much longer will I get to keep doing it?” You ask.

“It’s never my intention to strip you of the things you love,” Kuroro says. He rests his hands in the pockets of his trousers. “Maybe when we’re done here we can go get dinner and drinks at the jazz club.”

The idea is tempting. You think it over through another inhale. “Is anyone performing tonight?”

“I’ll investigate,” Kuroro says.

You take one last breath of the smoke, before dropping the butt to the ground and rubbing the box of your heeled shoe into it, firmly extinguishing the cigarette. “Let’s see how I feel when I get done here.”

“Of course.”

Kuroro holds the door open for you, after you swipe your card against the reader. It’s so new, so electronic, that it stands out like a sore thumb against the gothic architecture of your building. There’s the old smell in the walls still, and the stairs still creak beneath your weight as you climb them.

There are a few papers in the wooden box attached to your door. You unlock the ancient, heavy door, the lock stuck from disuse over the summer, and it swings open.

Relief washes over you as you realize everything is the same.

Plucking the papers up, you walk into the office and immediately crack open the windows. A refreshing breeze passes through the stiff air. You sit at your desk, leaning back in your chair and closing your eyes. There are birds singing outside. Kuroro’s footsteps are silent as he crosses the room to your bookshelf, plucking one down at random.

He lets out a soft sigh as he sits, spreading his legs and making himself comfortable.

You crack open an eye to look at him. “Do you plan on simply following me around from now on?”

“You’ve never had a problem with it before, darling,” Kuroro replies, opening the book to its first page. It’s an old teaching copy of Hamlet, with hefty footnotes and bound in red. The cover sleeve has long since been lost. You gaze at it with some consideration.

“Context has changed,” You decide on.

“You’ve been made aware of the full context.”

Sighing, you right yourself. Pull yourself towards your desk. Power on your computer.

You hate how light your fingers feel as they tear across your keyboard. There should be a new ring on your left hand. There should be different memories in your mind.

Once upon a time, you were a regular at the jazz club. You used to lie to yourself and pretend you liked Old Fashioneds, when really all you cared about was the music and the atmosphere. You used to sit by yourself at a dimly lit table after a long week of classes and treat yourself to a few hours of mindlessness.

Kuroro opens the door for you, and it feels like it did years ago. A little younger, the same sparkle in his eye. It had felt like you were sharing such a secret back then, letting him into your life like this.

The atmosphere is just as sacred, just as clasping as it had been that same night. You can feel the itch on Kuroro’s mind to rest his hand on your lower back.

“Take a seat, and I’ll grab us drinks. What do you want?” Kuroro asks, too close to your ear.

“A mojito,” You reply.

The two of you peel in different directions. You, towards a familiar table with a candle in the middle of it. Him, towards the bar.

From the seat, you watch the band on stage set up. Music still plays through the speakers, easing through the atmosphere. You roll your shoulders back and try to relax into the dark room.

Kuroro places your drink on the table before you see him, startling you out of your lack of concentration. He slides into the seat across from you, taking a delicate sip of his drink. An old fashioned.

Sitting with Kuroro is pleasant, with something else to focus on. The club owners must have hired a new jazz singer, as you don’t recognize her. She’s young, with lipstick on her teeth. You wonder if she’s young enough that you’ll see her in a week, sitting in one of your classes.

Kuroro perks up at a familiar melody. “Dance with me.”

Turning your head from the entertainment, you feel resentment and want pump through your heart.

“For old times sake,” Kuroro urges, or, dare you say, pleads.

You take a sip of your mojito. You’re almost positive Kuroro slid the bartender a few bills to ensure your drink was stiffed of most liquor. Sensing your hesitation, Kuroro reaches his hand across the table and lightly rests it on yours. There’s a knowing look in his eyes.

The lights are directed at the band, so the only heat comes from your bodies. Kuroro’s hand is warm in yours. An older woman, who definitely thinks she’s being quiet, swoons as you pass her, being led to the dance floor.

It’s been a long time since you and Kuroro have danced. Weeks, even. Summer ended with no late nights dancing to accordions along the river. Unlike last year. And the year before that.

Kuroro takes one of your hands in his, the other resting at your lower back. You rest your hand on his shoulder in turn. He steps forward and pulls you close in one fluid movement. You tense, taking a deep breath.

It was the closest you’d been in weeks. Amber, vanilla and Egyptian jasmine fill your senses.

The man who stabbed you did not smell like this, your brain reminds you.

“We’re going to trip,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear. His foot taps against yours.

Your senses chase the familiar cologne, and you take another breath, letting yourself relax into Kuroro’s hold.

It’s like riding a bike. You remember where Kuroro is going to move, remember that he’s going to guide you. Memories of trying to learn how to dance flash through your mind– Kuroro’s apartment, newly invited over. Dressed in a satin button down of his, him in the matching satin sleep pants. Nothing but blossoming romance.

“What are you thinking about?” Kuroro murmurs. His hand slides lower, over to your hip to brace you before he indulges you in a shallow dip.

“Us learning to dance,” You murmur back, “And about your cologne.”

Fond memories come to Kuroro’s mind, and he smiles softly. “We have such a good time together.”

You must agree. “We do. We did.”

Kuroro makes a pitiful wounded sound in the back of his throat. “Think in the present, darling.”

“I am,” You say.

Displeased with your response, Kuroro dips you once more. You gasp and grab the back of his neck, shooting him a look.

He gives you a devilishly charming half smile.

“Are you having fun?”

“I am, in fact,” Kuroro replies. “I’m in a jazz bar, dancing with the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Not an object, you tsk at him. Reflexively.

“Apologies,” Kuroro amends, “The best person who has ever graced her presence in my life.”

You don’t move your hand from the back of his neck. “That’s better.”

Over Kuroro’s shoulder, you can see a woman watching you. She’s older, with a two piece outfit and gaudy jewelry. She’s watching the two of you with hearts in her eyes, a certain desire for what you have. To an outsider it must look quite nice– Two attractive young people dancing at 7 o’clock in the evening just because they can.

If only she knew whose hands rested upon you.

Would she still swoon? Would she still wish her husband would get off his ass and bring her out on the dance floor as well? Would she still look upon Kuroro with desire?

The last thought causes jealousy to sink her claws into your core, which unfairly feels warm.

“Ease up your grip, darling,” Kuroro murmurs against the shell of your ear.

Immediately you relax your hand, not having realized how tight your grip had become.

You can feel Kuroro smile. “Did you see our admirer?”

“She isn’t admiring me.”

“No?” Kuroro’s pinkie finger dips below the waistband of your trousers for a moment. “I am.”

You hum, casting your gaze down to your feet, watching as you move with Kuroro, almost subconsciously. You flick your eyes upwards, to meet Kuroro’s burning gaze. “You are?”

“I’m never not.”

“Double negatives confuse me.”

“I’m always admiring you.”

Warmth floods your face.

Kuroro takes a breath, exhaling slowly.

“What is it?” You ask.

“It would be foolish of me to share,” Kuroro says, shaking his head slightly.

“You love telling me things.”

“I do,” Kuroro smiles just a bit at that. When he speaks, his breath mingles with yours. “I was thinking about how badly I want to kiss you right now.”

“That is foolish,” You confirm. You get another wave of amber. Your words are caught on an exhale. “Be a fool.”

“What’s changed?” Kuroro asks, curiosity coming before desire.

You swallow. “I’ve enjoyed today.” He has you lean against him, before returning back to the somewhat simple step you’d fallen into. “I’ve been reminded of a few things.”

“Old times?”

“Old times.”

Kuroro doesn’t know when the next time is he’ll be able to press his lips against yours. There’s a firm understanding he must make this one count, must make this one better than anything penned on paper.

Old times would have this be the final straw, the moment where it’s time to leave. You’d be in some slinky number and he’d be down to his buttoned shirt, which has the top buttons loosened on it. The both of you donning a sheen of sweat, sore feet.

So, for old times sake, Kuroro grants you one final dip, lowering himself with you. He captures your lips in a kiss, pulling you back up with your lips still locked. He tastes like smoked bourbon and oranges, bitter and sweet.

You pull away, slow as you can. It feels sinful to take such solace in a kiss.

“Let’s get out of here,” You suggest. The room suddenly feels far too hot, as if summer’s lingering heat had consolidated within the club. You can feel eyes on you, which isn’t as pleasing sober as it is drunk.

“Of course, darling,” Kuroro says, a soft smile on his face. He wraps his arm around your waist. “Do you want to pick up food on the way home?”

Your fingers dance along your bottom lip. For old times sake…

It’s oysters on the balcony. A decadent treat from the restaurant across the street. The moon is rising, you’re smiling, enjoying the mood you’ve been set in. Kuroro’s dusted off the record player for the occasion— He’s placed Dvorak’s Serenade for Strings upon the turning plate. The gentle instruments wash over you.

It was the first concert you went to together, had shyly held hands and pretended not to care as you asked him to come up for drinks.

The evening, it’s charming, you can’t deny that. With how the time has passed, you half expect Kuroro to begin reciting poetry to you.

Kuroro takes in your appearance. The way the night’s lights caress your skin, the way you effortlessly slide another bite of oyster into your mouth and set the shell down with a tink. Instead of your trousers, you’re dressed in pyjamas, with freshly washed skin. He can smell the roses, cucumber and shea butter combination in the cooling air.

He poses a question. A safe one, one that he's posed a million times before. One that’s gotten him as close to you as he is now.

“Have you read any good books recently?”

You glance over at him, then shift your body towards him. Indulge him in familiar conversation. “I reread Notes from the Underground,” You say.

Kuroro’s brows raise. He matches you, turning his pyjama-clad body towards you. It’s like riding a bike, it’s like dancing, talking to you about Dostoevsky. Over beer, over oysters, in the newly-autumn air.

“You always said it was one of your favorites,” You continue, closing your eyes. “I’ve always been fascinated by it, but I can see why it would resonate so deeply with you.”

Kuroro sits quietly and listens. You flutter your lashes open. “You’re just not spiteful.”

“No?”

You sigh. “It was… It didn’t make me feel good that I resonated with the Underground Man.”

“You resonated with him?” Kuroro inquires, head tilting in interest.

“I don’t know how to describe it… But I think I finally understand the spite of Fydor’s work. I’ve done so much… Research on it, so I logically understood why his protagonists carried that tone but… Now I get it.”

“Are you spiteful?” Kuroro asks.

You swallow thickly. “I keep… Thinking. About how you just…” You sigh. “Jesus fuck, I have no clue.”

Kuroro can’t help the chuckle that reaches his lips. You pick up your beer bottle and take a pull from it.

“When he talks about romantics,” You say, setting your bottle back down on the table. Glass clatters softly against mosaic. “About the difference between a Russian romantic and a German romantic and a French romantic.”

Kuroro hums. “Hmm… something about understanding everything, seeing everything far more clearly than positive, practical minds?”

You shake your head and stand. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here,” Kuroro replies easily, leaning forward to pick up his own beer. He exhales into the night sky. Regret invades his senses.

You come back moments later, flipping through a hand-sized, weathered copy of Notes from the Underground, filled with tabs and annotations. Kuroro knows this copy well, he remembers the first time he found it in your office, how he had devoured all your comments, all the parts you called attention to for your own sake and your students.

Finding the page you were looking for, you clear your throat as you sit back down. “He’s a man of breadth and scope, our romantic, and the greatest fraud of all our frauds.” You close the book and set it on the table. “It has new meaning to me now.”

“Ah,” Kuroro says. “Doesn’t he frown upon the romantics?” ‘

“I think he hates himself for being a romantic.”

Kuroro laces his fingers together, looking away from you off to the skyline. “I think being a romantic, whether it’s Russian, or German, or French, is a double edged sword. If I was a pragmatic man, I wouldn’t have made the choices that I have. But… I think there’s a certain human aspect to being a romantic. It’s in our nature… The Underground Man might despise the fact that he shares traits with the romantics, but he is driven to express himself romantically. Not in the romance sense–”

“But in the literary sense,” You finish for him.

Kuroro smiles softly, smiles wistfully. “Exactly.”

“I agree,” You admit. “I keep having the same spurts of… What does he call it… these lofty spurts where I think about us. And today… Today I realized that nothing’s changed. Everything has changed but nothing has.”

A beat of silence passes.

“I think the Underground Man desires to express himself romantically too,” You whisper. “Because he’s human.”

Kuroro thinks about all the people he knows, everyone he’s come into contact with. About the relationships he’s seen blossom, about the relationships he’s cut short.

“Do you think he’s ashamed of it?”

Kuroro glances over at you. “Of viewing the world through a romantic lens?”

You nod.

Kuroro takes a deep breath. You look beautiful, half illuminated by the warm lights of his apartment, half by the twinkling nightlife. “No,” Kuroro decides on. “I don’t think he is.”

You lick your lips, nodding again. “I think he’s annoyed he can’t stop seeing the world like that. And… I think that’s where I recognized myself.”

Kuroro hopes, deep down, that you’re circumventing something he desperately wants you to tell him. He’s always admired your adoration towards the universe’s care– Or perhaps it was the guiding palm of your deceased father– that kept you upright. Perhaps this time, he’d be kept upright too.

He doesn’t know how many more months he can lose, how many more can be shaved off his own lifespan.

#chrollo x reader #saintchrolloism #i feel like im gonna get my characterization of chrollo destroyed here #or my understanding of the underground man #i havent read the book in almost a year please cut me some slack #dead dad club slay #by ophelia

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hollybluberry · 3 months

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everyone..

The doctor is in!

Information about the doctor:

Name: Akasi

Age: 33

gender: Male

occupation: Doctor

About Akasi:

Akasi is a Doctor in dealer's night club who helps the players who participated in dealer's twisted game of Russian roulette. he is a former rescue response medic who quit his job because of the guilt of not saving his family in time in a fatal car crash that collided with a speeding SUV driven by a drunk driver.

the time he was at his club, he met dealer during his break time and he surprisingly asked if he's doing alright, since he saw Akasi look distressed. dealer gave him an offer and that is to work at his side as his personal doctor, after hearing what Akasi has been going through. Akasi then met Sarah and he treated her like she's his sister because Sarah, reminds him of one of his youngest siblings who perished in the accident.

Headcanons:

• dealer and him treat each other like they're brothers. Akasi gave dealer a nickname and it's "Remington" because of the shotgun model dealer has.

• he's always worried about Sarah's wellbeing because of her facing patrons who would verbally harrass her and attempt to stab or throw her with broken beer bottles or champagne glasses.

• he loves chocolates (with almonds and raisins in it). at least I wasn't the only one who loves Cadbury dairy milk chocolate.

• does alot of medical puns.

• Had received a defibrillator bread toaster from dealer for his birthday and he loves it.

• Loves board games like DnD (dungeons and dragons), and card games like Uno, Cards of humanity and what do you meme.

• his favorite genre of movies and TV shows are comedy, sitcoms and science fiction, he would also watch shows like "the big bang theory"

• His name means "brother" in Uzbek

#character design #traditional art #my art #buckshot roulette #the doctor #buckshot roulette doctor #buckshot roulette oc #artists on tumblr #art

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iavenjqasdf · 6 months

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prey at night

Another night at the loud bar, full of shabbily-dressed gentlemen with concerning facial hair smoking so many cigarettes and drinking so many drinks and otherwise tarnishing their squeaky-clean souls with neat controlled portions of poison.

Mary’s pint glass (long drained) rattles as she slams her fist into the side of the pinball cabinet, tilt censoring screeching as obscenities flow from her chapped lips. She fumbles through her pockets for another coin, but comes up shortchanged. Worse yet, one of the men is approaching her.

“You know, if you hit the machine too hard, it stops working,” a man trying very hard to seem naturally friendly fake-laughs, leaning up against the table next to hers. “Of course, the same could be said for people, right?” Another big laugh, another big sip of beer.

Mary briefly entertains the idea of slapping the bottom of his glass upward, spilling the rest of his beer all over his dumb bad suit, but she quickly crushes that ember beneath a gasoline-soaked toe.

Instead she says nothing, emotes nothing, retreats into the cloud of people and smoke towards the back patio. Someone calls to her as she squeezes under the fence and runs down a back alley towards the next streetcar stop until the voices stop chasing her and she’s alone and safe again.

Pinball always sucked there anyway.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Scuttering between the alleys of Venice, moonbeams illuminating the gaps between closed stores. hot breath on exposed neckflesh and oh how Mary wishes to sink her teeth in right here, but it won’t be fatal quick enough. She’ll get into the open and ruin their little private moment, attract too much attention.

She moans (he still hasn’t realized what she is), Mary shushes her, grazing the side of his throat, gently milking out a few moans, nothing the sound of rats scurrying and pipes dripping won't drown out.

A strelitzia leans casually against the side of an apartment complex across the way, her frayed leaves bobbing gently on cold air currents from the midnight ocean breeze, observing their mammalian rutting; little humps and thrusts and moans stifled by hot skin, breath damp in the foggy air, seagull shit bukkake adorning the colorful brickwork.

Mary palms at the boy’s panties, growling and biting down harder to quiet her down and let her get a good grip on him. Cute black lace. She’d have to remember to snag a pair for herself…

“H-hey- -”

Mary does not want to deal with this right now so she presses his skull into the building behind him; not too hard, just enough to remind him of the unyielding brick tight against the other side of his very crushable cranium.

“shut up or im adding you to this wall”

She shuts up.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

2 minutes later he’s staggering out, whimpering and bruised, but alive.

Mary sucks the jism from the panties and tucks them in her pocket, slipping off in the opposite direction, past a steam vent and into the night.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Mary sits in the bed of her old farm truck, swinging her legs lazily, the ends of her dress fluttering in the gentle night breeze. Cars echo just over the hill, yellow lights flowing like a river of piss into the city gleaming distant. Almost pretty enough to distract from the snail trail of blood slowly extending between her truck and the bitch desperately picking her way towards the dry brush on the hillside facing the highway.

Something changed that night, with the bat and the girl and the ambulance. It just doesn’t feel as special anymore. Putting coins in the pinball machine just makes her remember putting coins in the pay phone and instead of getting hard she feels weird and her nausea gets worse than normal. Something about that girl, her will to live, her refusal to submit, even held by the scruff on death’s doorstep…

Will these faceless, nameless broads ever be enough anymore?

A wave of rage crashes over Mary, and her tire iron clangs particularly loud against the bumper. The body startles, starts crawling faster. Mary takes a breath and continues watching, not interfering, she just continues to watchhh it go, just a few yards, come on, you can do it...

She could probably let this one go, too.

Maybe she could even stop bringing others to this point. Surely preserving life is Better, in some way that matters to someone in charge of something in her own (or whatever comes afterwards). She knows she’s supposed to care about human life the same way she knew Italy existed when she looked at a map once, but she’s never been to Italy, and the thought of it repulses her, frankly.

But right now, the choice is to keep living exactly like this, or die of repression, and Mary’s not suicidal this month.

She stands, idly smacking the tire iron against her palm, and follows the sandy red skids to the shivering pleading body by the side of the highway, already prepared to bring it mercy before it has a chance to beg for it. The cars overhill catch a momentary glimpse of blood-snotted steel, if even that.

“I need to pay Rose a visit”, she thinks to herself as she pulls onto the same road a few minutes later, dress wrapped tight around the weapon, crimson seeping into the pink fabric.

#📝#mary #strelitzia #guro #ero guro

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anthrofreshtodeath · 1 year

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if you're still accepting prompts, #14? fine if not!

Jane hobbled from her unmarked parked a block or so away to Maura’s front door. She shoved her hands in her pockets, not because it was cold out, but because balling her fists in her coat pockets somehow dulled the already dull, heavy pain slithering from the middle of her back into her hips. Work had been long already, with the murder of a social worker starting their morning. But then, it ended with Jane in a foot race with the suspect, which in turn ended in a chasedown tackle worthy of the NFL.

Jane had gotten her man.

But, she wondered, as she fished for her keys, if it was worth it. Thirty-five wasn’t old by any means, but sports and academy training and drug pursuits and near-death by serial killer had all taken their toll. And now, every morning when she woke up, she dealt with a twinge in her lower back before popping some over the counter pain meds and draining a cup of coffee. Usually, it was all she needed. When days like today rolled around, however, nighttime was filled with beer and heating pads until the moment she could respectably shuffle to bed and try to sleep the pain away.

She’d promised Maura a drink, however, to celebrate their break in the case. The compromise they came up with when Jane had texted that she didn’t feel like going out - in actually she didn’t feel like she could go out - was a bottle or two at home.

Well, Maura’s home.

“Knock knock,” called Jane when she pushed into the warm air of the front hall, though she didn’t knock and didn’t wait for Maura to reply before heading to the refrigerator. She pulled three bottles of Peroni from the top shelf, two for her, one for Maura if Maura was in a beer mood. She banged the first bottle against the countertop, and the cap popped off, clattering against the granite with finality.

“Jane is that you?” Maura did reply eventually, her voice carrying from the hall before her. She appeared, in leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweater, barefoot as she padded toward Jane. “It is.” she answered for herself.

Jane bit back the satisfied little sigh that settled in her chest whenever she saw the soft skin of Maura’s neck, sloping uninterruptedly into the soft skin of her rounded shoulder.

Just like Jane could admit she was aging, that her body wasn’t as resilient as it used to be, she could admit that she liked Maura. She was attracted to her. There never seemed to be a right time to say it, especially after Maura’s sadness, her anger at Jane shooting herself, but Jane regarded it as the most adult crush she’d ever had. None of the butterflies or the embarrassment or the fear of rejection could compare to the eventual net positive that confessing would be, it just… hadn’t happened organically yet. “It is. You want a beer? Or should I get out that cabernet?”

Maura smiled for the smallest of moments, until it bled away into a furrowed brow and a frown as she marched toward Jane, who had reached up for the cabinet with the wine glasses in it -something about Maura’s countenance that told her the answer to her question before Maura’s mouth could. Jane regretted wincing, though, because it apparently derailed the entire moment. “Lumbar radiculopathy,” Maura stated just before she palpated Jane’s mid-to-lower back, causing a couple ego-bruising yelps.

“Jesus,” Jane exclaimed when she regained the ability to say English words, “is it fatal?”

Maura huffed, and continued to feel. “Pinched nerve, sciatica,” she said. “How long have you been feeling like this?”

“Since I was twenty-three?” Jane joked. “Ouch!” she screamed when Maura put pressure. “Sorry. Uh, it’s been bad since I took down that chucklehead.”

Maura stopped. She forewent the wine for the beer that already sat on the counter, though she used a bottle opener rather than her expensive countertops to bust it open. “It’s been bad? Does that mean it was present before taking down the chucklehead?”

Jane laughed at Maura’s use of the term. “It’s uh, it’s always there, kinda barkin’. But I can usually manage with some tylenol and a few stretches.”

Maura shook her head. “Upstairs. My room please,” she ordered, taking the beer from Jane’s hand so that she held two.

Jane blinked. Not where she thought this was going. “Uh, what?” She sputtered. What the hell was there to say to that? She reached back for her drink but Maura pulled away.

“I will bring these up,” Maura answered. “But you need heat and some site-specific stretching,” she said, “and I happen to have a new massage oil that smells like mint.”

“Oh no,” Jane put her hands up and waved them. “I don’t need that. You don’t need to do that,” she backed up when Maura stepped closer, and shook her head. Her entire body tensed and she stood as straight as her spine would allow.

“You have degenerative disc disease,” Maura admonished. But, she softened when she saw the apprehension on Jane’s face. “It will help,” she said softly, “trust me.”

Jane let that sigh go finally, but for a different reason altogether. “A’right,” she said. “I’m goin’.”

___

When she had stumbled from the driver’s side of her car to the front door, Jane had no idea she’d end up half naked in Maura’s bed. Under Maura. Christ.

It was almost as sensual as it sounded, given how thin Maura’s leggings were and the heat Jane could feel from between Maura’s thighs resting on her own ass, but…

“You’re stiff,” Maura said quietly. Her fingers had warmed up the skin on Jane’s back, and the oil on them made a wet sound in addition to the very moist pressure of each rub. “And not because of the pain. You need to relax. This isn’t any different than any other massage you’ve gotten.”

Jane detested the mood lighting Maura apparently insisted upon, because it made Maura’s voice syrupy thick and deep. Jane wasn��t sure how, but it did and she had to contend with its potency. “Well I wouldn’t know,” she snarked just to grasp onto some wisp of control.

Maura’s hands stopped moving, but stayed heavy on Jane. “Wait. You’ve never had a professional massage?”

Jane shook her head this time. It swished on the pillow. Maura felt good putting all her weight on Jane despite the awkward conversation. “Do I look like I’m made of money?”

Maura resumed a light rub, more affectionate than remedial. “Well… then treat it like any other back rub you’ve been given. Obviously relaxing is paramount,” she said. Jane froze, stiffened under her, and she gasped. “Jane. No one’s ever… for you?”

“Never,” Jane answered, into the feathery down below her face. At least it hid her blush. “I don’t really… trust a whole lot of people. After Hoyt. And imagine some guy puttin’ his paws all over me when I’ve got sciatica. Sounds like hell.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Maura said. “That’s a shame.” Immediately her touch shifted from medical to loving.

And the vulnerability actually felt kind of nice. Jane couldn’t move, especially not injured, but at least Maura couldn’t see her face, and at least Maura was being kind. If Jane weren’t so thrown off by her own feelings, she’d think that Maura was also communicating something else. Something more. “Hey, listen,” said Jane, deciding it would be improper to wait any longer. “I gotta tell you somethin’.”

As if to make whatever forthcoming confession easier, Maura leaned forward, curling herself on top of Jane until her face nestled between Jane’s shoulder blades. “What?” she asked, her breath hot against Jane’s already hot spine.

“I… I am so into you it hurts,” Jane whispered, emboldened by their positions.

Maura laughed rich and loud into the cavern of Jane’s stretched muscles. “Is that what caused all this pain?” she asked. “Your attraction to me?”

Jane laughed, too, because it was the best response she could have expected. “It is a heavy burden to carry, let me tell you. Especially when you show up to work in those heels,” she teased.

Maura settled into her further and slid her arms up until they rested on top of Jane’s under the pillow. “Hmm,” she exhaled. “I can’t say it was on purpose even if I’d like to.”

“I just… things seemed to be getting a little hot and heavy in here,” Jane explained. “And I wanted you to know before anything went any further. I don’t wanna be a creep.”

“It’s sweet that you think this was hot and heavy,” Maura responded. She kissed the back of Jane’s head before sitting back up and stretching the skin around Jane’s lumbar spine all over again. “And it’s sweet that you would want to warn me. But I feel the same. Ok? I feel the same. But we really should work this out; it’s only going to hurt worse if I don’t finish.”

Her thumbs picked up the pressure in their work again, and Jane slammed her fists into the mattress. “Youch, fuck!”

“Maybe later,” said Maura, with a smile that Jane could hear in her voice.

#ask anthrofreshtodeath #otp prompts january 2023

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werdlewrites · 1 year

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Season of the Witch (Steve Harrington x OC)

Chapter Twenty: The Monster and the Sheep

masterlist - about - patreon - ao3

@brittney69

summar: “I have to go.” Eddie turns to watch her leave, lips parting as he fights for the right thing to say - uncertain of what would make the moment better, or worse. “Wait!” he calls out, and it’s enough to bring her pause, eyes peering just over the stained sleeve that hides away her face. “D - do you need help?” warnings: mentions of blood, eddie being a nice guy, hopper pov later is that a warning lmao wc: 3,807 (NOT THE 6K BUT SHE COMING GIIRL)

Move faster, climb higher, crawl on your knees through the thick of it, drag the weight of the world through the swamp filled with nightmarish horrors staring right back at you. Push your way through the brush as thorns rip into you, pulling at your clothes, begging for a surrender - too fearful to move forwards or backwards, remaining trapped in this flourishing prison. But she continues forward no matter the obstacles, each step seemingly wavering - unsteady. Uncertain if the ground would suddenly cave in with every movement, no longer truly trusting that she was in her own reality.

The look on Jonathan’s face hadn’t left her mind for a second, leaving behind a wound so deep that she would gasp out in agony, clutching at her chest to stop the fatal injury from bleeding out into her palms, and spilling out onto the dried leaves she trampled through. Autumn had felt this before - not often, but enough to feel familiar. It was heartache.

She had found bravery in asking about her mother when she was much younger, only to be shot down by the disappointing realization she wasn’t worth the fight. She wailed in her bedroom until the pain turned to nothing, until the story became just a memory. Then it became the pain of others - the hurtful words piling on top of one another until it toppled over, burying her in the process. She would keep to herself, not willing to leave the school for recess and instead take shelter in the janitor's closet, setting her soul free in the shadows until Steve found her, turning on the light. He had stayed with her until the world seemed less cruel, helping her to build up that wall that now worked against him. Autumn drank away her sorrows after they fought in high school, deciding to finally cut ties after an unbearable amount of tension had grown between them. He had found himself with new people, shifting to be something she knew he wasn’t and leaving her behind. She let out a scream over the quarry, tossing another empty bottle of beer out into the great distance with tearful eyes, letting the heavy weight of his absence reduce the girl to broken pieces of glass against the rocks.

Then came Will, vanishing into nothingness yet somehow just at her fingertips. Now, Jonathan - a solid foundation she had pushed away in more ways than one, looked to her with fear in his eyes. There was no explanation to give, the teen still struggling to cope as the storm no longer lingered over the horizon. It had crept through the night, silent - blaring signs of danger seen in the daylight, yet gone ignored as the clouds remained distant enough for comfort. Now violent winds swept her away, kissed by the embers of hellfire as something consumed her from the inside. No book had taught her this - maybe an unsettling bump in the night or sensing a new energy, but nothing as isolating and as evil as this.

The blood had stopped an unknown time ago along with the tears, leaving her skin feeling tight and muddy from the filth. She tries to scrub at her skin with her sleeves, watching as clots fall away like rain yet she remains unclean. A hazy vision works against her, stumbling over fallen branches as hasty steps carry her onward. Jonathan hadn’t followed her, yet the great distance between them just didn’t seem enough - the beast once dormant in her chest from this morning was now wild, untamed. Pushing her further, stealing away each breath - using her up until it is satiated, until the monster finds a place of comfort. The trees are stretching overhead, creating a blackened canopy - the path behind her fills with a heavy fog, too thick to see through if she had wanted to turn back towards the school. But she wanted freedom, relief. Autumn wanted to get the fuck out of this place, to get home and climb beneath heavy sheets with that familiar sedative locking her in a painless sleep.

She’s so lost, yet focused as she crashes through the wooded area - eyes burning down the path she walks, unaware of the oblivious man that counts his earnings for the day, walking without care right towards her. They collide - her force against him nearly sending the girl backwards while he fights to not drop his belongings, the money held tightly in a fist with his lunchbox slipping out from under his arm, the empty hand frantically reaching out to grab it and pull it close to his chest. The beast is unsettled, angered by a journey cut short - though settling as her aching eyes find a familiar face; Eddie Munson. His eyes were wide with surprise, not expecting to find another soul beneath the trees - the least of all Autumn Reid. And it was clear she hadn’t expected him, either.

His doe eyes are quick to shift into a look of concern - real, genuine worry. His head tilts low as if to get a better look at the girl, his mind whirling with the worst of assumptions before taking in the rest of her appearance for anything else that may stand out. She looks just as he had left her, though her skin clearly doused in crimson - clear streaks running through the chaos from obvious dried tears that fell from her eyes. It was alarming, and despite only having met her hours ago - his heart aches at the sight. “What happened to you?” he asks, tone soft and caring. His words seem to flip a switch on in her brain, her gaze falling in order to hide what he’s already seen with thick sleeves making poor attempts to conceal the damage. “Nothing,” the girl mutters behind the fabric, and he takes it with an expression to say he doesn’t believe her. How could he? “O-okay,” his voice trails off, uncertain with eyes glued to the girl. And she would catch his gaze, immediately shying away before taking a wide step off to the side to swerve around the boy, searching for the path she lost sight of to find sanctuary. “I have to go.”

Eddie turns to watch her leave, lips parting as he fights for the right thing to say - uncertain of what would make the moment better, or worse. “Wait!” he calls out, and it’s enough to bring her pause, eyes peering just over the stained sleeve that hides away her face. “D - do you need help?” He doesn’t truly know what he’s offering. But seeing Autumn flounder her way through the brush didn’t sit right with the boy, encouraging to offer out any form of kindness in hopes she would take it. And she does, though with hesitation as pros and cons are weighed out in her mind. “Do you have a car?” He cracks a wicked smile at the question, thinking back to his brown van that sticks out above the rest, hard to miss, though she clearly had her attention elsewhere at times. “Boy, do I.” Her steps are cautious, still keeping a distance between them - fearful of what she may do to him, though she’s still uncertain if it had been her doing at all.

“Can you take me home?”

Eddie Munson may be a loud-mouthed, dark mark amongst the school - a leather studded jacket keeping the prissy girls at bay, not willing to let his smile taint their reputation as they walk alongside their overly arrogant boyfriends. He was a drug dealer, a so-called freak - and yet as much of a gentleman as Heather painted him to be. He made jokes about her mess getting on his seats, but agreed to help a lost sheep back home without a moment to spare, ushering the girl to follow in his steps. The ride had mostly been quiet, Autumn tucked deep into the corner with her body pressing up against the door - threatening to spill out the moment it opened or if he took a turn too harshly. Meanwhile, he had been more relaxed, one hand at the wheel following her mumbled directions with ease and occasionally sparing a glance to check on her condition. She had torn the sweater away, rolling it up into a ball before stuffing it into the depths of her bag, ignoring the sound of papers crushed under the pressure. “You doin’ okay?” he asks, the rumble of his van nearly drowning out his words. “I’m fine,” is her quick retort, falling back into her spot with arms crossed and eyes out the window - half riddled with guilt for this new dynamic in their blossoming friendship. What was once welcoming, had been filled with tension with her own fears of his judgment. He had seen two very different sides of Autumn within a matter of hours. He’s unsure if he should continue to press, unaware of her limits - especially while in this state. But seeing the red smeared across her skin and the clear distress hidden behind a mask, it leaves him unsettled. Eddie knows that when you don’t quite fit inside the puzzle box, you become an object of attention and not always in the best of ways. And though it may be none of his business, he still wonders..

“Did someone do that t’you?” he asks in a low tone, confident in himself yet not wanting to scare her away. The girl chews at her lip, glancing at the bag covering her feet and her now dirtied hands that rest in her lap. “No,” comes with a heavy sigh, refusing to meet his disbelieving stare, arms now moving to cross around her form, sinking in on herself to hide away from his curious, brown eyes. “It was an accident.”

The boy huffs at her reply, catching a small glimpse of white standing out from the long black sleeve pulled down her arms, and he remembers the visible panic shown as she tried to hide it away earlier in the day. That stress now gone as it remained on display, her mind clearly elsewhere. And while he wants to know more, he doesn’t pry - lips pulling into a small smile with eyes focused on the traffic ahead. “You run face first into a tree or somethin’?” he teases, giving her one final look to see she was now staring right back at him - a smile threatening to creep forward with a twitch just at the corner of her lip. She doesn’t respond, but he takes that small sign of amusement as a sign that she’s coming down from a high - and lets them fall into a more comfortable silence, moving through the town of Hawkin’s on the path she’s provided. Her eyes linger on the scenery once again, studying the world that passes them by in wonderment.

“Do you ever feel this way?”

She remembers asking Steve when they were younger. She asked her father - even Hopper as he sat across the table in that small diner all those years ago, none of them giving hope that she was just another pawn in the game of life. Another nobody. There was an unknown darkness scratching at her insides, and while no one could empathize, they held her hand through the obstacles laid out before her. Even Hopper - though he knew less than most. Checking in on the girl when they happened to cross paths, keeping their first encounter close to heart. He still tried to piece her mind together, happy to see her grow and use her words, yet mystified by the past.

Day after day that folder of mysterious events in Hawkin’s filled. Each paper falling to the back in an orderly fashion before being tucked away into the depths, hidden away in a filing cabinet of the police station. He had no intention of it becoming as big as it had - but as he sat in the library for hours, eyes glued to the screen as pictures of old articles flipped past his vision, it had become clear to him this peaceful town wasn’t what it seemed. The sun had now sunk away into the horizon, unbeknownst to him until he leans back for a stretch, groaning out in the dead quiet - listening as every vertebrae cracks. His tired eyes linger on the now dim streets just outside, letting out a heavy sigh as his body settles with arms crossed just behind his head, fingers interlaced. He wonders what sort of mess he’s wandered into, and why he seemed to be the only one that cared enough about that folder filling up until it became the size of a novel. And the copies they make from these articles only add to it, scattered along the table as they tear their eyes away from the screens.

“I don’t know, Chief,” Powell states, laying his own papers down after studying it for the hundredth time, looking for something - anything to give clear cut guidance of where to point the blame. Yet somehow, Hopper already had the pointed finger at the ready, and no one seemed willing to meet him halfway. “What don’t you know?” “This lady, Terry Ives,” he says with fingers pressed to the papers, having read over her story front to back, now feeling as though he knows a woman he’s never met. “She sounds like a real nut t’me. Her kid was taken for LSD mind control experiments?” Hopper shifts with discomfort as his friend and coworker speaks, understanding the bizarre nature of it all and how it all sounded out loud. But he wasn’t here for a woman from the seventies. He wasn’t here for Terry Ives.

“She’s been discredited. Her claim was thrown-” The Chief grows frustrated, reaching across the table to remove his partner's focus from the girl and replace it with his own paper of interest. A man standing amongst a small crowd, all looking as though they were merely puppets - dead eyes with hospital gowns concealing any dark secrets they may hold. “Forget about her, take a look at this,” Hopper says, staring down to the black and white photograph - the eyes of soulless men and women staring back at him. “Dr. Martin Brenner,” “Who?” “Brenner. He runs Hawkin’s Lab,” and he waits, looking to Powell for some sort of light to spark in his eyes, yet they remain dim, almost bored and unamused. “Okay?”

Hopper can’t help but scoff, falling back into his seat without breaking the connection he held with the other officer, disbelieving he was the only one thinking outside of what should have been a very mundane box. “You don’t find that interesting?” “Not really. He was involved with some hippie crap back in the day, so what?” “No,” Hopper blurts out, frustrated with his isolation and desperate for not only some recognition that he wasn’t entirely crazy, but to consider other possibilities for the sake of a missing child. “This isn’t hippie crap. This is CIA sanctioned research,” “Doesn’t mean he had anything to do with our kid.” Hopper gives a roll of his eyes before his hand falls back to the paper. “Come on, look at that. Hospital gowns - all of them. Now that piece of fabric that teacher found by the pipe sure looked like a hospital gown t’me, huh? Am I wrong?” Powell remains uncertain, gaze entranced by the odd picture laid out before him. His expression twisted in confusion, unknowing of what to truly believe and if he should add slack to the rope in Hopper’s hand, letting him journey further out to a darkened sea. “I don’t know, Chief.”

Again, a scoff - irritated, and finding his time being wasted. “Come on, man. Work with me here. I’m not saying there’s some grand conspiracy, I’m just -” he pauses, the words catching just at the back of his throat, constricting and stealing away every breath until he begins to squirm in his seat from the discomfort. Jim Hopper comes from a world where bodies piled over one another. Lives stolen without mercy, without care of the consequences and what pain it may bring to those that live in honor of the dead. And yet something about a child stumbling through the woods, lost, taken, stolen - used like some lab rat while his mother sat with an empty heart on the sofa, left with no real answers. It ate him up inside. “I’m saying maybe something happened. Maybe Will..was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he saw something that he shouldn’t’ve.” Finally, a stir in Powell. The once closed door was now open, though just barely as he was peeking through to get a look into Hopper’s suspicions, not ready to fully embrace the madness. “It’s a reach.” “It’s a start,” the Chief states firmly, elbows pressed into the table to close the distance, hoping to convey just how important this was to him - no matter if it turned into a wild goose chase.

Satisfied to have been heard - even though it was only minimal, he allows himself to relax while Powell continues to read over the article for more information that may have gone missed. His tired eyes wander, lips pressed firm against his knuckles as he fights off a yawn creeping in. A newspaper clipping sticks out beneath the pile, untouched, at least by him - something about MKUltra with the remainder of the title hidden away. It’s enough to take hold of his interest. “You holdin’ out on me?” The other man casts a look his way, noting the gaze down to the stack of papers. “By all means,” he sighs out, lazily pushing them across the wood and into his friend's hands. On a mission, his fingers begin to flip through the thin pile - searching for that familiar title now covered up in the shuffle. It’s pulled from the middle and laid out front and center for his focus, the title reading in bold;

“The Hawkins Post Family of 3 missing, suspicious activity with MKUltra.”

He spares a glance towards his partner, who remains uninterested in what he holds in the dim light. He considers laying it out for him, sharing questions and opinions - but leaves any building theories for himself as Powell had only just begun to see things through his eyes. The fine print reads;

“Neighbors have raised concern over the sudden disappearance of a married couple and their child, suspected to only be a year old. ▇▇▇ and ▇▇▇ had lived in their quiet home, making friends within the town for the past nine years until mysteriously vanishing one night. ‘They were kind people,’ Mrs. Scott states, living just across from the house that now sits vacant. ‘They were at every barbeque. ▇▇▇ loved playing games with the kids, ▇▇▇ always brought extra food for the parties.’ Across the way, Mrs. Scott and every neighbor watch as police move through the home. Everything seems to have been left behind, the television still running as if someone had left in a hurry. ‘No one really knew what they did for work, but they were well off. When ▇▇▇ was pregnant, it was sometimes hard to tell if she was happy or more distraught by the whole thing. But she was smiling from ear to ear when that little baby came home. I just hope they’re all okay.’”

Hopper leans heavily into his hand, hiding the look of both horror and confusion that etch into his features. A family - not just a kid, but a family gone. Swept under the rug without so much as a sign of any wrong doings. They were long forgotten - a case now closed as he sure as hell hasn’t heard of it since returning to Indiana for sanctuary.

“There are rumors the ▇▇▇ family may have been involved with the government. There have been reports of suspicious activity with unknown men approaching the ▇▇▇ home, accompanied by verbal altercations and peculiar cars sitting outside at night. It’s been reported that while the house remains mostly intact, multiple filing cabinets have been emptied, possibly in an attempt to hide evidence of private matters. No one has seen or heard from the family since the beginning of January.”

His tired eyes find the black and white photograph of the family, dated “1966” in fine print, sitting on the front steps of their porch on what appeared to be a summer’s morning. The grass had been neatly cut, right up to the edge of the brick of the steps. The sun beaming down on the couple, the man squinting from its brilliance despite the hand held up to block the power it gave, casting a small shadow over his eyes. His wife sat close, the spare arm wrapped around her waist to pull her in while the woman's attention was on the baby in her lap, a wide smile to keep the girl amused long enough for a picture. But she seemed genuinely happy - happy enough that once the shutter went off, she would ignore the camera, and pepper the squishy cheeks of her daughter with kisses. Blissfully ignorant to what may come, surrendering to her happiness.

But Hopper finds himself transfixed on the girl the moment he tries to pull away - locked in on the small child, like a melody luring him in. He’s exhausted, burnt out. He wants to set the article down and add it to the pile of oddities, instead he stares. The child is dressed in a light colored dress, socks pulled high with shoes abandoned on the ground. The baby bonnet helps to hide her from the sun, keeping her face contrasted within the shadows for better detail.

Baby’s always look the same. Well, most do. And then there are some that stick out to you - holding features that follow them through life that simply can’t be mistaken for anyone else. And he sees those features, or thinks he does - and his heart rate begins to quicken at the impossible possibilities. His palms are beginning to sweat, folding up the paper hastily and tucking it away into his uniform's front pocket. “I’ll hold onto this,” he says, hoping his companion hadn’t caught on to his shaken tone. And he doesn’t. “Suit yourself-” “Hey, Powell,” a new voice calls out over the walkie. “Is the Chief with you?” The haste in his question sets off a blaring alarm in Hopper, reaching across the table to rip the device away from his friend's shoulder.

“What d’you got?”

#steve harrington #steve harrington ff #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #steve harrington slow burn #steve harrington angst #jim hopper #eddie munson #steve harrington x oc #steve harrington x original character #fanfiction #ff

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