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ohtobeleah · 6 months

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Battle Scars // Bob Floyd

-> An Official Flight Deck Blurb

Summary: Robert Floyd doesn’t take his shirt off at the beach. But when the shirt stays on during sex? You start to wonder what he’s hiding.

Warnings: Mentions of parental Abuse. Mentions of Child Neglect. Foster Care Systems. Mentions of family trauma. Bob Floyd x Female!reader.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author Note: Day Nine of Whumptober. Prompt I chose: ‘Scar reveal’ Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for the prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

People have secrets they keep close to their chest. Some are small enough to not cause a ripple effect onto others, and some are big enough to destroy lives, crush dreams, alter realities.

Bob Floyd wore his secrets across his chest. Scars that made his torso look like the Rocky Mountains. Littered with small to medium size scars that healed wrong, healed over, or healed with anger.

They weren’t pretty. If anything he wore a roadmap of abuse on his body that was hard to face in the mirror every morning. He never wanted to subject anyone to the sight of his scars, some red and raised, others faded but turned a deep purple in the cold.

“Mornin’ gorgeous—“ Bob's morning voice was something you’d never get tired of hearing. Those lazy Sunday mornings where you’d wake up to find the Naval Aviator already awake and reading whatever book he brought with him in his overnight bag were starting to become your favourite thing. “How’d you sleep mama?”

“Like a log.” You yawned, creeping closer and closer to where Bob sat on the opposite side of your bed. His T-shirt clad back pressed up against the headboard while his legs stayed covered by the sheets and covers of your warm, inviting bed. “I thought I had an early body clock.” Being a single mum and small business owner left little to no time for sleep-ins, which usually meant you were up before the sun got a chance to kiss the horizon good morning. “But here you are, Mr Military Man with your internalised alarm system.”

Bob couldn’t help but to chuckle as he closed his book and placed it on the bedside table you cleared just for him. Whatever this was between you and Robert Floyd you really liked it. He was the first man you’d ever paid attention to since your fiancé died. Bob was like a breath of fresh air and so was North Island. No one knew you, no one judged you, no one cared about the demons that haunted you.

“Force of habit I guess.” He shrugged before he sunk lower and lower, meeting your eyeline once again as you both settled in under the warmth of the covers. “How long do you think we have before Oliver wakes up?”

“Hmmm—“ You tried to hide your eagerness through a hum that kept your lips pressed together in a fine line. “He knows Sundays are bacon and egg roll mornings.” You began as your arms wrapped around Bob's shoulders.

His lips were hot against the supple skin of the juncture of your neck, in response your body ignited, sending waves of energy through your body that only Bob could create. He was just different.

“So like, five? Ten minutes maybe?” Bob looked up from where he’d been leaving small

but affectionate kisses against your collarbone and met you with a lust filled gaze. He was falling head over heels in love with you. “Because I only need like two—“

“Oh well in that case we have time for two rounds.” You teased before rolling yourself up and over to straddle Bob's waist. He let you easily. If he wanted to, he could have fought back. The thing with Robert Floyd was that he had a sleeper build. He wasn’t as buff as some of the other Naval Aviators that frequently stopped by the Flight Deck for their morning or mid afternoon caffeine hit. With the amount of sugar and caramel syrup you dosed Hangman with on a regular basis you weren’t entirely sure how he managed to maintain his muscle density.

But for as much as Bob was a gentle soul, he was strong and fast. He enjoyed a long run every now and again. But for all intents and purposes—he let you be on top. He liked the view. After all, he was just a simple man. Boobs were pretty cool. Especially your boobs.

“Can I ask you a question?” You cooed all the while Bob's hands trailed up your hips. You wore nothing but one of those silk nightgowns that made you look like an angel. The bed hair was cute, Bob liked you first thing in the morning. It was a side of you only he got to see. The side before the makeup, before being put together– he liked it. The authenticity. For what it was worth, Bob just really liked you.

“Depends what the question is?” Bob replied as his hands squeezed at your hips, rolling you gently back and forth over his boxer brief clad length. “I’m kidding, ask away.”

He had been expecting the question sooner rather than later. And with how things were going between the two of you Bob knew he would have to come clean. He was just afraid of what you might say. What you might think, and if his scars would be a deal breaker. They were, after all, a part of him that he couldn’t get rid of.

But even expecting the question to come didn’t make it any less hard to hear.

“How come you never take your shirt off?” You wanted to approach the question as politely as possible. “You don’t have to tell me, if you aren’t comfortable, I just—I’ve just noticed.” You saw the hesitation in Bob's baby blue eyes as he searched your face for any kind or fear. “Again, you don’t have to tell me.” You reminded the man lying beneath you as his hands stilled on your hips. “But I want you to know that if you’re hiding some sort of third nipple under there—I’m all for it.” You tried to make the conversation a little more lighthearted, Bob could appreciate that. He smiled softly at you while his hands needed at your hips like dough.

Bob didn’t say much after that, he simply laid beneath you stroking his hands up and down your exposed thighs as his mind ran rampant with memories. He hated his scars, but most of all he hated the people who gave them to him.

“You’re a waste of space!” The memories were all too prominent even after all these years. “I wish I never gave birth to you!” His mothers words were as cruel as she was violent and unpredictable.

“You’re the abortion I wish I fucking had.” The abuse Bob endured went with him everywhere, even well into his adult life. He learned not to complain, to cause a scene. “Stop crying for fucks sake kid.” He learned not to show emotion when it wasn’t asked or needed.

“You did this to yourself, if you had stayed out of the way, none of this would be happening.” But most importantly he blamed himself, for hiding his scars that clearly showed how strong he really was.

Bob sat up to meet your eyeline. For a man haunted by so many scars he certainly had the softest of eyes. He gently tucked your hair behind your ear and placed a fleeting kiss against your forehead, all before he reached up and over to take his shirt off over his head.

What you saw rendered you speechless for a few moments as you took in the terrain that was your, well, you wanted to say boyfriend but Bob wasn’t even officially that, torso—littered with scars he surely would have called ugly on the best of days.

“It’s a lot.” Bob whispered just barely above an audible level as he chucked his shirt off to the side. “But they’re not going away, ever.” It was almost as if Bob had struggled with that notion himself. He wished he could have them removed—expunge from his record. The tales of parental abuse he suffered before collecting more in the foster care system.

“Oh Bob—“ You tentatively reach out to glide your fingers over one of the many scars that were angry, red and what seemed to be risen. “You don’t have to hide these from me, ever.” Bob's heart was racing a million miles inside his chest, no one had ever touched him the way you were now. With so much love, with kindness, with understanding. “What happened here?” Your fingers gently glided across the scar down near the waistband of Bob's boxers. Right above his hip bone.

“One of the kids in one of the foster homes I was in.” Bob began, you could tell he was uncomfortable talking about it, but you didn’t stop him. You knew if anything he would stop if he didn’t want to talk about it. “I think his name was Ryan, had an old bow with those barbed edges on it.” You knew where the story was going. “It got wedged in there deep when we were playing around, but our foster parents didn’t have insurance, so they weren’t gonna take me to get it removed—so they ripped it out and poured bourbon over it.” Your heart sank into your stomach. “I was nine.”

“That must have hurt a lot.” You replied gently as Bob laid back down in your bed with his hands resting behind his head. His roadmap of scars on full display. “What happened here?” You moved your hand to the longer scar across his left peck. It seemed less angry, more healed, but the story attached was just as heartbreaking.

“When I was eighteen I went back to see my parents.” Bob's eyes were tearing up. He hadn’t ever spoken about this to anyone. Not even the people he trusted with his life. You were the only one. “It was a mistake, I shouldn’t have, but I needed some closure.” Your fingers gently ran the expanse of the scar that had never been touched but another person. Bob wanted to stop you out of fear you’d leave—but he willed you to continue because it felt comforting to be touched with such warmth. “My dad ran at me with a knife the second he saw me—I remember he was rambling on about how I broke my mum's heart when I went with CPS. I’m lucky it was only a graze, he still got me good enough to leave a scar though.”

“Bob, honey, I don’t even know what to say.” You were a mother yourself. You couldn’t ever imagine doing anything of the sort to your son. Bob reached up to guide your hand across his torso to his wrist—you’d seen those small circle cluster scars time and time again but never bothered to ask what they were from.

“These are from where my mum and my foster mum would put their cigarettes out on me.” Again, it made your heart sink, but Bob never faulted as he guided your hand around his body, back up to his stomach just above his belly button. Ridged abs peaked through the softness of his skin. “This one is from when I had to have surgery after I got an infection. Doctor said I could have died if my friend and I didn’t walk ourselves to the emergency room.”

Bob wanted you to touch every last scar that littered his body, he wanted your gentle touch to heal his old wounds. So you let him guide you as your straddled his waist and looked down at the roadmap of torture.

“These smaller ones are from when my dad swung the whipper snipper at me, I was in his way, I shouldn’t have been there, I remember they wouldn’t stop bleeding and ruined a bunch of my shirts.”

“None of these are your fault.” All his life, until he joined the Navy and ran as far away as he could, Bob had been told every scar he collected was his fault. The abuse he suffered as a child, from his parents and in foster homes, was his fault. “Someone who loves you doesn’t do this to you.” You reminded the man who laid beneath you. He could hardly breathe with how hard his heart was hammering in his chest as your hands trailed over the expanse of his torso. “Bob I don’t know your history, but from what I can gather about you in the present you are all but the problem.” You were the first person to ever tell him he didn’t deserve the scars he wore, the scars he hid.

“You’re a really good person, you know that right?” Flashes of your own war blinded your vision for a moment. The lies and haunting rumours that had you running as far away as possible could came flooding back to you in a blur as Bob sat up to kiss your lips softly, tenderly, and all so lovingly. “You don’t know how much you mean to me baby.” The term of endearment sent a shiver down your spine you weren’t expecting. But you welcomed it nevertheless. Bob was a dream, your new beginning.

“I reckon you’ve got about three minutes to show me.” You teased, deciding now was not the time to bring up your dead fiancé. “With the shirt off—“

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

Whumptober Tags 🏷️ @xoxabs88xox @oldermenaremyreligion @slut-f0r-u @emma-is-cool @armydrcamers @topguncortez @topgun-imagines @kmc1989 @els-marvelvsp @blindedbythelightt

#ailesswhumptober2023 #leahs whumptober masterlist #bob floyd x female reader #flight deck // bob floyd #bob fliyd angst #Bob floyd whump #bob floyd x reader #top gun bob #top gun imagine #top gun fan fic #tw: parental abuse #tw: mental health #tw: scars

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thecowboykatsuki-anon · 2 years

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Bakugou’s first love who’s temper and passion matches, no, exceeds his, because you had to fight twice as hard to earn things he was given, had to fight twice as hard to get a seat at a table he was born to. His first love, who’s outcast by hero society for carrying too much anger, for being too rough, too much.

For being Quirkless.

He never said it was love, but it was. He could feel it, knew you could too. Or at least, he hopes you could.

So after you disappear, there’s not a single day that goes by where he doesn’t think of you, well into adulthood. Little things like the flowers in the florist shop window that are the exact color of your old car, the way the city glows after a rainstorm.

He thinks it would be easier to forget you, to not have to carry the weight around with him all the time, and he hates himself for thinking it at all. Hates that he feels burdened by your memory instead of thankful he could tell someone exactly where every mole and birthmark sat on your skin, the different colors in your eyes.

It’s that perfect memory that confirms his worst suspicion when history begins to repeat himself, a new group of villains unhappy with society rising from the ashes of the last.

You’re clearly different, but he knows you. Knows the way you move, the tilt to your voice when you’re hiding that you’re wounded.

It’s the first time that his heart is at war with his sense of duty, but he keeps quiet about his suspicion regardless, needing to confirm everything for himself before he spoke up.

It’s a thin line he’s walking, but he assures himself he won’t cross it, no matter what.

And yet, when he finally catches you, unmasked and pinned beneath him, bloody teeth bared, he finds himself lifting enough for you to escape. He wants desperately to give chase, to catch you again, but he knows it’s not so he can bring you in.

It’s that realization that wakes him up, makes him take extended leave so he can track you down. Except he doesn’t have to.

You show up at his apartment one night, covered in shadows near the open window as he comes in, absently listening to Kiri worry about him over the phone. It takes everything in him not to hang up on his friend immediately when he sees you, freezing in place.

He should be angry, should be insulted that you, a wanted villain, had the audacity to show up in his home and silently watch him, but he’s not.

Part of him believes he’s finally lost it, chasing ghosts, so he calls out your name quietly, more of a breath than real words, but he can see the way your body reacts to it immediately, and all he can feel is relief crash around him.

There’s a heavy silence for a while, and then he takes a step forward. You stiffen, and in a blink, you’re gone, the only sign you were real to begin with a note telling him to stay away.

But he doesn’t. And neither do you. He knows you follow him, can feel watchful eyes on him, even if he can’t see you right away.

And then you show up in his apartment once more, clearly ready for a fight in the middle of his kitchen. There’s a glint of a knife in your hand, and he’s careful to move slowly as he sets down his groceries, hands splayed to show you he’s unarmed, as if he couldn’t kill you with one flick of his wrist. He calls out your name again, softly, like he’s talking to a wounded animal, and you can’t help the way your heart begs you to respond, even after so many years.

You shift, hesitate, and he straightens, takes a chance, and takes a step towards you. Your hand twitches, but you don’t raise it, don’t charge him. So he takes another. And then another. And then he’s within striking range, and your eyes are hard, angry in warning, but wide, like you’re lost.

So he steps closer. And you step back, knife falling from your hand and clattering to the floor. He presses forward until your back hits his kitchen island, and he’s leaning over you, knuckles white with the way they grip the marble.

You look panicked, fear brewing in your gaze when he raises a hand, eyes squeezing shut so you don’t see the blow coming.

Instead, he brushes your hair away from your face, and your eyes fly open in surprise, the large pro drinking you in, his eyes flicking over your form.

“I thought you were dead,”

His voice is softer than anything you’ve ever heard, rolling over you and bringing back memories long since repressed. He cups your cheek, thumb sliding over your skin as if to make sure you’re real, and you hate how good it feels, how much you’ve missed him, and then his gaze dips lower and he freezes.

Now that’s he’s able to be close to you, breathe you in, he sees what he’s missed before, hidden under stealth suits and large hoodies. From beneath your top curl ragged scars, curving and licking up along your throat and across your shoulders, more abundant than unmarred skin.

Your breath hitches as his fingers leave your face to trace over the scars on your collarbone, his face filled with anguish. His searching takes him lower, to the collar of your shirt where he pulls away, shaky hands falling to the hem as he begins to lift it slowly.

Your hands circle his wrist in warning, and he spares you a glance, his pretty eyes filled with silent pleas, and you give in to him, as powerless to him as you were when you were stupid kids believing you were in love. Your fingers fall away from his skin slowly to let him continue, heart hammering as you let the man you came to kill undress you.

He hesitates, inhaling deeply, steeling himself for what he might see before he tugs the cotton upwards once more.

His stomach twists in knots as you’re revealed to him, arching scars covering most of your torso, some clearly old, but far too many new, deep, and he can only imagine what you went through to earn such markings across your skin.

He can hardly find those moles and beauty marks he used to be able to map perfectly, now replaced with thick and jagged lines. He looks tortured, struggling not to let it show, but you see it anyways.

You can’t help the noise that bubbles from your throat when you lift your arms for him, a fresh wound beneath your left breast pulling painfully tight with the movement, and he clenches his jaw at the sound of your whimper, brows drawn low over his eyes.

When his palm lays flat against your stomach, measuring the expanse of your scars to his hand, the former reaching out far further, you squeeze your eyes shut and tilt your head back.

You never wanted him to see you like this, and in that very moment, you wished you were dead like he’d assumed, rather than a broken shell of who he used to love.

He’s silent as his hands wander, their warmth seeping into your skin and settling on your hips, fingers splayed wide. He lets out a shaky huff and you finally peel open your eyes as he drops to his knees, his breath warm over your skin, moments before his mouth presses over your flaws.

He doesn’t miss the way you inhale sharply, hazy eyes focused down at him kneeling at your feet, mouth ghosting across your body.

He traces a path upwards, his hands keeping you grounded as you arch against him, goosebumps rising in the wake of his ministrations. He deviates from his path only once, to press a feather soft kiss against your newest wound, and you hiss, fingers flying to tangle in his hair.

It shouldn’t hurt so much, but his mouth feels like a brand, his nose brushing along the underside of your breast, lighting a fire within you that you had assumed died long ago. He murmurs out something you don’t quite catch against your skin before he returns the drag of his mouth between your breasts, up until he’s pressing kisses against your jaw, his forehead bumping against your cheek as he shakes his head.

He exhales shakily again, and you tilt your head ever so slightly, needing to see him, needing to see the disgust, the pity in his eyes. You need him to give you a reason to push him away, a reason to hate him so neither of you start something you can’t finish.

But all you see is a quiet fury buried in those crimson eyes, smothered by a emotion you’ve only ever seen in those very eyes the last time you’d seen him. You’re not ready to admit what it is yet, denial flooding you even as your mind supplies the word.

Love.

It’s like all the air rushes from your lungs, and you’re sure in that very moment, if it wasn't for his firm grip, that you’d simply crumple under the weight of your realization.

He draws you back to him, nose bumping yours when one of his hands cups the back of your head, fingers burying themselves in your hair. He opens his mouth and immediately closes it again, breathing in sharply through his nose before he speaks again, eyes shutting.

“I’m sorry I wasn't there to protect you.”

And just like that, you can’t resist his pull anymore, closing the distance as the first tear rolls down your cheek.

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