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morallyinept · 3 months

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Rockford & Roses - A Detective Tim Rockford One Shot 🌹

Summary: Tim's coming home to you on Valentine's night with a heavy heart and secrets that threaten to tear you apart. Can your love for him survive the ghosts of his past that still haunt him? More importantly, are you willing to make room for them in your already strained marriage?

Pairing: Det. Tim Rockford x Wife!Reader (No name or physical description of reader. It’s you, bub.)

Word Count: 5k-ish

Scoville Smut Rating: None, it's fluff. Mostly angst. Definite angst. You're safe. Kinda.

Check out my Scoville Smut Ratings here.

Warnings/Triggers: Alludes to smut, nothing detailed/mentions details of a case involving the murder of a child, nothing too graphic/alcoholism/A N G S T in abundance/some dark themes in the sense that Tim is self-destructing. Tim is very a broken man, poor lamb. Give him a hug, will you?

I write for me, and I share with you. If this story isn't to your taste, that's fine. Just slip quietly out the back door. No need to make a fuss. It's just a work of fiction.

Author’s Note: This story evolved massively from the direction it was going in originally, and I'm actually kinda pleased about that... It's something different from your typical, "schmoozy" Valentine's Day story, but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless.🌹

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

Enjoy! 🖤

Detective Tim Rockford had been sober for almost a year when it all fell apart completely on that terrible night.

But it wasn’t until the winter was in its latter stages, that he would tip fully over the edge into regular, almost daily, bouts of oblivion to keep himself from falling off the ledge completely.

To keep the nightmares and sense of guilt that he drowned in on a near constant basis at bay.

He unscrews the cap from the bottle of dark amber liquid he’s craftily been hiding under the seat in his car, and swallows it all back letting it slip down his throat.

Without him giving it permission to, his mind replays over the events from that fateful night, four years ago, and is brought back to the little girl lying at the bottom of the ravine just off of the ridge.

A call had come in about a missing child on the morning in question, and he and his partner Peter ‘Petey’ Harman went over to the home of the parents to talk to them about it. You know, do the initial questioning; worker bee stuff. Try to suss out if she was a regular runaway or if in fact one of them had stuffed her under the foundations and was crying wolf.

The family home was nice; an average run-of-the-mill house, in an average run-of-the-mill neighbourhood. Tim was presented with a photo of her from her mother and he remembered thinking that he’d missed his chance to be a father, to watch your belly swell and witness the miracle of life forged from your love, and it left a bitter taste.

She was cute as a button; all brown hair and freckles, and she had this blue, silk princess-dress, with lace collars and cuffs, wearing a gonky smile that was missing a tooth or three.

‘Find my baby, please Tim.’ Her mother had begged him whilst Harman took down the notes - he was good with that stuff - and Tim promised her that he would - knowing that a detective should never promise that - if it was the last thing he ever did. Not knowing that he would actually make good on that word further down the line.

Looking again at the picture, he learned it was her favourite dress, her mother had said it through the red eyes that she wore that pretty dress everywhere, and that she turned into the spawn of Satan himself when she tried to get her out of it so it could be cleaned.

It was also the same dress Tim had found her wearing when he discovered her remains.

The search had been dragged out as much as it could be, but there was no trace of her. Leads had been exhausted; those pulled in for questioning were found innocent and their alibis solid.

It was as if Rainie Thompson had vanished off the surface of the planet in a click of a finger.

The search efforts began to die off around the four week point, mostly due to the heavy snow settling in and it pained him to know that everyone was giving up on finding this little girl - a little girl that he was convinced was still alive - she just had to be; he could feel it in his gut.

Some perverted bastard had her and he was determined to make them feed from a tube for their rest of their life when he found them.

Tim was determined to find her, despite his colleagues and even Harman at times, convincing him it was a lost cause. He’d been spending most of his time - including down time - combing the woods, the parks - everywhere and anywhere he could think to try and find her.

Where are you, baby? She consumed him wholly.

She was what kept your husband away from you.

Left you sat at the dining table alone, with an uneaten plate opposite you and a creeping draft settling into your bones. The creaky sounds of the house seemed louder when you were alone, and soon they were your only companion; their creaks soon turning into words of comfort at an absent husband.

Tim left the space in the bed vacant, crease-free and cold beside you.

Tim’s whole world had come tumbling down when he’d picked Rainie up and cradled her small, cold body to his chest and wailed like he had lost his own beau.

No, baby... no.

He cursed up to the sky, as though having it out with God himself - God, who had allowed this innocent, beautiful child to die.

Tim wasn’t exactly devout or the God-fearing type. He’d been to church only a handful of times in his life; to marry you being the most notable, but after that day he’d especially not been back to a church since.

This is how faith dies in a person; violated and fractured. Altered and hollowed out from the inside and everything pure and good is obliterated by the poisoning fingers of the darkness in the world, wrapping their hands tightly around its neck and simply snapping it in two.

Fuck you, God! Damn you, you son of a bitch!

She had been thrown down in there like a puppet whose strings had become entangled with themselves; she was six-years-old.

Rainie Thompson was six-years-old and she had a little, blue dress and played Hopscotch and liked drawing pictures of red roses, and eating chocolate ice-cream until her tummy hurt.

Rainie Thompson was the one who killed him.

Tim cried through the drinking, mourning her like his own and mourning the part of him that was dying with her; a hollow husk of a man soon to be filled by the familiar numbing void that alcohol had to offer.

It would make him forget the horror; forget the depravity, although the nightmares would never relent, he would be certain of that - they never do.

To date, he hasn’t found the killer and it’s been four years. A one-off, grisly murder that hinted at possible cannibalism, but later was discovered she’d been partly eaten by a wild animal scavenging; it left very little in the way of clues or evidence, because there was very little of her left.

Most of his team concluded it absolutely was an animal of some kind, a cougar happened upon her perhaps, or a bear after she'd wandered off? But Tim did not quite believe that - they didn’t see her.

It’s changed him, changed something within Tim to see the world for what it is. The band-aid has been ripped off and once you see that shit, you can never unsee it again.

And Tim's seen some pretty fucked up shit in his career.

He closed up, closed off and began unknowingly cementing the spiralling destruction that was to be his life. He’s fifty-eight and has nothing anymore.

Well, that’s not entirely true, he has you.

Despite the distance that has grown between you, evolving from carnal desire to ships passing silently in the night, you remain steadfast in your love for Tim, silently supporting him as he battles the demons that threaten to consume him wholly.

Yet he can’t help but feel that he's condemned you already in some ways. Watching as those demons hold you down and tear pieces from you until, one day, they'll be nothing left.

The wife of a gritty detective doesn't bode well in a happily ever after.

His decades long career is the reluctant third wheel in your marriage, and at first you admired his dedication; his passion to solving mysteries. Getting excited yourself when he'd use the dining room walls to gather his thought maps, pinning up mug shots, red thread lines linking people and place and circumstance. Weapons of choice like an elaborate game of Clue.

And he'd talk to you about them in those early days, the tamer cases he had. Mugs of coffee and thoughtful kisses exchanged as you offered your opinion and challenged his thinking.

Now it's getting harder not to resent that damn gold badge.

He swigs again at the bottle. It feels good; the warm, numbing sensation flooding through his veins down both his arms and legs. The giddy onslaught of amnesia begins to twinkle around the edges of alert thinking as he slowly succumbs to the light buzz.

He closes his eyes and lets himself teeter on the edge of it, welcoming the calmness like an old friend.

His first heavy session had led to his first blackout and it had scared him; scared him that he could lose a chunk of time that was unaccounted for out of his life - waking up at home fully clothed in the armchair, sometimes the kitchen floor, knowing he'd driven severely under the influence, and equally amazed and relieved that he hadn’t killed anybody in the process. They would take his badge for that recklessness if they knew.

No-one knew. Or if they did, they never mentioned it.

But it wasn’t enough to stop him. It got him through the paralysing fear of handling those dark days, which were particularly brutal, and the other fucked up cases he’d had to solve since.

They tell you; tell you that it will be difficult and bad, but you’re never prepared for it.

His father never prepared him for that shit and was right when he said he hadn’t got the cajones to be a police officer all those years ago.

His father headed up the ranks of Chief in a suburban precinct elsewhere and eventually made Commander, like Tim knew he would, probably just to spite him. He also told Tim in no uncertain terms that he wasn’t "Commander material." Hell, he wasn’t even Detective’s material, and for a while, Tim believed sincerely that he was right.

Although, he’s six feet under now, so what the Hell does he know? Shot in the back during a supermarket raid gone awry when he’d popped out to buy a newspaper and a some smokes. Commander John Rockford shot by a drugged up lil’ pipsqueak looking to get cash for his next score - what a legacy!

His death left a nice, fat pension for his mother who squandered most of it on a gambling addiction that she’d always had looming in the background of his childhood; the root of many a ferocious argument witnessed between his parents when they thought he was tucked up in bed, and he could literally hear the punch from his father’s fist make contact with his mother’s jaw.

But that didn’t stop the fact that his words clung to Tim like a bad shadow most days, even now, long after his theatrical send off like he was a Goddamned hero or something. He wasn’t; he was a mean little asshole with a bad temper and Tim had been glad to see the back of him, too sloshed to remember much of the funeral at all and cutting his no good mother out of his life soon after.

Tim swigs from the bottle once more, the sting dying out slowly and melting into an alkaline that soon tastes of nothing. It’s all nothing; emptiness and voids that are getting harder to fill. Disassociating himself from his shitty past life; from his first wife and her erratic behaviour, which took him years to figure out, was probably his erratic behaviour that had pushed her away and out of their home for good, not that he’d truly cared to notice.

Work all but consumed him. And he was happy to let it.

Of course, he’d gone to AA; out of town where nobody would know who he was - an upstanding pillar of the community, yeah right - talking about your problems, laying them all out there in front of a bunch of strangers who were just as fucked up as you were, was difficult because, up until that point Tim had never recognised or considered that he had a problem; just a mechanism he relied upon that helped him cope.

Having to take a moral inventory of himself and dig into the suppressed emotions he was hanging onto, and using them as an excuse to inebriate himself through the day, was hard.

The hardest thing he'd ever done, doubting he was strong enough to climb those twelve steps - and he wasn’t even really sure that he wanted to.

But he did; was sober for a while, until Rainie Thompson obliterated him.

He takes another quick swig after spotting Harman coming out the Gas n’ Guzzle and shoves it back under the seat covertly.

Harman finds Tim sitting as he left him, squeezing the steering wheel inside of his deft hands, over and over, trying to make sense of everything and when exactly the world had become such a terrible and unforgiving place - but is coming up short.

Gas stations are the most uninspiring places to get a decent cuisine that won’t make you shit ten tons the next day, but it's late; Detective Petey Harman is tired and hungry for just about anything right now, no matter how crappy it would taste or make him feel in twelve hours’ time as it burns through its exit out of his anal passage.

Once back inside the car, Tim scrutinises the large brown paper bag filled to the brim that Petey rifles around in, before pulling out a dire looking sandwich and handing it to his senior.

“You planning a sleepover with your girly friends or summin’?” Tim questions him.

There are several boxes of microwave pizzas, a bag of extra-large puffy marshmallows, various microwaveable meats in packet sauces that look questionable in their paleness, a jar of chocolate dipping spread and a large bottle of orange and pineapple Cactus Cooler.

“Nah... No girly friends for me.” Petey says, sombrely. “Weekly shop.”

“Well, watch your damned cholesterol.” Tim tears into the plastic packaging to be met with disappointment the moment he puts the sandwich in his mouth.

Petey can smell the waft of alcohol lingering in the car but he doesn’t mention it. Just like all the other times he's smelt it coming out of Tim’s mouth when he speaks, making his eyes water.

Petey was not long into being a newbie; a junior ranking officer in the department and up until a year ago or so now, had been making pretty good at busting low-level criminals successfully, to the point that he hadn’t really taken the gig that seriously, thinking at times he was invincible.

So much so that he had his thumbs in his belt loops and his shooter on show proudly like they do in Miami Vice as he and his reluctant mentor Tim, solved bleak mysteries together.

They’d stopped in for a burger break at Lafferty’s Grill on the day of Rainie being reported missing; talking about the pretty waitress giving Petey a lingering smile, and Tim trying to persuade him that he actually had a pair of balls and should use them to go and talk to her.

Instead, Tim was mirthed with disappointment as Petey's cheeks flushed a crimson red as he stared into his laminated menu, tacky with barbecue sauce residue, and tucking said balls firmly inside himself.

Petey had to grow up fast; he knew that the moment he’d heard Tim yelling at him crazily when he’d found the child’s remains whilst they scouted around for her aimlessly one night after Tim was trying for weeks to hold it together.

It was an image that still gave Petey nightmares, and the sounds of Tim sobbing still made his blood run cold when he thought about it, but it was far less frequent now.

He’d been promoted since to Detective, taking the job more seriously and knuckling down; his life coming up roses whilst Tim’s fell out the bottom of his ass.

Speaking of roses, Tim looks up mid-chew on something that the label assures him is tuna fish, and spots something red and velvety clustered in the window of the gas station.

He spies the date on the radio and sighs out heavily, tossing the sandwich back in the plastic packaging.

“Shit.” He mutters.

“You good? I got a BLT if you want that instead?” Petey asks.

"No. Fuck no. Wait, you gave me the shitty tuna when you had bacon?" Tim frowns.

"Was gonna save it."

With that, Tim exits the car, the driver side door squeaking on his beaten Pontiac and his trench coat billowing in the wind as he makes his way inside the gas station.

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, casting a harsh glare over the rows of snacks and drinks lining the shelves. His weary eyes fall upon the sad display of the florals. A few wilted roses, their once vibrant petals drooping with neglect, sitting haphazardly in a cheap plastic bucket.

Tim grimaces, knowing they’re far from the bouquet you deserve.

His mind flashes back to the drawings of roses on Rainie Thompson's bedroom wall and how, for a time, they engulfed him, tracing his fingers over the waxy ridges of their messy circles.

Tim was sitting on her bed, clutching a stuffed bear with a plaid neckerchief that smelled of talc and her mother informed him the bear's name: Tim. Or Timmy. Timmy the Teddy.

He remembers squeezing that damn bear tightly as he took in the surroundings of the little girl's room, trying to work out where she was - where are you, baby? - When he spotted the drawings.

He kept one, pulling it off the wall and folding it neatly into squares until it fit in his wallet. A reminder that she would be with him, crying in his ear for him to bring her back home to her mommy and daddy.

She never stopped crying and wailing in his ear; the pitch growing until he drowned it out with the booze.

He remembers the pictures, full of clumsy scribbles, bulbs of red crayon petals and skinny green stalks. Kind of how the roses look now in the bucket staring out at him; a sad little gift from beyond the grave in their macabre despair.

He hears it again now, that crying, right beside him. He squeezes his eyes shut, a few moments of forcing it into white noise.

With a resigned sigh, he plucks a handful of the least wilted roses from the bucket and makes his way to the counter. The clerk eyes him curiously as Tim approaches, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of their lips.

Tim ignores the silent judgement, focusing instead on paying for the flowers and grabbing a bottle of wine from the shelf by the counter. The wine selection is vastly limited, but he purchases a bottle of red without giving it much thought and hoping it won't taste like sharp vinegar.

He pays for his thoughtlessness, and hurries back to his car, the weight of his guilt and exhaustion pressing down on him like crushing lead.

“Get out,” he gruffs to Petey as he starts the engine.

Petey gulps down his sandwich with a splutter. “What?”

“You’re walkin’ home tonight.” Tim announces with eyebrows knitted, and Petey rolls his eyes, fumbling with his shopping and splitting the bag in the process.

"Aww man. You're kidding me?"

"I gotta get home. You didn't tell me it was fuckin' Valentine's." Tim scowls.

"Big deal. It's just another day." And Tim can hear the bitterness of being single and alone awash in Petey's mouth with stale bread, lettuce and bacon.

"Out." Tim presses.

“Roses won’t cut it this time, Tim.” Petey whines, as Tim reverses before he can even shut the door.

He’s right. Despite his bumbling ineptitude, Petey’s right - it won’t cut it.

Tim can’t even believe the sight of the wilted roses sitting on the passenger seat, mocking him and reminding him of all of his failings to you. It wasn't always like this, he's sure of it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tempestuous mind, he knows you were happy; he made you happy at some point, right?

He remembers how happy you were when you exchanged vows and gold bands, gorgeous in your little lace smock dress, beaming up at him. Fuck, it seems like a lifetime ago.

Burgers and beers on the bonnet of his car, he had a chevy back then, and watching breathtaking sunsets, and going to the movies when he was off duty.

He would bring you roses then. Fluffy, sumptuous blooms that almost guaranteed him a bigger helping of your cherry pie with the perfect, sweet crust, and extra kisses that led to him detaining you in the sheets, reminding you that you had the right to remain loud, to scream his name when he made you come.

He brought you real roses back then. Not these... weeds.

It’s late, almost midnight which ironically, is the earliest Tim has been home in a long time.

With a deep breath, he gathers the roses in his arms and makes his way to the front door. As he pushes it open and steps into the warmth of your shared home, the scent of your perfume catches his nose making it twitch.

He remembers that scent, like a sucker punch to the jaw. As he inhales deeply, the memories come flooding back, transporting him to a time when life was simpler, when the weight of the world hadn't yet settled upon his broad shoulders.

He can almost feel the warmth of your hand in his, your laughter echoing in his ears like sheet music. The feel of his cock inside your wet tightness as he fucked you into the mattress and you clawed at the expanse of his back leaving red welts on his skin from your nails for days after.

You couldn't get enough of each other once, and now you're barely strangers.

He steps into the deep bellows of the house searching for you, and finds you on the couch, wiping frantically at swollen eyes that have obviously been crying.

And the guilt drowns him instantly, crushing him like a tsunami as he sees you there, small and withered, worse than the roses he dared to bring home to you.

Looking down at them and frowning, Tim is disgusted with himself. He tosses them onto the table wanting to be free of the wretched things.

He longs to spend time with you, his darling wife, but the relentless pursuit of justice consumes every waking moment, pollutes every free thinking thought.

You can only watch from afar as Tim pours himself into the work, and pours himself another glass to compensate for the scars it leaves.

You know he’s haunted by the very vestiges of unsolved cases stacking up on his desk that he never talks to you about anymore. Closes the files of grisly crime scene photos before you have a chance to see them.

He protects you from his work now, but consequently, and unwittingly, protects you from him, too.

Each night, you would leave a warm meal on the table and wait anxiously for his return, hoping that he’ll come home early to eat with you, your heart heavy with worry and your hair turning whiter in the process.

More often than not, you dine with bitterness and disappointment.

Often, you’d wake in the early hours of the morning to find Tim slumped in his armchair, surrounded by case files; his brow furrowed in comatose concentration, glasses almost fully sliding off the bridge of his nose.

An empty bottle always rusticates beside him on the floor.

You can’t remember the last time Tim slept in your bed with you. The last time he held you in those strong, broad arms of his that you know he has hidden under that trench coat.

You can't remember the last time Tim made love to you and whispered how beautiful you are in your ear with whimpering grunts as he filled you up.

Tim is crestfallen as he steps forward, the faint glow of something flickering on the dining table pulls his sight.

A candle, close to being exhumed by the deathly kiss of its barely remaining wick, and unopened boxes of now cold Chinese take-out litter the table.

“I ordered your favourite. Number seventy-three with a side of nineteen.” You sniff. "I got extra twenty-two because they always give us an odd number."

“Darling, I...” Tim stops, for he knows nothing he can say can absolve this. On the most romantic night of the year, Tim has failed you, yet again. “I’m so sorry-”

“Don’t, Tim” you raise your hand shaking your head despondently. “Just don’t.”

"I didn't mean to be late. Not tonight.”

A small ghost of a smile evaporates on your lips. “You never mean to be late. Yet you always are.”

“The case-”

“It's not about the case, Tim," you say, your voice foggy with emotion. "It's about us. About the fact that you're always putting everything else before me."

He notes the roses again, bearing witness to his shame; their haggard state mocking him once more and he curses inwardly.

“I’m so, so sorry,” he approaches as you stand, arms wrapping around yourself and glass cutting tracks down your cheeks.

“I packed a bag…” You say as his eyes follow yours to a small suitcase in the hall that he didn’t even notice when he came in. passed right by it, oblivious. And he suddenly wonders what else he's been missing all these years, as it registers in his gut.

“No.” Tim states with a croak in his throat. He shakes his head vehemently. "No, darling."

Tim steps forward, the suitcase filling him with terrific dread. "You're leaving me?"

You're surprised that he's surprised.

But you shake your head, tears falling freely now. "I can't do this anymore, Tim," you say, your voice barely a whisper. "I can't keep waiting for you to come home to me. To open up to me and tell me what’s eating at you. I know it's something bad, something terrible. And I want to help, I do, I'm your wife. I want to make it better. But you make it so difficult. You push me away."

“To protect you.” He says with a low voice.

“Who's protecting you, Tim?"

"I don't-"

"I don't know who you are anymore. The man I fell in love with, he's... a ghost.”

“I…” words fail him as you look at him with a deep sadness that will stay etched on the thin fibre of his soul forever. A stain that won't wash out, no matter how much he scrubs.

You were the one. You're his one. And he's fucking losing you.

“Tell me, or I’m leaving... for good.” You warn. "If you ever cared about me at all, you'll tell me what's killing you. Please..."

You shake your head in despair, wiping your eyes harder now, when he doesn’t say anything. Just swallows the lumpy constriction in his throat and stares at you with hollow eyes.

"Goodbye, Tim." You sniffle.

“Rainie Thompson, she loved roses...” Tim mutters thickly as you approach the hall.

You stop, turning to face him.

"Who's Rainie Thompson?" You ask fearing the immediate worst.

You expect him to reveal to you that he's been unfaithful. That's he's not just been putting the hours in solely at work. That he brings roses - roses that are alive - to another woman. He eats her cherry pie now, fucks her into the mattress.

That he drinks because of the guilt of hurting you. But what he says instead alters a part of you that you don't think you'll ever get back.

“They look just how she drew them.” Tim says, his voice breaking, until his face caves in fully, features drowning in the onslaught of emotions, and for the first time you witness this unwavering man crumble completely.

And it terrifies you. For if he, the strongest man you've ever known, can break like this, what hope is there for you?

You rush to him as he collapses to his knees with a heavy thud, and wraps his arms around your waist, sobbing into the softness of your tummy.

You shush him and stroke your fingers through the greying curls, matted with sweat at the back of his neck. He holds onto you tighter than he’s ever done and you're afraid to let go of him.

Afraid that he won't ever stop bawling, as he mumbles incoherently and snottily into your abdomen.

Hours pass by, Valentine's Day gone in a blink of an eye, and you listen carefully and woefully as Tim recounts the haunting tale of Rainie Thompson, and how she's slowly killed the man you love.

You sit at the dining table with his thick, gun-calloused hands inside of yours, stroking over the ridges of his knuckles and listening to him swear to you that’ll get help with the drinking.

That he’ll take some leave and the two of you can go to the beach, or the lake, or somewhere where it can just be the two of you for a while.

Away from his cases, away from the horror of it all. Hell, he even mentions early retirement in his pertinent desperation, until you pat his hand gently and ground him with a stroking cup to his grizzled cheek.

You smile lightly as you gather the roses, and try to push aside your cynicism and wonder if you’ll regret not actually leaving tonight. Wonder if all what Tim has fed you is more empty promises when he'll eventually slip back into that expected monotony.

But you can see some swill of sincerity and regret inside the brown muddy pools of Tim’s tired eyes that you've never seen before.

He silently watches you pull the dead outer petals from the roses before placing them in a vase with fresh water.

“They’re already dead.” He mutters apologetically to you, shaking his head at the sight of them.

“Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.” You smile softly and Tim wants to just die in your arms right now.

“I don’t deserve you, darling.” Tim says, reaching for you.

He hasn’t yet taken off his trench, and you help it from his shoulders, the smell of worn leather from his holsters greeting you this close.

You've forgotten what he smells like as you inhale deeply. The scent of the leather leads a rugged and slightly musky undertone to his familiar aroma that’s swilled with coffee, cedarwood and sweat underscoring the gritty, primal edge to him.

You lick your lips as you graze your nose against the warmth of his neck, allowing him to finally crush you close to his broad chest, before the handle of his gun digs you uncomfortably in the breast.

He braces to kiss you, sweeping his lips delicately against yours, but you flinch. A reaction that slashes at Tim’s gut.

“Just hold me tonight, Tim.” You plead to him.

He nods, a solemn heaviness in his eyes as well as on his shoulders.

“I’ve missed you so much.” He admits.

Hearing him say it offers some vindication, but you know that these wounds need layers of bandages to be changed daily, and not some flimsy band-aids.

"I've missed you too."

“I’m so sorry for pushing you out. I don’t wanna lose you. I can’t. I’ll do whatever it takes. I promise.” He takes your hand and presses it to his mouth, the soft scruff of his facial hair feeling like gossamer, and you'd almost forgotten the feel of that too. “I love you.”

And when he says it, your emotions hiccup out of you and the tears fall again.

“I love you, Tim,” you whimper.

He takes you in his arms, those big, strong arms, and leads you upstairs to bed where he makes good on his word and doesn't let go of you all night.

You fall asleep listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat as he rubs your back gently, soothing you into sleep whilst he stays awake well into the night, staring up at the ceiling and trying not to listen to the dark thoughts urging him to finish that whole bottle of cheap wine downstairs.

He came so close to losing you today, on Valentine’s Day of all days, and he knows he has to do better. For all his faults, you love him and he spends the night pondering on that. Pondering when it was that he last slept in the bed with you, until his eyes fall heavy and he succumbs to a short, stunted sleep.

In the morning, he rises, stiff and aching from laying in the same position all night with you curled tightly in his arms. Amidst his back cracking and feeling stuffy in his slept-in crumpled button up and vest, Tim silently leaves the bedroom, careful not to wake you.

After pissing for what feels like an age, Tim catches sight of his face in the vanity mirror. White-gray stubble spreads across his chin and top lip, and the weary look of a man of the law that’s seen too much and knows too much weighing heavy around his sullen eyes, greets him.

He rummages in the vanity for some Tylenol and pops two in his mouth, swallowing them down without water. He re-shapes his oil slicked hair and tries to avoid the face looking back at him.

It knows all his terrible secrets, and now, so do you.

In the beginning the alcohol wouldn’t let him remember all the details, but its dropped its guard. The dreams were real; too real and he would find himself reliving the events each time he tried to get some damn shut eye.

He wasn’t supposed to keep seeing these things or to remember - it wasn’t part of the deal. Inebriation was supposed to wipe that shit out, but it'd failed to serve its purpose, instead serving as a beguiling wedge that expanded between you and him.

After descending the creaky stairs towards the kitchen, Tim passes the dining table en route to make some coffee; his tongue washing around dry, tight gums.

He spies his mobile and checks it out of habit; a message or two from Harman, one about a lead on one of their minor cases, and the other enquiring about his 'night of passion with the Mrs' and if it went well, and Tim simply scoffs. He makes a mental note to kick Harman when he sees him next. Preferably in the balls.

But out of the corner of his eye, Tim notices the vase of dead roses and stops to take in how they're now fully alive.

Overnight, their wilted petals have straightened and regained their vibrant colour, as if infused magically with a newfound vitality. The once drooping stems now stand tall and proud, their green leaves unfurling to reveal a lushness that seems to defy their previous state of neglect. Shades of crimson glow in the stale morning light, their hues deepening and intensifying the longer Tim takes them in.

Tim reaches for one, revelling in the soft velvet as he rubs it delicately between his finger and thumb. His eyes widen in disbelief at the transformation before him. It’s as if the flowers themselves are reaching out to him, a silent reminder of the resilience of your love and the power of forgiveness.

Some things can come back to life, Tim, with some love.

And Tim swears in that moment he’s never loved you more.

He swallows back a choke as he glances the wedidng photo of you both on the wall. Fuck, you looked so happy and beautiful that day.

Feeling a new sense of budding rejuvenation settling into his tired bones, a tiny bud, but one still seeding nonetheless, he turns towards the kitchen and then freezes, feeling it as his blood runs cold over his skin.

Prickles shoot down the back of his neck as he hears the sound, as clear as day. But it's different this time.

The haunting, yet wonderfully brilliant sound, of a little girl playfully giggling beside him.

Rainie Thompson isn't crying in his ear anymore, and Tim Rockford can't help but smile, closing his eyes as he listens to that sweet melody.

I found you, baby.

Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to know your thoughts and would appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you! 🖤

MAIN MASTERLIST | TIM ROCKFORD MASTERLIST | FLORA & FAUNA MASTERLIST

#pedro pascal x reader #tim rockford x reader #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #tim rockford #detective tim rockford #merge mansion #tim rockford fluff #tim rockford angst #valentines day #jett's writing #tw alchoholism #tw grief

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 4 months

Note

could you write one shot of the reader crying bc she’s insecure dating cill?:)

Nerves | young!Cillian x fem!Reader

Summary: Its the night of the Drama Desk Award Show (2012) and the up and coming star Cillian Murphy has a new girlfriend. She loves him but she still struggles to overcome her insecurity when it comes to being with Cillian. Hours before the show, she finally confides in him and he does everything he can think of to make her feel better before the big night.

Warnings: Self-deprecation and insecurity, anxiety, crying, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), after-care. Heavily inspired by the Golden Globes show last night where Cillian had lipstick on his nose lol. This is a fictional story that does not reflect Cillian Murphy in reality- it is purely delusional lol. Cillian is not married in this- no hate towards Yvonne, please.

work count: 2815k

Warning sign- Coldplay 🎶

note: I hope I did your request justice :)

Minors do not interact. Not proof read- sorry folks!

She was going completely insane. There was no way in hell that Cillian Murphy actually loved her. He was the most attractive man she had ever met and the kind of guy who talked very little which meant that she talked more than she would have liked just to fill the silence when they first started dating. She beat herself up about it on a regular basis, mortified how she seemed to say the most ridiculous things to Cillian and watched as he chuckled politely. She tried to tell herself that she was beautiful, that other people found her beautiful, and that she was degrading herself for no reason. But that didn’t stop the constant weight of insecurity settling on her shoulders whenever she was with him. She felt unattractive, like the kind of girl that never got the guy, and it was affecting her mental health.

She told herself over and over again as she got ready for the award show that Cillian had chosen her, that he wouldn’t be with her if he didn’t love her. Once she had prided herself on her confidence and even-tempered personality but she felt the exact opposite whenever she was alone with him. Being in public was a little easier, she could hide behind the absurdity of the paparazzi, she could take Cillian’s hand because he was leading her away, etc. But once they were alone, she felt insecure and a little delusional because none of it felt real… and maybe none of it was. Maybe this was all a fantasy but that couldn’t be because Cillian was real and the assistants swarming her with hair tools and makeup swatches were certainly real too.

They had started officially dating a few months before, right after his play Misterman was officially done touring. They’d gone on a few dates here and there but everything suddenly got serious after closing night, she honestly couldn't even remember how it happened. Now, don’t get her wrong, he loved being with Cillian but like so many girls (and others), she struggled to feel adequate in her relationship with Cillian. He was such an amazing performer and just so downright beautiful that it intimidated her. She was working as an author and happened to go to a party that Cillian was also at in New York City. They were introduced and she was surprised how shy he was, even as an already famous actor. And though she talked incessantly because she was afraid of awkward silence, he’d still asked her out on a date.

The rest had obviously led up to this moment in a small hotel room where they were both getting ready for The Drama Desk Award show in NYC. One of her assistants helped her choose a dress from a local upscale department store and they decided on a red velvet dress with a very simple silhouette. It was laced tightly around her waist and the hem ended mid-thigh. Cillian, ever the practically dressed man, wore a simple tux and styled his hair with a sticky product. Once they were dressed, their assistants left, telling them that a car would arrive to take them to the show. Cillian stepped out of the bathroom where he was checking his hair and snapped off the bright yellow light, his eyes fell on her.

“Wow, look at you,” Cillian smiled as she turned around in the mirror, checking that the back looked ok.

“Do you like it?” She laughed self-consciously and put her hands on her hips.

“Mhm, it's beautiful.” He licked his lips and she blushed deeply, feeling the rush of blood through her body like a little girl with a crush.

“Hey, hey, come here! You’re blushing,” Cillian caught her wrist and pulled her around to face him. She looked to the side, smiling. “That’s so cute.”

“Stop it, Cill,” she swatted him away but he caught her waist between his palms and held her still, his piercing blue eyes holding her like a magnet.

“What’s wrong?” His smile softened and he ran his thumbs across her velvet bodice. She took a deep breath and tried to smile normally.

“I’m just nervous,” she shrugged.

“About being in front of so many people?”

“No, not really. I don’t mind that so much.”

“Then why are you nervous?” He furrowed his brow and shifted his weight on his feet, stepping closer.

“I’m,” she started but his closeness distracted her. He was so close that his breath dragged across her forehead and displaced some of her hair. They’d only had sex twice because it was still so early in their relationship. She had an apartment in New York but Cillian had gotten a room in a hotel nearby as well, not wanting to force himself into her private life. When he was doing Misterman he stayed with a friend and had visited her only a few times when their schedules aligned. In their absence from one another, a sense of sexual depravity heightened between them. Even just thinking about Cillian in bed with her made her catch her breath, nearly choking on her own oxygen.

“I’m just,” she started again, her eyes caught on Cillian’s lips. Cillian’s eyes were on her’s and she shivered under his gaze. “I’m just nervous being around you.” She finished finally and looked up at him for his reaction. He snapped away from his trance and raised an eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

She shook her head, not breaking eye contact. Her hands clasped around his forearms, his hands still tight around her waist.

“It's just hard to be vulnerable, you know? It’s hard being with someone else when you’re more comfortable being by yourself. And… well, sometimes I don’t feel good enough to be with you.” She started to cry and wiped the tears quickly from her face, embarrassed. His concern changed to a wide smile.

“Ah,” Cillian threw back his head and laughed lightly, his dark hair shifting from his forehead, “really? You don’t think you’re good enough to be with me? Sweetheart, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever laid my eyes on. You’re a best-selling author and smart as hell, I’m fucking intimidated by you.” He moved his hands to cup her face, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh on her cheeks.

“But you’re Cillian Murphy.” She emphasized and moved her hands to his belt loops.

“Then remember, sweetheart, that you’re Cillian Murphy’s girl.” She smiled, adding a self-deprecating emphasis on his own name. She blushed again and he laughed, “you’re blushing again!”

“Jesus christ,” she hid her face in her hands and turned away. Cillian laughed and kissed her bare shoulder. When she pulled her hands away from her face, he wrapped his arms around her chest from behind. They stared at each other in the mirror.

“I think you’re going to win, Cill.” She whispered with a closed smile. He scoffed jokingly.

“I’m flattered but I really doubt it.”

“I think you will.” She shrugged.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She nodded and leaned back against him. He licked his lips and smiled slyly.

“Well, then if I win, as you say I will, I want to spend the night with you.”

“Oh? Is that the deal?” She laughed and resisted his strong hold around her, “what happens if you lose?” She frowned jokingly.

“Hmm,” he thought, “maybe you’ll still fuck me because you feel so bad for me.” “Do you really want me, Cillian?” She asked seriously and he paused, watching her closely.

“Do you not believe me?” He asked seriously back, his eyebrow raised.

“No, not really,” she whispered and he looked at her sadly for a moment, trying to understand where this insecurity came from and what he could do to relieve its pressure on her psyche. He looked down at his watch and stepped away from her, leaving her in the center of the mirror’s reflection.

“Take off your dress.” He whispered, meeting her eyes in the mirror. She shook her head.

“What?”

“Take it off, darling.”

She looked down at her dress and then back at him. He stood patiently behind her, waiting.

“We have time so do as I ask, please.” He nodded to her dress, “take it all off.”

She very slowly undid the ties at her back, loosening the dress around her waist. She kicked off her flats and took a deep breath before letting her dress slip from her chest down to the carpeted floor. She was left in her bra and underwear, both red to hide beneath the red dress. He sighed deeply, his pupils expanding childishly. He sat back on the edge of the bed and rested his head in his palm.

“Go on.” He encouraged and she reached behind her back, undoing the bra and casting it to the side. Then she removed her underwear, standing completely nude in the mirror. Her heart pounded against her chest.

“This, this is why I want you.” He nodded to her body. He stood and stopped behind her, his hand reaching around to her navel. “I’ve been thinking about you for so long, it was driving me crazy.” He whispered against her ear. His hand trailed up her stomach to her top rib and stayed there, not yet touching her breast.

“Every part of you is perfect,” he continued, his hand sliding down to her thighs and then up to her breasts where he finally cupped them. Every ridge and roll of fat fell below his hand as he explored her body. She shuttered.

She suddenly felt a small surge of confidence. “Do you masturbate about me?”

He looked at her and smiled shyly, “yeah… yeah.” He shook his head, “like I’m a fucking teenage boy. I feel like I need you all the time.” He gasped quietly against her bare skin.

She turned and pressed herself against his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck. She kissed him giddily and he smiled against her lips. His hand cupped her cunt as he kissed her back. She gasped at his touch and unbuttoned his pants. He kicked off his loafers and picked her up. She wrapped her legs around his hips as he laid her down on the hotel’s bed. She could feel his erection against her cunt as she fell onto the soft mattress. She sat up and pushed his dress jacket from his shoulder and tossed it carefully to the side. He was still in his dress shirt and bowtie as he pulled his erection from his underwear. She pulled him down to her mouth and continued to kiss him as he rubbed her clit, warming her up.

“Fuck, Cillian.”

“Yeah?” He whispered against her lips.

“God, I love you.” She gasped as he pushed his cock against her cunt and he smiled, his eyes closed.

“I love you too.” He exhaled and pushed inside her with a gentle thrust. She whimpered from the sudden intrusion and he gasped. He held her hips and fucked her deeper, still going slow and allowing her body to get used to him.

“This is so good, Jesus Christ. Are you ready?” He looked down at her and she nodded quickly. He licked his lips and started to fuck her faster, their bodies hitting eachother more aggressively as he sped up. She whimpered in pleasure and he exhaled in short bursts, already panting. He pulled out and crawled onto the bed below her. With one hand he pulled her farther up on the bed and the other he positioned her hips again. He thrusted inside again and grabbed the headboard, digging his fingers into the padded surface.

“Shit, Cillian I’m going to cum!” She whimpered, her thighs flexed against his pale hips. He shuttered and looked down at her.

“No, not yet. I’m not done with you yet, sweetheart.” He cooed and slowed down. He slipped his arms beneath her and laid his palms flat on the mattress. He held her hip up with one hand and moved in and out slowly, pushing as deep as she would allow him to go.

“Fuck…” she gasped and dug her nails into his back helplessly. She felt a pleasurable shock shoot from between her legs and she covered her mouth to muffle her loud moans.

“Oh you poor thing, you had to cum, didn’t you? You couldn't wait for me. So you’ll just have to cum twice, ok?” He panted and she nodded, tears filling her eyes and he snapped his hips back against her. He fucked her faster, panting from the pleasure. He grabbed the bottom of the headboard and pulled himself deeper inside her and she threw her head back in pleasure.

“Fucking hell, look at you,” He stroked her hair and continued fucking her fast, drawing out loud and pitiful moans from his throat. “You’re so good for me. God, I love you. You’re my girl.” He muttered deliriously, her walls closing around him and her thigh pulling him closer. The bed rocked beneath them.

“Harder, Cillian. Please!” She begged, a small spot of drool collecting at the corner of her mouth. He smiled and went deeper, hitting the base of her uterus with fast and rough thrusts. He got sloppier and she gasped against her hand. He kissed her and when she opened her mouth in a moan, he sucked her tongue. She licked his upper lip when he threw his head back in pleasure.

“I’m going to cum, fuck!” He panted and gave a final thrust into her. As he finished, she squirted and shuttered from the violent pleasure. He pulled out with a proud laugh and kissed her. He climbed off the bed and pulled her down to the edge of the bed by her ankle.

“What are you doing now?” She giggled.

“Cleaning up, darling.” He lowered himself to his knees and spread her legs with his sweaty palms. He looked at her for a second before licking her cunt, twirling his tongue against her clit. She was already so sensitive that she arched her back and bit down on her finger to stop herself from literally screaming. He used a flat tongue to clean the cum from her body and sucked softly on her clit. She tugged at his hair, gasping in exhausted pleasure. He held her hips in place as he dug her heels into the mattress, her feet flexed completely. He continued to lick when she orgasmed, cleaning her completely. Then with a proud smile, he put on his underwear and went to the bathroom. He came back with a damp washcloth and lifted one of her legs, wiping the soft inside of her thigh. He did the same to the other as she panted. She sat up and kissed him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I love you.” He responded and kissed her on her forehead before handing her dress back to her. She quickly put her dress back on and fixed her makeup. She applied a red lip gloss and brushed her hair away from her face. Cillian put his pants and shoes back on before pulling on his jacket and straightening the front. A knock sounded at the door and Cillian nodded at her as if nothing had happened.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.” She smiled and grabbed her purse. He took her hand and they walked down to the parking lot where the car was waiting to take them to the award ceremony. His hand stayed in her’s, their fingers linked. She rested against his chest and he kissed the top of her head. The venue was lit up and crowded with paparazzi and cars. This was the first time that she would be seen with Cillian at any of his events. He helped her out of the car and put a protective hand behind her back, leading her through the crowd to the entrance. Once inside, they were shown to their table and she shifted her foot closer to his, wanting to be as close as possible. People snapped their picture and introduced themselves to her, Cillian introduced her as his girlfriend and she blushed each time, prompting a playful pinch from Cillian.

She squeezed his thigh when the nominees were announced for his category.

“And the award for outstanding solo performance is…” The announcer looked down at the envelope and smiled at the audience, “Cillian Murphy, Misterman!” Everyone applauded and Cillian turned to her, kissing her in his moment of excitement and happiness. She kissed him back and laughed when he pulled away. Her lip gloss was smeared across his lips.

“You have lip gloss on your face now!” She whispered as he stood.

“Perfect.” He whispered in her ear and walked shyly to the stage, taking the award with shy nods, his eyes finding her’s in the audience, smudges of red across his mouth. She was his.

#cillian x fem!reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x reader #cillian x y/n #cillian fluff #cillian fanfic #fanfic

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missusmiller · 1 year

Text

Ignore this if you want and thank you for the hard work: Can I have a Scenario or one shot with Neteyam and fem S/O who is human but is sick, they are close friends and S/O always writes poems and songs for him, S/O has a heart disease that's why they are creating an Avatar for her, she loves to sing but she never sang again since she knew her heart and since she stayed on Pandora. But once she gets her Avatar body finally she can run, get rid of chest pains, fatigue, and the fear of dying and finally can sing again.

yayo // n.s x human -> na’vi reader

contains: lots of mentions of dying, heart disease, chronic illness stuff, soul transfer scene, fluff, shitty writing, drinking and being drunk, being in love with eywa cuz shes awesome

notes: this is not proofread at all my bad. also yayo means bird in na’vi cuz reader sings and birds sing so yeah aw so cute.

2.5k words

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was thirteen years old, roughhousing with Neteyam and his younger siblings on the forest floor. We were having endless amounts of childish fun until I collapsed onto the dirt in a fit of breathless wails. Pain filled my chest as my heart eventually stopped beating. Neteyam carried me back in a panic to the lab where I was taken to get medical attention. I was thirteen when they told me I had valvular heart disease. I was thirteen when my life changed forever.

When I was diagnosed five years ago, Norm wasted no time to make sure I got an avatar. That avatar was my escape from the decaying prison I call my body. It felt like forever until he allowed me to drive it and when I did I was still restricted from doing most things. My heartbeat in my avatar body translates through the link so if I went too hard, my human heart would suffer. My avatar just temporarily stopped me from feeling the constant aches and pain.

Everyday my human body was only getting weaker and the topic of my death seemed to come up a lot more often in hushed conversations between the scientists. I could see the pity in everyone’s eyes as I walked around the lab. The pitiful looks towards me put a bitter taste in my mouth.

The only things that kept me from rotting in my bed for days on end were music, my poems, and my loved ones. Neteyam visited on a regular basis, often with his siblings or parents.

On the days that it was just Neteyam, he got the opportunity to see songs and poems I wrote. I’d hum the melody, not having enough courage or energy to sing fully. Those days usually ended with me ripping out his favorite song or poem of the day from my journal and gifting it to him. The loss of paper was worth seeing the thankful smile on his face every time. Throughout the years of our friendship, he never seemed to have a clue that my more romantic writings were about him.

Speaking of Neteyam, his obnoxiously cute accent echoed through my room as he entered and announced himself, “Y/N, your favorite friend has arrived!”

“Yes, you are my favorite friend, Nete. Always will be until my demise pretty soon.” I said with a small, careful laugh. Everything I did these days had to be done with caution.

Although what I said wasn’t meant to be taken in a depressing manner, I didn’t miss the look of pity and sadness that swam in Neteyam’s big yellow eyes.

“Hey man, don’t be like that. It’ll be okay, Nete.” I lied, motioning for him to come over to my bed where I laid. Since he was entirely too big to fit on my bed he settled on the floor next to me. I reached out to pet his hair like I usually do to comfort him but his large hand gently stopped my hand from going any further.

“You are dying yet you still try to comfort me? Think about yourself for once, Y/N. You are the one that needs comfort.” Neteyam lectures me, a stern face meeting my sight. Ironic how he is the one saying this considering his history.

A sigh left my mouth and I rolled onto my back to stare at anything but his intimidating eyes. He wasn’t wrong. I’ve been making sure everyone else was okay with my situation without even making sure that I was okay with my situation.

When I turned back around and looked at him again, it was like I could feel the imaginary concrete dam of numbness break down. What followed was the flooding of all those emotions and throughts that were kept at bay. I have always despised the way that Neteyam could break my walls down so easily.

“You’re right. I’m not ready to die, I’m scared. I’m so fucking scared.” My voice cracked embarrassingly at the word ‘die’ but neither me nor Neteyam cared in the moment.

“You will not die,” He paused for a moment to confirm what he was about to say, “because Eywa can bless you like she did with my father when he was human. I prayed to Eywa for permission and she gave me a sign. My parents approve, Y/N. But only if you wish to do this.”

My eyes widened and I shot up from my bed, tumbling onto the floor which earned me a hiss of concern from my friend. Out of pure excitement and disbelief, I quickly sat up on my knees and grabbed his face to place many fast happy kisses all over it.

Immediately after my loving attack on his face, he had to take a few breaths from his specialized mask. I didn’t pay much attention to it, not knowing his breathlessness had been due to my actions.

“I—I didn’t know you’d be this excited.” He managed to choke out as a purple hue spread throughout his cheeks and ears.

“Nete, you are giving me a way to not only live longer but a way to live with the people I love. I can be with you, Kiri, Lo’ak, and Tuk without any of us having to wear masks. I can sing again. Like truly actually sing again.”

A large grin stretched across Neteyam’s face upon my realization. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss my voice. I used to sing him Earthly lullabies and songs in our youth before my heart became weak. Even though we were young, he would always tell me that I was going to be a strong singer much like his mother and Ninat.

The rest of the night we joked, hugged, and messed around. He even sang the same song to me that I used to sing to him as kids. The act alone made my heart felt like it was going to burst but in a good way not like the usual heart attack painful way.

Eclipse soon came and Neteyam had to leave to attend to his duties —future Olo’eyktan stuff and all that. We kept in contact for days after to prepare me for my soul transferring ceremony.

When the day arrived, I was both nervous and excited. There was always a risk that I could be too weak to make it through the eye of Eywa. But if I were to die I’d rather die and be with Eywa than anywhere else.

The scenery was absolutely beautiful. Tons of Na’vi sat in rows, their bonds connected to the ground as they chanted a prayer. The ground lit up with bioluminescent blue lights, the tree a beautiful pinkish purple.

Mo’at stood at the tree, awaiting me.

Neteyam carried my leaf covered body through the aisle and he gave me a calming smile to ease my nerves. Eywa gave him a sign so he had absolutely no worries about this.

He followed Mo’at’s instructions to place me diagonally to where my na’vi body lay. “See you on the other side, yayo.” Neteyam said before stepping off to the side to allow the tsahik to do her thing.

The rest of the process was unknown to me because after Mo’at started chanting, my consciousness began to float up and out of my body. All physical restraints were broken as this spirit form danced freely.

A breathtakingly beautiful woman came into my vision. She looked like nothing I had ever seen before. Her energy made me feel warm, like no harm could ever come to me.

“Oh child, such a pure spirit you are.”

If I had a physical form at the moment I’d cry in her arms. I felt so vulnerable. So much so that I couldn’t talk but she knew what I had to say. She felt so loving, I didn’t want to leave.

“You cannot stay, child. He needs you.”

“He needs you.”

As if on cue, my spirit was sucked from the high place back down to life. I shot up in shocked surprise. Everything was fuzzy and I lost any remembrance of where I was.

A pair of strong arms held my panicked body close to theirs and they stroked my hair until I calmed. The ringing in my ears soon became sharp, clear sounds. Sounds of my name being whispered. Sounds of the rain lightly falling. Sounds of leaves brushing against one another.

“That’s it, that’s it. Come back to me.” A voice that I’ve known to always warm my heart spoke. The result on my heart was as previously stated.

Everything came back to me.

I wasted no time to shout tearful praise for Eywa and the clan started ululating as a response of joy.

Neteyam couldn’t help the tears that left his eyes. I was finally safe. I was finally okay.

“Now we celebrate!” Jake Sully yells like one of his war speeches and the clan roared before they started leaving to regroup somewhere—I assumed.

I felt something behind me swish in excitement. I look and my face lit up. A tail. A really adorable cute tail.

“Get her some clothes and meet us at the party!” Kiri laughed to Neteyam and the Sully family left quickly.

My heart dropped at the realization that I was in fact fully naked, “OH MY GOD IM BOOTYBUTT NAKED!”

Neteyam’s laugh boomed through the forest and the sound only added to the fast paced beating in my chest.

“You are Na’vi now! It does not matter! Come on, I already have an outfit planned for you. You’ll love it.” He took my hand and excitedly dragged me along to wherever he had my clothes. We reached his home which was empty considering the surrounding Na’vi were down celebrating the latest gift from Eywa, my rebirth.

Neteyam took some pieces of fabric from a box and tossed them over to me. I unraveled them and blinked in confusion.

“How do I put these strings on?”

After instruction, trial, and error, I finally got the loincloth and top on.

Looking in the mirror that I gifted Neteyam a few months ago, I inspected this outfit that he had so much confidence that I’d like.

The top was made of colorful woven thread and fabric, almost like crochet, and it splayed on my body like a necklace but tied in the back. It provided enough coverage for me to feel comfortable while also feeling supportive since my body was built a bit differently than normal Na’vi women. The loincloth was a pretty purple color, probably made of the same material as Neytiri’s leggings, and it only covered the front part. But I didn’t mind because when I turned around in the mirror, my ass looked good.

“Your past human vanity will rot your mind.” Neteyam joked as he watched me pose so that I could look at my nice blue ass.

After his little remark I stopped posing and stuck my tongue out at him before stating, “You ain’t gotta be human to recognize sexy. Now let’s go have fun.”

As we ran down branches without a care in the world I finally for once felt truly happy. I did not have to care about my heart failing or me suddenly collapsing on the ground. No, now I was really living. Neteyam noticed the change in my attitude and it sent a flutter to his heart.

When we arrived at the party the energy was electric. Everyone was drinking, eating, and dancing. Laughter filled the air around us. After two hours of fucking around, I was definitely getting slightly drunk.

When a group of Na’vi started singing a song that I recognized Kiri teaching me, I did not hesitate to let my voice out for the first time in years.

Happiness radiated through my body. It was almost like a visible aura surrounding me as I sung.

When the songs were over, Jake stood up and started speaking which silenced the room, “I would like to make a speech about dear Y/N here.”

The smell of alcohol filled my nose when he spoke.

He gripped my shoulder in a very dad-like manner and continued, “I have watched her grow from a young girl to a strong woman with a brave heart. She has been a friend to the Sully family for many years. My children do not know of a life without Y/N. Today, I proudly claim Y/N as a Sully! As a sister to my children.”

I wanted to melt into the floor. Sister? I think I would rather kill myself. I appreciate his enthusiasm and I love the guy but come on man. I had to set things straight immediately.

“Sir! Sir! No, I can’t accept it!” I blurt out, causing flabbergasted looks from the entire Sully family and the rest of the clan.

In a drunken stupor I quickly attempted to explain myself, “I want to be a Sully and want to be a part of this family but not like this. I don’t think I could mentally handle being the sister to the man I love.” During my explanation I held my sight on Neteyam.

His wide eyes softened when he realized what I meant. My name softly left his lips like I would shatter if he said it normally. All I could do was fiddle nervously with my top while waiting for a reaction, any reaction.

“I love you too.” He shamelessly stated before he stole me from his father’s grasp and held me once again to his body. His hands were dug into my hair and waist as if I would fly away. Our tails whipped madly behind us which caused Neytiri to swoon over how in love we looked.

Lo’ak, Kiri, and Tuk who were off to the side eating dessert were now freaking out over the scene unfolding in front of them. Neytiri had to shush the three of them so that the lovely moment wasn’t ruined by their gossiping voices.

To Neytiri’s despair, Jake’s tipsy laugh echoed through the area as he said, “Well, you heard the woman! She’s a future Sully!”

The clan woo’d and chuckled and carried on with partying, the topic of choice of Na’vi girl conversations now being that Neteyam is unfortunately spoken for.

“I didn’t exactly plan on telling you this way or this…publicly.” I said while swaying with my newly acclaimed lover to the music.

Neteyam gazed into my eyes, “I quite enjoyed it, my love. Now everyone knows that you’re mine and I am yours.”

His new nickname gave me goosebumps. The complete bliss I was feeling had to be fake. This all had to be fake.

But when Neteyam took my face in his hands and kissed me so passionately, so lovingly, it brought me back to reality. He was truly mine now.

That night I was given a place amongst the Omaticaya.

A place amongst the Sully’s.

A place with the one I loved where I sang him to sleep with the same lullabies from what seemed like forever ago.

#fanfic #reader insert #avatar #neteyam x reader #fluff #writing #neteyam fluff #neteyam sully #neteyam #avatar way of water #avatar wow #atwow spoilers #awow #awow x reader

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prismatic-bell · 1 year

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Anti-Racism In Glass Onion: It's A Whole Thing, Part One

So I wasn't going to write this, because I'm white and it felt like veering very far out of my lane. But I also haven't seen anyone else talking about it, and finally I decided I'd rather make an ass of myself by doing something well-meaning than I would to uphold a status quo that zips right by one of the most important things in this film (that doesn't get explored enough in media or fandom), so here we are. Please keep in mind this is going to be FULL of spoilers so if you're not about that life, you'll want to give this a pass for now. (I also expected it to be much shorter than it is. It’s, uh, nine pages long. So it will be multiple posts long. Sorry.)

I don't think I've yet seen anyone really touch in-depth on the fact that this is a movie with a pretty strong theme calling out antiblack racism and the overturning thereof. Indeed, I’ve only seen one post mentioning it at all.

So let’s analyze, yes?

First, let's look at "the disrupters." They include:

--an alt-right streamer who's openly mentioned as being just about every -ism in the book

--his blonde-haired, blue-eyed girlfriend who's with him for status

--a white politician who objects to Klear not on the basis that it could cost lives, but that it will lose her the progressive vote

--an absolute idiot of a white supermodel who's had two serious antiblack race-based scandals, and is about to have another that's just generally racist

--a Black scientist who repeatedly tries to speak up and gets shot down

--a Black woman, the actual brains of this entire outfit, who created the original business plan and a multibillion-dollar company and got first fired, then financially ousted, then murdered

Now let's look at some other Black characters and Black imagery in the story. These include:

--a mural of Kanye West depicted as a messiah

--Serena Williams, as Miles' personal trainer

--the phrase "sucking on his titties," spoken by a Black woman

--a cameo by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, as one of Benoit Blanc's friends

—a Beatles song (yes, really)

--the lower-middle-class sister of the Black woman who was the actual brains, etc.

Before we move on, I want to address the Kanye thing, because Glass Onion was filmed in 2021, probably written in 2020, and the point where Kanye went absolutely batshit deep-end off-the-fucking-rails was in 2022. I do not believe Rian Johnson was making any kind of "go Kanye" statement here--I think it was an unfortunate confluence of timing. As I discuss Kanye further, I want it to be clear we're discussing already-gross-but-not-yet-gone-full-Nazi Kanye.

So let's go ahead and get him out of the way first, because he's an incredibly important figure in Black music but as a Jew I just. Really do not want to be discussing Kanye West longer than I have to, I'm sorry. West is the kind of figure Miles Bron would absolutely want to have in his life as a status symbol. First, if we look at Bron's definition of being "a disrupter" (first you break a small thing, then very quickly you break the system itself), Kanye absolutely qualifies. He started out as a small artist mostly producing beats for other musicians, then did some work for Jay-Z that led to an album Rolling Stone considered one of the best hip-hop albums of all time, and then he dropped The College Dropout. I knew his work was considered influential before I started looking into this imagery deeper, but I had no idea how influential--this was his debut album and it hit #2 on the charts, produced a single that debuted at #1, included a song called "Jesus Walks" that hit the top 20 even though it was predicted a Christian song would never land in hip-hop, and the album is still considered one of "the greats" by other artists--twenty years later. I'd say that pretty neatly fits Miles' definition of "disruption." He did, indeed, first break something small and then turn the hip-hop world on its head.

Where there's a second layer to this that I think would also speak to Miles is that in 2018, Kanye declared the chattel slavery of West African people in the Americas was "a choice"--as in, they chose to be enslaved. He later claimed he was referring to "mental enslavement," but no matter how you cut it, regardless of his own race, that's a pretty fucking racist antiblack statement (in addition to being wildly historically revisionist). While I doubt Miles would be like “hell yeah, racism!,” he’d absolutely buy 100% into the idea of choosing to be in hellish circumstances, because He Got Out All On His Own (even though he didn’t), So You Can Too.

Moving on, we have Serena Williams. She's another person who'd fit Miles' description of "a disrupter," but where Kanye would probably revel in that idea, I honestly don't think she'd like it very much, and her attitude in the movie really underlines that. Yes, she's taking his money to be his "personal trainer," but really, he's frittering her life away. She's sitting there reading a book waiting for him to decide he wants to get off his ass and work out today. She's not a slave, but she has been explicitly put in a role as a paid servant. I don't think it's out of the question to say Miles specifically picked her over, say, Jillian Michaels, because she is Black. Do I think he sat down and went "who's a Black athlete I can subjugate?" No. I think if you asked Miles he'd be the kind of person who'd unironically say "I'm not racist! The head scientist at Alpha is Black!" What I think happened--or to be more accurate, what I think the kind of train of thought Rian Johnson would attribute to him would have caused to happen--is that he picked someone he'd be comfortable ignoring. Did he consciously decide he'd be more comfortable ignoring a Black woman and telling her to put up or shut up if she complained he was wasting her time? No. But do I think we should attribute unconscious biases and prejudices to him that aided him in the decision that he'd be comfortable ignoring her? Yes.

Incidentally, while we’re here, let’s discuss how the two of them stack up to Miles’ other “status symbol” name-drops. First, let’s discard Banksy. He’s a special case here and we’ll discuss him later. But now let’s look at the others. We’ve got Jeremy Renner, whose personal I-make-this-for-my-inner-circle food Miles proudly eats and hands out; Jared Leto, whose personal I-make-this-for-my-inner-circle drink Miles proudly offers to friends (although if memory serves me, he himself is drinking beer); Gillian Flynn, who he’s hired to write a mystery game for his own inner circle; Philip Glass, who he hired to write the music for the Glass Onion’s clock, which is there to impress guests; and Anderson Cooper, whose party he supposedly attended. Notice something about all the celebrities whose products he actively engages with? Yeah. They’re all white. Serena is relegated to a private room and not interacted with, while Kanye doesn’t even get a mention—and as I noted above, this movie would have gone through post far too late for Rian Johnson to have been able to say “let’s…remove praising the dude who’s declared himself a Nazi, please,” which means if Kanye was ever mentioned at all, it was cut long before real!Kanye’s final downward spiral. The Black “status symbols” have literally been relegated to being Miles’ props and “the help.”

Now let's talk about Helen's turn of phrase when she's reading "the disrupters" for absolute filth. She tells all of them what they want is Miles' (and, by extension, Andi's) money, and that they're "sucking on his titties." Putting the line in the mouth of a Black woman puts me instantly in mind of the "mammy" stereotype, where the Black woman is expected to nurture and nourish and care for all of the (implied or outright stated to be white) children and have no personality outside this. Technically it's Miles' money, but it's Miles' money specifically because of the shit he pulled with Andi--he sucked her dry and now is being fed upon in turn. The thing is, the way Black women are further treated throughout the narrative doesn't make this a faux-cutesy little image like those godawful racist vintage ads; it's horrifying. It is horrifying and it should be horrifying; it’s disgusting and the narrative wants you to be disgusted at this.

To continue, we have that cameo by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. It's really only noteworthy because he's the one who's giving Blanc shit for failing at Among Us and refusing to get out of the bathtub. This is important for reasons I'll come back to (put a pin in this), but for now suffice it to say it's important because Blanc is white and Southern and we'll get back to that.

Next up, it’s “Blackbird,” the song Miles was playing on guitar when the ship lands. Other posts have noted that for all Blackbird sounds very pretty and impressive, it’s actually very simple to play, and that this reflects Miles’ relationship with the world in general—pretending he’s bigger, better, smarter, more, than he actually is. This is probably true. I’ve also seen it mentioned that it, like Glass Onion, is a Beatles song from the White Album, and this is also true. What you may not know if you’re not a Beatles nerd is that “Blackbird” isn’t about a bird at all. Paul McCartney has stated several times over the years that the song had a dual inspiration—the sound of blackbirds, but also news reports about the American Black civil rights movement, and that when he says “blackbird” you should be thinking “black girl.” Birdie is excited and immediately declares it’s “her song,” which in her mind probably has to do with her name, but I strongly suspect that for Rian Johnson, this was another way to tie in how absolutely wildly Birdie is willing to appropriate Black experiences and culture. This is particularly true because of the exact part of Black history the song references—Birdie tells us she’s done blackface to dress as Beyoncé (a modern Black feminist who strongly pushes for empowerment) and has compared herself to Harriet Tubman (an escaped slave who proceeded, during Reconstruction, to become part of the women’s suffrage movement). Blackbird links these two together, with our nameless 1960s Black civil rights protestor falling squarely between the two named women. Also worth noting here is that “Blackbird” was released in 1968; while the Black Power movement was getting underway and “Black” or “African-American” would become the accepted terms over the next decade, “Negro” and “colored” were still the polite ways to refer to a Black person in the US. McCartney has since gone on the record apologizing for some pretty serious racism during his time with the Beatles, and I’m choosing for simplicity’s sake here to assume he was sincere, but this makes the song itself another example of appropropriation—“Black” wasn’t really a word McCartney, as a white man, had the right to use when the song came out. That makes “Blackbird” an even more apt double-metaphor—Birdie the appropriator of Black culture calling it “her” song, and Miles “I steal everything not nailed down and say I did it” Bron using it to look like he’s more than he is.

The second half of this (admittedly extremely messy) essay is here.

#glass onion #racism #media analysis

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beepboop358 · 2 years

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Hi. I am/was a mileven defender until I saw that scene in the van and Mike's copy pasted monologue that felt like it wasn't even meant for El but for Will.

As a straight person, I don't think I can relate to a queer person's frustration or anger over Season 4 even if I tried.

And I'm sorry but that's why it's hard for me to understand why you guys have given up on your ship when it's obvious that my people are the ones that should be getting prepared for a massive straight bait.

I hate to even think about it and it saddens me to the core but Mike is clearly projecting. He doesn't feel about El the way he feels about Will and it shows. I think El truly loves Mike tho so it's even more frustrating to me.

I wanted mileven to work so badly and I still do but given Mike's strange behavior and the way Will and Mike look at each other and the way they stand side by side between two other canon ships in the final scene and actually all their scenes together, it's hard to not to believe that your ship is the one they're going for.

I guess it's a good thing that they are planning on making the gay ship endgame. I know you guys need some decent representation and I'm sorry about the people that are mocking you for it on Twitter or in real life. All of that doesn't mean I suddenly started shipping them tho. I'm still clinging on to mileven. Probably forever.

I just wanted to acknowledge that I think it's weird that many of you have lost hope. But again, I can't really relate to the things queer people are experiencing and going through on a daily basis so I want to apologize if anything I just said was insensitive.

hello!

This was really interesting to read, thank you so much for sharing, genuinely! I hadn’t thought about it from this perspective before because i’ve mostly seen mike/el fans only celebrating after s4, and i’ve gotten several rude messages since vol. 2’s release over me being delusional and crazy for thinking byler would ever happen. It’s super interesting we are both doubting our ships and convinced the other will now be canon after s4… and I find it really fascinating that as a mileven shipper you thought Mike’s speech to El sounded like it was meant for Will…

I still have faith that byler could happen, and the ending shots really make me think it will, but i’m worried that they won’t be able to fix the damage they did to it in s4 fully, in s5, because I thought the writing in s4 was very different than what we have previously seen in the show, and so many characters didn’t get the development i thought they deserved. Regardless of whose ship ends up being endgame, I just hope that they fix it and actually resolve something in s5 so it ends on a healthy note for the couple. I believe everyone should ship whoever they want, so its totally fine by me if you don’t ship byler. Also, thank you <3 It definitley sucks to be mocked by so many people rn LOL.

I hope you’re well! xx

#byler #byeler #st4 #stranger things 4

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sutherkins · 11 months

Text

request / “Soo here's a request for our cutest boy Peter - how about working with Peter as a night agent for years, knowing him better than yourself and being best friends since, together at a mission where reader gets hurt and Peter totally freaking out and panicking leading him to confess his love for reader? Of course it's mutual but neither of them dared to say something until this moment because both thought the other one's not feeling the same way.”

warnings: blood, reader gets shot, bad writing

this kinda sucks, and i apologize for the wait! i wanted it to be longer but i got sick after i started writing it and i literally just finished it today. im also still getting used to writing in general bc i normally dont have any inspo or energy to do it

being part of a top secret organization within the government was certainly not on your list of things you’d wanted to accomplish when you graduated school. having a career at all was something you weren’t sure was in the cards for you, much less being a spy and being on a first name basis with the president. nothing about the job was easy — as you’d expected. living so cut off from the rest of the world was more difficult than you could have imagined.

now, several years later, you realized that the job was much more enjoyable when you had a partner. especially when that partner was peter sutherland. peter was hired about a year after you and assigned as your partner. both of you were still newbies to the other night agents and figuring out how to do the job with someone like him by your side made the loneliness you felt that first year completely vanish. it felt nice to have a best friend throughout all of this. you realized that was the key to this job – besides the training, having someone to lean on was the best way to succeed at being a night agent.

peter was the best partner you could have asked for. he was attentive and always took care of you, even when you didn’t think you needed it. now, you most definitely fucking needed it.

your most recent assignment was challenging to say the least. the both of you were constantly on the move and sleeping in run down motels. and now, much to your displeasure, you just got shot.

laying on the floor next to the bed you shared, blood began to pool around you. you tried to fight your blurred vision and the overwhelming desire to close your eyes but that was a losing battle from the moment the bullet pierced your stomach. you were getting ready to give up — but just then, the door opened and peters voice rang through the air.

“sweetheart?”

you would’ve blushed at the pet name if you weren’t bleeding out on the floor. trying your best to speak, you’re voice hoarse and thick with pain. “peter..”

as soon as he spotted you, peter shouted your name and immediately went into protection mode. rushing to your side and putting pressure on the obvious wound, his other hand cupped your cheek. “jesus christ. sweetheart? can you hear me?”

“yeah, i can hear you. ‘s not as bad as it looks.” even when you were bleeding onto the carpet you still tried to comfort him.

“not that bad?! you got shot in the stomach! if i didn’t come when i did you could’ve bled out on the floor and died!” tears threatened to spill from his eyes.

you whined, the pressure from his hand on your wound producing a stabbing sensation that you’ve never felt from a gunshot before. “please don’t cry, pete. ‘s really not that bad, i promise. just — just call an ambulence, okay?”

pulling his phone from his pocket, your best friend quickly calls for an ambulance and lets your bosses know what happened. his attention is back on you, his hands covered in your blood. “don’t tell me not to cry. you’re my best friend and i love you. honestly, i’m…i’m in love with you, okay? you’re hurt and i love you and when i saw you lying on the ground i thought i lost you forever. i thought i lost you before i even got the chance to tell you how i felt. i can’t lose you.”

a stray tear fell from your eye, your hand reaching up to caress his cheek. “peter sutherland, i love you. i’ve never loved anyone more, to be honest. you’re not gonna lose me, okay? i was serious when i said it’s not as bad as it looks. i’m gonna be fine. ‘sides, once i’m patched up we can spend my newfound vacation time at your cabin.”

peter lets out a small chuckle, grabbing the hand holding his face and kissing your palm. “you got yourself a deal.”

#peter sutherland #peter sutherland x reader #peter sutherland x you #peter sutherland fanfic #peter sutherland fanfiction #the night agent #the night agent fanfic #the night agent fanfiction #gabriel basso

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sleepy-razor · 1 year

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Thank You for Worrying

Request!!: hiiii if recs are still open can u do an akutagawa x reader? some fluff preferably thanks in advance!!

Notes: Of course you can! Hopefully this is up to snuff with what you were looking for, it took a while for me to write due to lack of given direction, but I hope it came out okay in the end!

Warnings: Slight description of injuries! Port Mafia! reader!!

Characters: Akutagawa Ryuunosuke, GN!Reader, mentions of Atsushi, Gin, Higuchi, Tachihara, etc.

Life in the Port Mafia was nothing like you’d expected it to be.

Given the details of the work, you sure hadn’t walked in thinking it would be all sunshine and roses, but you certainly hadn’t expected to form some of the closest bonds you’d come across in your entire life.

You were extremely close with the Black Lizard, Tachihara and Gin especially, and you considered Higuchi to be one of your best friends.

You were also considerably close to the weretiger from the Armed Detective Agency, after having many joint missions together to allow you to get to know him better. Now, you take him out to get chazuke on a semi-regular basis.

And then, there’s Ryuunosuke.

You weren’t sure how you got to be so lucky. You had somehow managed to work your way into the heart of the mafioso that didn’t take shit from anybody, who only wished to receive praise from his former mentor, and now you were one of the people that he held the most dear.

The relationship wasn’t easy, not by a long shot.

Ryuu’s self-preservation instincts left something to be desired, as was evident by the number of times he’d come home sporting some new wound that required tending to.

Which, of course, led you to now. You sat facing him on the couch of his lavish apartment, tongue poking from between your lips as you carefully dabbed rubbing alcohol on a large gash on Akutagawa’s forearm.

“I’m completely fine,” Akutagawa tried to insist, poorly suppressing a wince as you gently pressed your cloth over the wound.

“Uh huh,” you hummed, unimpressed when you lifted your gaze to meet his. “If you’d left this any longer, it could have gotten infected, which is really dangerous for you, if you’d take the time to recall.”

As if you prove your point, Akutagawa turned his head away, lifting his un-injured arm to cough into his elbow, grimacing as he did. “I’d be fine,” he said quietly. “Mori’s a doctor, he’d be able to fix it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Would he?” you asked bluntly. “Or would he take that as a sign of weakness and do you in right then and there?”

A muscle in Akutagawa’s jaw jumped, but he made no move to argue. You were right, after all. The Port Mafia boss wasn’t exactly known for his kindness. If he thought he found a weak link, he would stop at nothing to snuff it out.

Sighing heavily, you returned the rubbing alcohol to the medical kit and tossed the towel you’d been using on the table. You’ll grab it later, if you remember.

You nuzzle into Akutagawa’s side, closing your eyes as you made yourself comfortable. “As upset as I am with you because you got upset, I’m happy that you made it home alive.”

Akutagawa stiffened at the contact, still unused to physical affection even after six months of dating (though he had definitely improved with reactions between then and now) before he relaxed slightly, bringing an arm to wrap around your waist.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice gravelly and awkward as he spoke. “Aside from Gin, hardly anyone else has cared about my wellbeing before.”

You cracked open an eye to smile at him. “Of course I worry,” you replied easily. “I love you.”

Akutagawa didn’t respond, opting to close his eyes and lean his head against yours.

#bungo stray dogs #bungo stray dogs x reader #bsd x reader #akutagawa ryuunosuke #bsd akutagawa #akutagawa x reader #akutagawa x you #bsd akutagawa x reader #bsd akutagawa x you

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nhasablogg · 1 year

Note

I dont wanna monopolize all your prompts but maybe a short one where Spencer won't/cant go to sleep/is drinking too much coffee to stay awake so someone tickles him to tire him out? Or just to convince him to get some actual rest?

-M

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Characters: Hotch, Reid

A/N: This is probably ooc, but I don't CARE I wanted to write about Hotch and Reid. Also tweaked the prompt a little, hope that's okay!

Words: 1.3k

Hotch didn’t make it a habit to profile his profilers. It didn’t seem ethical, especially not if it didn’t affect their abilities to work. Which was exactly why it took him slightly too long to realize that Reid was sleep deprived.

“How many hours of sleep per night does a person need to function normally?” he asked him that afternoon.

Reid looked up from his paperwork, one hand gripping his fifth cup of coffee. “Between seven and eight depending on age.”

“I see. And how many do you get on a nightly basis?”

Reid straightened, his lips pursing. “I sense I made a mistake.”

“How many, Reid?”

“Mmm.”

“Reid.”

“Maybe two?”

“Two?”

“Not every single night of my life!” Reid scrambled to add. “But. Recently.”

Hotch rubbed at his temples. “Jesus. For how long?”

“A couple of weeks.”

“Reid. You need to lay off the coffee.”

“It’s not because of that,” Reid said, holding up his hands. “It’s the only way I can focus during the day. It doesn’t matter how tired I am at night. I just can’t seem to sleep.”

“Nightmares?” Hotch remembered when Morgan had approached him about it a few years ago, when Reid’s nightmares had started.

Reid shrugged. “Partly. I’ve been able to handle them before, though.”

“We experience new things all the time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of if you find it harder now.”

“I’m not ashamed.” But he wouldn’t meet Hotch’s eyes now, turning back to his pile of papers.

Hotch huffed, wondering how to approach this. It wasn’t as if he could physically make sure Reid was sleeping.

Unless…

“I want you to take a nap right now.”

Reid turned back to him. “Sorry?”

“We have a couch and a quiet room for a reason. This job’s demanding. I order you to go to sleep.”

Reid held up his cup. “But I’m five coffees down,” he said weakly.

“Then starting tomorrow you’re not allowed to have any more coffee past noon and will take a nap after lunch.”

“Sir, with all due respect-”

“No arguing.”

Reid’s mouth snapped shut, but Hotch caught him mumbling something along the lines of “Morgan will tease me to death” as he left him.

And Morgan did, stopping only when Hotch shot him a look the next day. “I think I should enforce this rule on everyone if I’m being honest. I doubt you’re taking care of yourselves as you should.” Everyone squirmed, refusing to look at him. “Hm. Reid, come on, the room is ready for you.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes. You look exhausted as it is.”

“I’m fine, Hotch, I promise.”

“Didn’t I say no arguing?”

Reid sighed, following Hotch into the room. It was nothing special really, but it had a couch by the wall, a table and a chair for when you needed complete privacy while working or eating, and a small window with the blinds closed, just in case you needed daylight. Hotch rarely was in here, and he had no doubts his agents barely knew of its existence.

“There’s blankets and extra pillows,” he said, pointing to a basket. “You get an hour.”

“What if I can’t fall asleep?” Reid asked quietly, arms crossed. Holding himself rather than displaying defiance, Hotch noted.

“Just resting is also good for you.” Hotch softened, taking in the young agent. How much he’d seen much too young. “Please try, Reid. Please.”

Hotch left him before he could reply.

Reid found him 27 minutes later, hair somewhat unruly and his eyes containing something that nearly scared Hotch a bit. “I can’t. Hotch, I can’t.”

“Reid, Reid, calm down. What is it?”

“I can’t sleep.”

“Reid-”

“I just can’t, I-” He ran a hand over his face. “It’s not that I don’t want to.”

He saw the frustration in the kid now. How he probably spent weeks trying and failing to get the rest he needed. How that was slowly etching itself into his bones and spilling over.

Hotch sighed, wondering if he was crossing a line. “Come with me.”

They went back to the room and Hotch had him sit down next to him on the couch.

“Relax,” he told him. “It’s okay. I want to try something.”

“Okay.”

“I do this to Jack when he can’t sleep. I know you’re not a child,” he added when Reid opened his mouth. “But I think this could help as long as you’re not uncomfortable with me touching you.”

“Uh.”

“Or we can get someone else to do it. Maybe Morgan.”

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“Jack relaxes when I stroke his back,” he explained, finding himself smiling softly. “I figured sometimes you just need to know that someone is there. It also helps you relax.”

Reid exhaled. “Is that- something you want to do for me?”

“Of course.” Hotch said it with no hesitation, although still wondering if it was appropriate. But their job literally involved them sleeping and eating and crying around each other. He saw no reason why this would be different. “If you want me to.”

“I guess it can’t hurt,” Reid mumbled, suddenly blushing and turning away from him. “I, uh, should I lie down?”

Hotch hadn’t thought of the details. “Yes, I’ll- I’ll sit on the chair.”

“Okay.”

It was awkward, as they shuffled to get in position. Hotch wheeled the chair over, realizing it was probably much too high for him to comfortably touch Reid, but it would have to do. Reid was facing the back of the couch, visibly tense and waiting for Hotch to approach.

“Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Are you gonna keep doing it until I fall asleep? Because that will probably take hours.”

Hotch really hadn’t thought this through. “I’ll do it for a bit just to help you relax, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna touch you now, okay?”

“Okay.”

It was strange, to be petting your co-worker, but to be fair it wasn’t the strangest thing he’d done for this job. Reid lay completely still as Hotch let his fingertips run over his back, over his spine and shoulder blades and the nape of his neck. He shivered slightly, which made Hotch smile. Despite everything Reid hadn’t lost his humanity.

“How’s that?”

“Feels good,” Reid mumbled. Hotch could imagine him blushing, eyes closing and mouth slightly agape.

“And a little weird?”

Reid breathed out a laugh. “And a little weird,” he agreed.

Hotch laughed too, running his fingers down Reid’s spine toward his lower back. “Well, hopefully you’ll relax anyway- oh.”

Reid had twitched away from him with a yelp, glancing back at him briefly enough for Hotch to catch his panicked expression. “Uh.”

“Did I cross a line?” Hotch asked, equally as panicked.

“No, no, I just- Ugh.” He turned back around, pressing his face to the couch. “I think I’m good now, sir, thank you, you can leave now.”

“Reid, what-”

“I’ll fall asleep in no time.”

“Reid.” Hotch grabbed his arm. “What happened?”

Reid sighed. “It’s stupid.”

“If I overstepped-”

“You did nothing wrong, it just tickled.”

“Oh.”

Oh.

“I didn’t know you were ticklish.”

“How could you have known?”

“I’ll be more careful. Is it just your lower back?”

Reid didn’t reply instantly. “My sides. Back ribs. Shoulder blades if you’re being very gentle.”

“I see.”

“Neck too.”

“So I have about one fourth of your back that’s safe to touch,” he joked and Reid groaned, clearly embarrassed. “Sorry. I’ll be careful. Although it would have been fun to hear you giggle.”

“I don’t giggle.”

“I’m sure that’s a lie.” In a moment of rare playfulness, Hotch gave Reid’s side a poke, earning something akin to a shriek. “Sorry.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“I think I know what to do now next time you refuse to sleep.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I would. Now be still and let me continue. I promise not to tickle you.”

Reid did. Hotch deserved a medal for keeping his word.

#tickling #ticklish!spencer reid #hotch and reid #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #n writes #what to name this hmmm #hotch makes reid nap #lol #for masterpost purposes #ask

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siriannatan · 6 months

Text

"If you wanted to go out with me, you didn't have to crash my date to do so." - JimmyScott(fWhip)

This month, I decided to try writing a few hundred words a day. Be it a part of a longer chapter, a Minecraft one-shot, or a Hartsteel oneshot (Riot put the biggest morons into a band, I could not resist).

Here's to hoping I keep it up :}

Jimmy was never going to be able to look Scott in the face. Not after today. Damn Grian and his partial information.

"You know," the villain said. Clearly amused by Jimmy's distress. "If you wanted to go out with me, you didn't have to crash my date to do so."

"I didn't know it was a date! They're a ruthless killer - what was I supposed to think? I thought it was a business meeting." Jimmy's cheeks burned, utterly mortified. "Besides," he muttered. "Didn't look like it was going well anyway.

The villain raised his brow. "Oh?" he hummed and Jimmy looked, with his best possible at-the-moment glare, to Scott's clearly amused face. "And, pray tell, how is a proper date supposed to go?" he mused, swirling his wine. "Or show, I had this whole thing ready for wooing fWhip but... we both know how that ended. Would be a shame to waste all that honest, legal work I did," he grinned.

Jimmy blushed. Scott might have been practically evil incarnate. His nemesis. The worst villain he faced on a regular basis. But he was also really, really handsome. Especially without his jester's mask and fedora. Lounging casually in an empty restaurant. "I'm working tonight..." Jimmy rambled out and escaped through the window he broke in through. Followed by Scott's soft chuckle.

He was never good at dealing with Scott...

Scott watched the wreck of the window with an amused smile. He just loved Jimmy's reactions. "So? What do you think?" he asked his original date.

"You were right, our little hero is quite cute," fWhip chuckled, taking his seat on the other side of the table. Scott was used to seeing him in long heavy coats and masks covering his whole face so tonight was a nice change. He looked damn nice in a suit. But quite honestly said suit would look better on Scott's bedroom floor. "So, back to celebrating our new arrangements?" the assassin asked with an unfairly handsome smirk.

"And here I thought tonight's a date," Scott sighed, snapping his fingers to let the staff know to bring their food.

"Could be one instead," fWhip hummed back. "We can celebrate working together in different ways," he chuckled. Scott was more than happy celebrating with an evil ploy to take over the world and make this o cute little date.

#my stuff #my stories #empires smp #fanfiction #empiresshipping #empires fwhip #empires scott #empires jimmy

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imagionary · 7 months

Note

if you're open to talking about them (unless it's more of like a 'reveal information about them over time' type of thing) do you maybe have any information on dave's hollywoods? they're super interesting to me, and i love the fact that imps in your au apparently gain a sort of resemblance to the people they consider to be their boss. i really love the unique design they have too...guys with weirdo eyes just like their boss... also I'M REALLY SORRY if this is like worded weirdly or whatever! this ask was actually originally a lot longer (and it honestly is still pretty long for an ask...) until i realized i should probably shorten it...

totally unrelated as well, but i would love to learn more about this au and stuff, even if it isn't through art! i really liked the sort of writing post you made about the whole 'buck and dave and their connection with high roller in your au' thing and i would definitely love to see more sort of writing posts like that (if you want!)

Golly,, you have no idea how much I loved getting this ask, this is very kind to me, thank you! I'm shy when it comes to talking about our AU, but it means a lot to me that you're so interested in it, and that you'd like to read my silly ramblings! ^v^ 💚

Dave has his three Hollywoods: Left Suit, Middle Suit, and Right Suit. They are his posse, his guys, his main men, his trio, his henchmen sorta, etc, etc.

The three of them are all supposed to look exactly the same, and they did for an extremely long time, however, the first week that Evils and I were telling story, there was a mass layoff happening in COGS.Inc, and Left Suit happened to get fired; Dave was FURIOUS about this, because his Hollywoods were supposed to have special protection against that sort of thing, but he did his best to keep his cool during his time without Left Suit,, the whole situation seemed bogus and fishy to him, but there was nothing he could do about it, so life went on; I think it was around a year since Left Suit had been fired, but it was revealed that it was an inside job; Doctor Googlemuffin and Brian were so incredibly interested in how High Roller had come into being, that they wanted to see if they could make any clone fusions using extracted soul essence from one of Dave's Hollywoods (so, they decided to have Left Suit fired without notifying Dave or anyone else of the reasoning, and slipped his name on the list last second)

Doctor Googlemuffin and Brian's plans worked, albeit better than they had planned; almost every clone fusion they had conceptualized had finished itself just like how High Roller had; except the Aggregator, Top Dog, and Bulldozer all seemed to have a strangeness to them that the two scientists couldn't foresee:

The Aggregator and Top Dog were highly aware that they were created in the lab, and that they were fusions of two peoples blueprints (created using two people's blueprints as basis? Idk how to explain it) (the Aggregator being a secret project that Doctor Googlemuffin was creating to spite Brian; she used Brian and Graham's blueprints as a basis) (Top Dog was created using Graham and Zak's blueprints as basis); both were created with Graham's strangely advanced blueprints, so Brian and Doctor Googlemuffin chock off their peculiarities to being side effects of being created with them in mind;

However, Bulldozer is different. He doesn't have Graham's strange blueprints to blame. He was created with Mr. Wilde and Winnie's blueprints as basis, and he survived the destruction of the conglomerate extension.. well, came back to life after his body put itself back together (he had been mangled and shot through the core multiple times by Spruce to finish him off).

The reason I'm rambling about all of this is because Winnie's pixie dust magic, and Wilde's tough material, blended with Left Suit's soul essence in a peculiar way and it gave Bulldozer near indestructibility and rejuvenation powers like a Hollywood. So, this is why, when Left Suit was alive again, he had gone out and sweet talked Bulldozer and gave him a kiss; he was taking his soul essence back. Being near indestructible and with the power of rejuvenation had left Bulldozer unable to comprehend that the way he was treating the molemen, maintenance crew, and the skelecogs that were building the conglomerate extension (before it exploded) wasn't good. If he could withstand as much as he could, everyone else surely could to, is what he ignorantly believed; so Left Suit took his soul essence back to knock him down a peg; Bulldozer is still incredibly resilient, but he doesn't have his rejuvenation abilities anymore; Bulldozer doesn't know this yet, but once he gets hurt real bad again (hopefully he wont) he'll understand what he was doing to his subordinates.

Golly,, I got side tracked, oops,, so, after Dave had found out about why Left Suit had been fired, and what he was being used for, Doctor Googlemuffin made sure to get Left Suit finished up so she could return him to Dave. Dave was furious about this, he knew that Left Suit wouldn't have all of his soul essence back, but he would take what he could get,, he missed Left Suit so so much,,

However, once Left Suit was finished, he appeared within the darkness in High Roller's office, because, according to his contractual existence, he belonged to Dave,, but High Roller was made with Dave's scrap, so there was a paradoxical issue with the contract,, Left Suit now has feathery fur like High Roller (albeit, his is still white and black and not green like High Roller); Left Suit was there to serve High Roller, but Dave wanted Left Suit back, so he made some contractual changes with High Roller (having High Roller sign that he wouldn't be in charge of any of Dave's Hollywoods) amd they shook signed on it with a cold Inky electric flame entering High Roller's body through their handshake. And thus the deal was made and Dave could keep Left Suit as his own (Left Suit still has feathers that he tries to pluck out, but they always come back, so he hides them so he can look like Middle and Right)

Left, Middle, and Right all have the same voice and think and act relatively the same; however, if someone were to get to know them long enough, it's possible to get to know their differences:

Left Suit happens to talk smoother and can come off as the most friendly and calm of the three; he's got a playful sass to him; he's the weakest of the three now (powers wise), since parts of his essence has been stolen; he's the least likely to get angry

Middle Suit happens to be the most stern of the three, and is normally in charge of trying to calm Dave down when the time arises; he happens to be the most protective of Dave and his wishes; despite Right being more likely to get into trouble, Middle is more likely to get upset (still a rare occurrence that he'd show it though)

Right Suit happens to be the more tricky of the three and can come off as a bit sassy and the most likely to break Dave's rules, however he is also the most trusted when it comes to handling dirty work; out of the three Hollywood's, Right is most likely to "break character" and have his expression change

All of the Hollywoods have little horns that they hide from their appearance, as to appear more normal, like how Dave hides his more monstrous parts

The Hollywoods all have gloves and white cores like Dave, to show that they are under Dave's control; their plug tails can be used to control people like how Dave can with his, however, their abilities to erase or eat people's memories aren't as powerful as Dave's, so if you ever have your memories of an event wiped by a Hollywood, it'll seem like you had a lucid nightmare, but you'll think it wasn't real

The Hollywoods, like Dave, can disappear and appear within the dark; Dave can also use his Hollywoods as extra eyes for him; whatever they see, Dave can see, if he has his thoughts set on knowing (Dave can also give his Hollywoods knowledge of things they're not supposed to know either)

Sorry if this got rambly,, I get shy when talking about our AU, so I hope this answers your question! You're more than welcome to ask questions if you have any

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renren-006 · 2 years

Text

Double Trouble | Sierra Six x F!Reader

Summary: Sierra Ten went undercover into Loyd Hanson's world, but when Six gets captured will she be exposed

Word count: 2176

Warning: gore, descriptions of torture, angst, fluff, happy ending, canon divergent

A/N: this was another request and I had a lot of fun writing it. The basis of the one-shot is a double agent works for Loyd and Six somehow gets captured- so I let my mind create another story and here's what I came up with!!!

ENJOY!!💛

You didn’t want Six involved with this, god you didn't even want him to know what you were doing. Fitz had always had your back but with this mission, you felt like he was just using you instead of Six. Fitz was a nice man but it was no secret he favored Six. You knew also that he was using you for your looks. While Six was attractive and you knew it was some other reason that Fitz wanted you there. The job he had you do was undercover work. You posed as a hacker in Loyd Hanson's group, having some dummy resume and even more shit reason for you being there. The details were lost to you but you were there and you watched his every move, updating Fitz every week. For a month you had been there, and when a hit on someone went wrong Loyd started to get suspicious about the people he worked with.

It hurt you to keep this a secret from Court while also not calling or texting him for almost a month. You hoped that if things got bad, Fitz would tell him what was happening. Unknowingly Fitz did tell Court and he was pissed. He insisted on scouring the compound to find and save you. He wanted you by his side, not by the Psychopath you worked for now. Court had a problem, and that was when it came to you he didn't think he just did. When Court decided to try and get you out he didn't plan on anyone catching him, and Loyd finally got his hands on the infamous Sierra Six.

When Loyd strutted into the compound with a tied-up Six behind him you had to play it cool, while your mind was racing. Your eyes caught and the only thing you could convey to him was Please. It was simple but he knew that the pleading look on your face meant many different things: please don’t die, please don’t give me up, please don’t be mad, and please whatever you don’t antagonize Loyd. Six read every thought you had at that moment and nodded towards you sightlessly. He knew that if he made even a gesture to you, you would be dead, and his plan to rescue you would be over. He didn't want to think about you being hurt, it wasn't something he wanted to ever happen.

Loyd was suspicious of many people, and what better way to figure out if someone is a backstabber than to make them watch one of their potential friends being tortured? You were one of the few that Loyd dragged into the room to watch. Six watched as you fidgeted behind the other people, hoping to not make it seem like you didn't want to watch. Loyd didn't notice, too focused on the ideas flooding his head about what he was going to do about Six. When he started it was the simple hits and punches, that made Six mouth water with blood. You grimaced from the back, watching as Six eyes stayed on you even when his head was down. You didn't look away, you didn't want anyone catching on, but watching the man you loved getting battered by the man you had to work for was hard. You had always hated Loyd but this made you want to beat his head into the ground. You just want to walk up to him and remind him that he isn't all that scary, but you stood there frozen watching what he did to Six.

Loyd was at it for a long time, and when he wasn't getting a reaction out from the people in the room, and when Six wasn't giving him the answers he wanted he left. When everyone was out of the room and you knew there went any cameras around you dashed back into the room. You crashed onto your knees in front of Court, you held his head in your hands as you tried to search for his eyes. When the court finally managed to open his eyes and look at you he felt relive flood through his system. You looked worried and he knew why, but he didn't have time to focus on that.

“Need to…get you home” Six spoke, trying to keep his voice steady.

“You are in no position to make demands,” You told him, still trying to hold his head up. Six was beaten badly, missing a few fingernails, and definitely had a concussion. Loyd had done a number on him and he knew that. The man was sadistic in his methods and left no part of Court unharmed. The only thing he had not done before he got annoyed was to use the knife that still sat untouched on the trey. You grabbed it and used it to cut through the bonds. Six caught sight of the knife you kept in your boots as well as the gun in your jeans.

“Planning something?” he asked through gritted teeth. Your hand cost over a part of his rib that he hadn't realized was broken till now. Your hand immediately flew back casing a slight wine to leave Six mouths.

“I'm not staying another day in this place,” You told him, wanting to get free from this mission and from Loyds tactics. Fitz had insisted you stay till his operation was shut down and the news about how corrupt the CIA had gotten was leaked but you couldn't do it anymore. Six saw the look that passed over your face, he had seen it when you two first met. The mission was something simple, or it was supposed to be but you got ambushed by the guy's men and you had been the one to kill all of them while Six was held captive. Court and your relationship were held on the account that both of you were willing to fight for one another and save each other if you ever got held captive, and Court seemed to be two for two in that department. You however hadn't had the chance to be held captive and Six was appreciative of that. When the mission was over there was a strained look on your face, like you were haunted. You didn't tell him till later that was your first kill mission, he stayed with you for two weeks to make sure you were okay. That was the first time he took you out, and the first time either of you understood that while the job is dangerous there is room for love.

When you finally managed to get Six up and out of the chair he was in his entire weight crashed onto you. You stumbled a little under the weight, and a small apology came from Six. The two of you made your way towards the door, and once opened you left Six leaning against it to look outside and make sure the coast was clear. You made it to the first hallway before you saw two guards walking in your direction. You gingerly set Court up against the wall, he clung to your arm holding you back.

“Iv got to..” you told him.

“You don't…have to” he tried arguing hoping to change your mind.

“I do,” you told him, kissing a part of his cheek that wasn't bruised before walking down the hallway. The men their guns, letting you know that they clearly had been warned that something was happening.

“What are you doing down this hallway miss?” guard number one asked you.

“Oh…you know...routine,” You said innocently and vaguely. They arched an eyebrow towards you.

“No one is supposed to be here,” guard number two said, aiming his gun higher.

“Are you sure?” Before the men could shoot their guns off, you wiped your gun out taking them down. A thud echoed through the hallway, and you turned to find Court hobbling along beside the wall. You stiffened laughed and helped him walk the rest of the way. As you made your way out of the compound with less damage than when you left you made your way unscathed to your car. Before you could get in it however one of Loyd's right-hand men was standing by your car.

“I should have known it was you,” he said as you walked closer. The keys to your car are in his hand. Six made a move to get in front of you but you only held him back.

“Dave,” You said nodding your head, “Loyd send you?” “He did” Dave answered, “...but I'm feeling nice,” he said after a whale tossed the keys to you. Effortlessly you caught them, and give the man a confused look. He nodded his head before walking back towards the compound door.

“Why?” you called out to him, setting Six down on the car.

“Because,” Dave said, “Loyds a real pain in the ass and like to see him put in his place one day” and turned back towards the door, leaving as if he never saw us. Six waddled into the car's front seat while you sat in the driver's seat. When you got to Fitz's place you hold him up to the door and rang the bell. Fitz showed up, Clair not too far behind him. Before you could protest to the girl seeing the state that Six was in she crashed into you.

“I was so worried” she yelled, you held her close, knowing she thought of you as an older sister and the fact that you had been gone for a month must have made her stressed. You hugged her back, facing back at Fitz who was bringing Six into the house. As the two of you waited you could hear Six muffled moans through the door. Fitz was stitching him up and you knew you didn't have the stomach to see that. Claire glanced at you, then towards the door.

“He probably would like to see you” Claire spoke, telling you the truth. You knew he wanted you there, you just also knew that seeing him how he was anymore would cause you to break down.

“I don't think I can,” you said to her, voice slightly wobbly.

“...then let him see you try,” She told you, “Your sad…”

“I am,” You told her.

“Because he's hurt” she questioned, she stared up into your eyes, wanting to see every emotion that crossed them. You took her hand, hoping it would comfort the both of you.

“Yes, and because I stood by while it happened,” you told her. Se knew about the job, your life, and the love you held for Court. She didn't know his actual name, only the number he was assigned. When you first met, Fix introduced you as your assigned number, but soon you trusted Clair with your real name, knowing the little girl before you longed to have someone close to her.

“You had a job to do there, right? So you were doing your job trying not to get caught so it really wasn't your fault” She told you, knowing way too much about your life and the job you had. “Go see him” She ushered you into the room. You stood in the doorway, watching Fitz clean up the rest of the blood. When the both of them saw you Fitz got up and left, taking Claire with him. You took Fitz's seat in front of your injured boyfriend.

“I'm…sorry,” you told him, he looked up at you. The bruises that lined his face showed under the dim light, he brushed off your words.

“Stop it wasn't your fault,” he told you, “you know that so…stop”

“It was my fault the whole thing…I could have stopped him or..” you muttered.

“This was my fault and we both know that, if I had just trusted you and not jumped in..”

“Court” you started, wanting to make the man feel better about the diction he had made.

“No. I charged in thinking you needed me…when in reality you didn't and you were fine” he said, the anger he had for himself seeping out into his words.

“I did need you. I do need you Court, alive preferably” You told him holding his face gingerly as you comforted him. You realized that while you had been worried about him, he had been worried about you. “I did need you to come to save me, I hated it there with him it was horrible” you wanted to yell at the universe for the way Court felt. This had everything to do with you taking the job, but right now your job was done and you were with the man you loved. Court smiled at you and then, words you said to him. He let you hold him, wanting to feel the comfort of you. You two stayed like that for a while, just holding each other. For the next couple of weeks that was all you did, stay with each another. The two of you just stayed together and were together when Loyd Hansons operations were shut down and the new head of the CIA was fired for using government secrets and resources for unsanctioned hits. You were given a lot of cash for the job you had done and the top of you bought a place with it, knowing that a home is better when both of you were together.

taglist: @blackberries45

#sierra six #sierra six x you #i am so in love with six its not even funny #sierra six x reader #court gentry imagine #court gentry x you #court gentry x reader #court gentry #the grey man #the grey man fan fiction #i love ryan gosling

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helloliriels · 1 year

Text

Sleepless (Part 5)

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | AO3 Fic

Molly felt awful about mailing Sherlock's letter, two weeks later …

The radio program came back on, playing bits of John and Rosie’s conversation, a constant reminder of her betrayal …

… and Sherlock - too - had appeared in her lab to work out a few details on a pressing case in symphony with the radio timing …

Molly flushed with colour. Unable to turn around and or even to look at him.

“Something is bothering you,” Sherlock stated off-hand. As if he didn’t really care about the answer, but was, in fact, annoyed by it …

Molly fussed with paperwork.

"Busy day," she managed, after a moment, then topped it off with a cheery, “what did you think of the program on New Years?” before she could stop herself …

Her voice didn’t even shake.

She was quite proud for this not small feat, but immediately wanted to run and hide …

“Had its moments,” Sherlock acknowledged, reluctantly.

Maybe hiding wasn't necessary ...

“… but I do wish the host would allow her guests to speak without limitations," he added, offhand.

She laughed off her nerves, “it is a radio program for entertainment, Sherlock-? She has to keep it on track?”

“Boring,” Sherlock responded, dully.

He wasn’t looking at her. Wasn’t even looking up.

“Will you be writing to them, then?” She asked bravely, after several minutes of uninterrupted silence. Again, forcing the casual note to her voice, “to find out the answers you needed …?”

“What answers?” Sherlock cut her off, “I deduced everything within minutes of the show’s ending. Case. Closed.”

“So you weren’t interested in the Doctor? John?” she prodded, “not even a little? ‘Cause I thought-”

“Molly,” he eyed her suspiciously. Her heart stopped for a second. But then he went back to his research, “I hope I would have more sense than to act like a silly schoolgirl sending notes,” he spat the last word with extreme derision.

“... Besides,” he added -

. A few moments after she had started breathing again -

“... the relationship would never have worked out.”

She froze.

. “And why’s that?” she laughed ... trying not to look too anxious for his reply …

. Shit. Shit. SHIT!

. ... Why did she send off that letter???

“I’m a detective ,” he barked, startling her,

. “I chase criminals through the streets of London on a regular basis!

. I get death threats and have been kidnapped on more than one occasion!

. And OH?! Have I mentioned my inability to make or keep friends …?

. Hardly the type of person a Doctor and the Father of a Small Child is going to want as a roommate ... hmmm?"

Molly stepped back a pace.

. “You've been kidnapped?” she asked, horrified ...

He sighed. Rolling back around to face his work.

“Twice as an adult. Once as a child. Risks of the trade.”

Molly stood speechless.

He took another deep breath - a calming breath - she thought … and looked away.

“Now if you would leave me be?” he asked politely, “I have work to finish, and a plane to catch.”

“Another? Where to this time?” she hoped her smile was reassuring, but doubted it.

“Amsterdam,” he replied, still not looking up.

“Vacation then?” she tried for a more cheery note, but was shot down.

“Hardly,” Sherlock huffed, and drew out his notepad.

. The same notepad that he had used to write the letter …

And scribbled a few words before looking back up at her surprised expression.

He took her silence as want of more explanation, and filled her in, “I’m following a trail of bank exchanges that will hopefully lead me to a blackmailer and a potential human trafficker. Teens have been going missing. Will probably be gone a few weeks. Maybe a month. If the trail leads elsewhere … "

“Oh.”

. She stepped back a pace, collecting herself,

. “yeah, ‘course. Silly me!”

She made her way back to her workstation, and they finished their tasks in silence. Her stomach growing more and more knotted with every passing, guilty, minute … Wondering … should she say something? … Confess?

Half an agonising hour later, he was grabbing his coat,

. and then he paused - to her surprise - in the doorway …

“Besides …,"

. he added, quietly, as if they were still carrying on their conversation from earlier,

. “... what would I have to offer him?”

A stunned and blinking Molly could only watch as he disappeared down the hall and out the double doors. His shoulders slumped. His long, billowing coat, the only thing alive about his demeanour ...

Unable to answer ...

All the reasons she had fallen for him, already.

... She no longer regretted sending the letter.

SLEEPLESS IN LONDON (continued below!)

Rosie was pulling John along at a quick clip, on their way home from school. “Hang on a mo’?” he laughed, trying to keep up without letting go … “what’s the big rush?”

“The post, Daddy!” She tugged harder.

“The … post …?” He asked, perplexed. The light bulb dawned, just as she reached their door and was peering in through the letter slot. She slumped in disappointment and looked up at John with huge, almost tearful eyes …

“No letters?” she whinged.

She was disappointed.

John picked her up and carried her, floppy bunny and all, into their tiled entryway, dropping the keys on the side table … “I’m sorry, kiddo? Were you expecting there to be some toda-?”

They heard a shuffle of feet on the front steps, and both turned around to see a postman standing there. Two large bundles in his hands!

“Doctor … John Watson?”

The man was reading off the top letter on the stack.

“That’s me!” John squeezed Rosie’s hand and let go to accept the large bundles of letters. Glancing down to catch the look of barely contained glee in his daughter’s eyes …

“Thank you!” John nodded, and went to shut the door - but the postman was halting him?

“I got two more to deliver? Where ya want ‘em?”

“Two more bundles?” John asked, amazed!

“Oh no,” the man replied - John laughed with relief - then the man gestured, “I got two full delivery bags in the van.”

John blinked.

. Did he say … two full bags???

“You want ‘em in here?” The post man was already eyeing their narrow entryway.

“I … uh …,” John ran his fingers through his hair, still processing the shock of this revelation. Even little Rosie seemed overwhelmed by the news! “Yeah, Christ. Guess that … would be … fine-?”

He met Rosie’s awed expression with a shy smile. She was really getting her hopes up …

“Right you are!” the man was already off to collect the rest ...

. ... and all John could do was step back and marvel at the enormous pile it made when they were emptied at his feet.

@johnlocky @fluffbyday-smutbynight @chinike @rhasima @mydogwatson @kettykika78 @mxster-jocale @cupidford @meetinginsamarra @peageetibbs @calaisreno @7-percent @john-smiths-jawline @anyway-kindness @swissmissing @inevitably-johnlocked @totallysilvergirl @kittenmadnessandtea @topsyturvy-turtely @safedistancefrombeingsmart @colourfulwatson @holmesianlove @kabubsmagga @peanitbear @copperplatebeech @tiverrr @pocketwatchofmycroft @mutedsilence @2smach @loki-lock @daltongraham @amyreadsandstresses @raina-at @discordantwords @gregorovitchworld @bluebellofbakerstreet @sarahthecoat @reveling-in-mayhem @midgemao @ileenhaddockhawkins @storytellingdreamer @fuckcannibals @cortinita @marisaysthings @charlies-storybook @salmonsown @iamjustreading @myriath @tinchensblog @iwlyanmw

(let me know if you want tagged/removed anytime)

#sleepless in london #johnlock fan fic #johnlock #helloliriels #sleepless in seattle #au #i am johnlocked #halp!#fic updates!

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scribblecake · 8 months

Note

Heyy! Hope you’re day is going well!☺️

F: Share a snippet from one of your favourite dialogue scenes you've written and explain why you're proud of it.

Hi! Thank you dear! It's going good so far! 💖

oooooooooh boooooyyyy, This was hard to answer! I had to do some digging, fr fr. 😅

But I found one! It's a bit long but I'm super proud of this dialogue. I pretty much just reenacted a scene from 'Monty Python and The Holy Grail' with Lady Dimitrescu and one of my demon OCs. It was 3 AM (as per usual) and I'd hit a wall on the series I was working on at the time. I had the movie playing in the background and the rest is history! It was a blast to write!

So here's an unprompted (mini)fic I guess?

Lady Dimitrescu opened her mouth to call the entity but stopped, narrowing her eyes as she studied its features. Even with its cute features, she wasn’t sure how to address it. Its face seemed both male and female. With a quick exhale she gathered her courage, calling out to the dark entity.

“Young man!” Alcina snipped as she gestured for the Hell-spawn to follow her.

“Woman.” The Hell creature responded curtly as they hurried to keep up with the lady.

Lady Dimitrescu blinked, taken aback. “What?”

“I’m a woman. Not a young man.” The demon corrected.

"Well, I can’t just call you ‘woman’.”

“You could just say ‘Xentia’.” The creature deadpanned.

“I didn’t know you were called Xentia. And while I am sorry I assumed you were a man, I couldn't give a damn what your name is.” Alcina shot back, quickening her pace. In spite of her escalating annoyance, she couldn’t help but laugh at the small demon struggling to keep up with her long strides.

This seemed to strike a nerve in the Hell-creature, their face scrunching up in annoyance.

“Well you didn’t exactly bother to find out, did you? And what’s more, I object to you automatically treating me like an inferior!” The infernal woman exclaimed defensively.

At this she scoffed, her rouge lips quirking into a dangerous half smile. “Well, I am the Countess of this village.”

“Oh, Countess, eh? - very nice. And how'd you get that, then? By exploiting the villagers! By hanging on to outdated imperialist dogma which perpetuates the economic and social differences in your society. If you flesh bags ever want to see any progress…” The demon’s words droned as they prattled on about god knows what. They went on for what seemed like an eternity as they made their way to Castle Dimitrescu and by the time the gates were visible a dull ache had begun to throb at Alcina’s temples.

“Be quiet! I order you to be quiet!" She snarled.

“Order, eh? Who does she think she is?”

Lady Dimitrescu hissed as anger continued to build within her. “I am the Countess!”

“Well, I didn’t vote for you.” The infernal woman said matter of factly.

“Y-You don’t vote for a Countess!” Alcina seethed. This creature really knew how to try her patience. It took the Countess every ounce of self control she had not to rip the woman’s throat out.

“Well how’d you become Countess then?” The demon questioned with an incredulous look.

Despite herself, the lady found the question amusing and her anger died down for the moment.

“If you must know, beast, my family ruled over this village for centuries, only having lost ownership at some point after I had left our family home. I returned years later to find our lands empty. It was then that Mother Miranda found me and bestowed upon me her gift. She implanted me with a Cadou, an entity of her own creation that holds unimaginable power. It infused with my flesh and made me into something beyond humanity, and with its power I was able to reclaim my family’s land. That is why I am Countess.” Lady Dimitrescu explained. She made sure to position her body in such a way so that she towered proudly over the demon woman.

“Listen, strange bird women distributing parasites is no basis for a system of government. Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses! Not from some farcical implantation ceremony!” The demon argued back.

“Be quiet!” Lady Dimitrescu shot back as her anger began to reignite.

“But you can't expect to wield supreme executive power just 'cause some feathery tart threw a leech at you!” Xentia exclaimed with a dramatic arc of her arms.

“Shut up!”

“I mean, if I went 'round saying I was an emperor just because some avian bint had lobbed a tapeworm at me, they'd put me away!” The infernal creature laughed.

“Shut up, will you? Shut up!” Alcina roared. It seemed her patience and self control had run out, and before she could stop it, her hand shot out, lifting the vile creature by the arm and giving it an angry shake.

“Ah, now we see the violence inherent in the system!” The demon exclaimed as a cheeky grin spread across her face between shakes.

“Shut up !”

Xentia hollered as she was violently dragged away to the castle. “Oh! Come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help! Help! I'm being r e p r e s s e d !”

“Bloody peasant!” Lady Dimitrescu snarled as she wrapped her hands around the half-witted demon’s throat.

~***~

#ask game #ask me questions #unprompted #fan fiction #imma just drop this here #lady dimitrescu #resident evil village #monty python

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insomniacwriter17 · 5 months

Text

Saved from the Flames - Epilogue

"When you’re born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.” –Richard Kadrey

Billy Hargrove is 9 years old. He tries his best to be the son his father wants him to be - quiet, respectful, and obedient. But Neil just pushes harder and harder, all in the name of raising a “strong man”. When Billy is removed from his father’s custody and placed in foster care, it takes some time for him to realize his world is no longer burning around him. New experiences, new people, new opportunities all make Billy realize there’s a whole lot more to life than respect and responsibility.

AKA: The story of how Bob Newby became a real life superhero for one little boy who needed saving.

Inspired by this post I saw from @connordax

read on ao3

Here we are! The final chapter...thank you guys so much for going in this journey with me. I've loved every second, and I can't wait to see what else Billy and Bob get up to in the future! If you have any ideas on what you'd like to see for one-shots, my ask box is always open! Thank you guys for being the absolute best readers in the whole wide world <3

Even though Billy’s adoption day was big and exciting…things didn’t change much. At least, not right away. They drove home in the same car, the furniture all stood where it had been left, and Billy played on the same swing set in the backyard that he did most days.

Billy went to school each day and Bob went to work. Even though Billy’s “new” paperwork – his Social Security card, birth certificate, and the like – wouldn’t be ready for a number of weeks, Billy had immediately told his teachers that his new last name was Newby. Where Hargrove had been written inside his workbooks and binders, Billy had taken a permanent marker and scratched it out, carefully writing NEWBY beneath it instead.

Dr. Marcus had warned Bob that there may be some residual acting out as the finality of the adoption set in. But so far, everything seemed to be okay, so Bob instead tucked away the information for later in case something happened. Billy was still going to see Dr. Marcus on a weekly basis for at least a year, so Bob felt fairly confident that they could handle anything coming their way.

September gave way to October, and fall began to settle upon Hawkins. It was a few weeks after the adoption that Billy climbed into the car and looked to the front seat. “Hey, Dad, am I allowed to do Halloween?” he asked curiously.

Bob looked up in surprise as he started to drive out of the parking lot, meeting Billy’s eyes in the rearview mirror. How had he not even thought of Halloween yet?! Bob loved Halloween! “Of course you are, kiddo! We can get you a cool costume, go trick-or-treating with Joyce and the boys if you want? Or we can stay home and watch fun Halloween movies and hand out candy. Whatever you want!”

“I want to go trick-or-treating,” Billy said quickly, straightening in his seat. “I was talking about it with Steve and Jonathan today and they said it’s a lot of fun!”

“We can totally do that, pal,” Bob grinned. “Just means you have to decide what you want to be for Halloween.”

Billy thought for a moment. “What can I be?” he wondered softly.

“Well…” Bob shrugged. “Whatever you wanted to be, really. It’s early enough that we could make you a costume if you didn’t want one of the premade ones. But I mean, you could be pretty much anything! We could dress you up as one of the Hardy Boys – you’d make an awesome Joe Hardy. Or you could be a pirate, a monster, an athlete, a doctor, a superhero…the options are endless, kiddo.”

Billy hummed in thought, glancing out the car window as Bob drove the now-familiar route home. “I’ll think about it,” he decided after a moment. “It’s my first Halloween costume. It’s gotta be perfect,” he told Bob.

“I know!” Bob replied with an encouraging smile. “And I know you’ll come up with the best costume ever.”

Once at home, Billy ran to change out of his school clothes so he could go and play outside. “Put a jacket on!” Bob called absently over his shoulder on his way to the laundry room.

“I did, Dad!” Billy yelled back before the back door slammed shut behind him. Bob finished starting the load of laundry and then moved to his office to do some work that he hadn’t finished at the store. He glanced out the window every now and again to put eyes on Billy, who seemed to be content swinging in the evening sun.

With the chill moving into Hawkins as fall descended upon the small town, Bob decided to make chili and cornbread for dinner. Just as he was pulling the pan of cornbread out of the oven, Billy opened the back door and came in from outside. “It’s cold,” he huffed as he wrapped his arms around himself, making his way over to Bob. “What’d you cook?”

“Chili. The best thing to eat when it’s cold outside,” Bob insisted, turning to look at Billy. “Why don’t you get washed up and we’ll eat?”

Billy nodded and stepped over to the kitchen sink to wash his hands, looking over his shoulder at Bob. “I think I want to be a superhero for Halloween,” he mentioned, wiping his clean hands on the jacket he was still wearing.

Bob nodded approvingly, placing a bowl of warm chili and a plate of cornbread on Billy’s spot at the table. “We can work with superheroes,” he said with a smile. As Billy settled himself at the table and wrapped his small hands around the warm bowl, Bob asked, “Which superhero?”

Billy just grinned at him. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I still have to figure that part out.”

Bob sat down with his own dinner and shrugged. “That’s fine. We’ve got all the time in the world, bud.”

~~~

Halloween was there before they knew it, and Bob and Billy were supposed to meet the Byers in a few minutes to go trick-or-treating. Bob was dressed up as Captain Kirk, donning a yellow long-sleeve shirt and black slacks. He had also gotten the Insignia pin back from Billy (just for the night, he promised). “You about ready to go, kiddo?” Bob knocked on the closed bedroom door. “Joyce and the boys are going to be here any minute!”

“Almost!” Billy called from inside his room. A moment later the door opened, and Billy stood in front of him, looking up at him expectantly. “Does this look right?”

Bob took in the boy in front of him. Dark gray slacks, a short-sleeved white button down, and a tie that draped loosely around Billy’s neck, not yet tied. “It looks great!” Bob replied honestly, trying to blink away the tears forming in his eyes. “My tie’s a little big on you, kid,” Bob chuckled, reaching to tie the garment for his son.

“Well, I wanted the costume to be right!” Billy insisted, watching as Bob effortlessly tied the tie.

“You’re sure this is the costume you want to wear?” Bob asked for what felt like the millionth time. “I’m sure we could throw together a Superman costume real quick if you’ve changed your mind.”

Billy frowned as he stepped back, hands on his hip. “Dad, I still haven’t changed my mind,” he insisted. “Come on! You said they’re going to be here soon!” He moved past Bob and grabbed his arm, pulling him out of the doorway.

Bob followed after him with a smile. “You need to grab a jacket, kiddo.” He stepped into his office and swiped something off his desk before he headed into the living room. Billy was standing there excitedly, pushing his arms into the sleeves of his jacket.

Bob sat on the edge of the couch, watching with a soft smile. “Hey, Billy, come here for a second. I think you’re missing something on your costume.” Billy frowned and looked down at his costume.

“Am I?” He stepped over to Bob with a frown.

Bob held up his Radio Shack name tag, clipping it to Billy’s shirt. “If you’re demanding to go trick-or-treating as the lamest guy in the world,” he teased, “You’re going to have to tell everyone who you’re dressed as.” He smiled and squeezed Billy’s arm lightly, but Billy pouted at him.

“You’re not a lame guy,” the boy insisted. Bob laughed and shook his head, leaning back against the couch. Billy scrambled into the man’s lap and settled against his dad’s chest. “You’re a superhero.”

Bob hugged Billy close, looking at the clock. Joyce and the boys would be here any second now. “Being a superhero means that I did something really cool and saved people. I don’t think I want that kind of responsibility,” he told Billy with a chuckle.

“You saved me.” Billy’s voice was soft. “So that makes you my favorite superhero.”

Bob swallowed thickly, unable to stop the tears this time. “Aw, Billy,” he hummed softly, squeezing the boy in a tighter hug. “You’re my favorite superhero.”

Billy grinned up at Bob and wiggled away out of his arms, standing up. “Wait here!” the boy instructed before running down the hall, leaving Bob to clear his throat and wipe his cheeks of the few tears that he’d not managed to keep in. A few moments later, Billy returned, his hands firmly behind his back.

“You have to say it,” Billy insisted.

Bob blinked in confusion. “Say what?”

“Trick or treat!” Billy sounded exasperated, as if Bob should’ve known what Billy was asking. “Come on! Say it and hold out your hands!”

Bob smirked and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he held out his hands. “That’s your line, bud. But I’ll bite. Trick or treat?” Then he closed his eyes.

He heard Billy shuffle forward, and then something was placed in Bob’s hand. “Okay, open,” Billy demanded, and Bob opened his eyes to find a folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?” Bob asked as he opened the paper. He stared at the picture on the page, but only for a moment before tears welled in his eyes and he couldn’t see anything. “Billy…”

It was a drawing of Bob. Poised like Superman flying through the air, cape and all. Beneath it, Billy had written, BOB NEWBY. SUPERHERO.

Billy was standing in front of him, his hands wringing nervously. “Do you like it?” he asked softly. “I drew it after school the other day.”

“I love it, Billy,” Bob said seriously, smiling at Billy and pulling him in for another hug. “You’re my favorite kid in the whole world, you know that, right?”

Billy nodded against Bob’s chest, saying something that was muffled against Bob’s chest. “What?” Bob asked, pulling away just enough that Billy could speak freely.

“I love you, Dad.” Billy repeated, immediately diving forward to hug the man again.

Bob’s world exploded. He’d never be the same. Somehow, he’s not sure how he lived all these years without Billy. How there’d ever been a day that Bob would’ve been okay with Billy going back to his biological family.

“I love you more than anything in the world, kiddo,” Bob whispered into Billy’s blonde hair. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

They stayed on the couch, hugged tightly to one another until Joyce and the boys showed up. When Jonathan opened the door dressed as Spiderman with a Wizard Will right behind him, Billy was off like a shot, running up to the boys to greet them.

Bob stood to head to the kitchen while the kids examined costumes. Joyce followed after him, an amused smile on her face. “What’s going on with you?” she asked, and Bob turned, handing her the drawing Billy had just given him.

“Oh, Bob!” she gasped, her own eyes teary as she studied the photo. “Billy?”

“Yeah,” Bob nodded with a watery smile. “It’s now my most prized possession,” he said, only half-joking. He took the art back from her and quickly stuck it to the fridge, just above the school lunch menu. “It’s staying here until I go back to work, and then it’s hanging in my office forever.”

Joyce opened her mouth to reply, but there was the sound of pounding feet, and Billy appeared in the doorway. “Dad, we’re ready to – you hung my picture up?” he asked, a grin spreading across his face.

“Um, of course I did!” Bob grinned, gesturing to the paper. “Do you see this? This is art, Billy Newby!”

At his full name, Billy grinned. Jonathan and Will appeared beside him, and Billy bounced excitedly on his toes. “We’re ready to go trick-or-treat!”

Bob walked toward them, Joyce following behind them. “Well, we can’t keep you waiting, now can we?” They made their way out of the house, but Bob watched Billy peer back into the kitchen to see the hanging picture before he left.

As they walked down the street, Billy fell back so that he walked beside Bob. After a moment he reached for the man’s hand, wiggling his tiny hand into Bob’s until Bob squeezed his hand and held it tightly.

Looking around, Billy realized that he was finally like all the other kids. He had a dad who loved him, a cool Halloween costume, and he knew he’d get to eat his weight in candy and watch spooky movies with Jonathan after Will fell asleep in Billy’s bed when they got back to the Newby house. Billy was finally home.

#stranger things #billy hargrove #ao3 #insomniacwriter17 #fandom #bob newby #bob newby deserved better #billy hargrove deserved better #saved from the flames #sftf #foster care au #cw: child abuse

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