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hausofmamadas · 6 months

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| The occupational hazards of living |

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Narcos: Mexico/True Detective Crossover

Pairing: David Barrón & Rustin "Crash" Cohle & OC! Ziggy Morenas & OC! Ernesto "Chato" Quintana Colmenaro

For @narcosfandomdiscordNarcOctober - Day 22 - Day of Cross Pollination

Prompt: Create a fanwork that includes at least one Narcos character and at least one character from another fandom & fanwork with the plot or setting stolen from another fandom

Word count: ≈ 4.5K

TWs: Canon-consistent violence, Light Prison Racisms, swearing, racial slurs, drug use, references to trauma/domestic abuse, white supremacy ..? that’s a trigger, right?

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. Barrón has had it up to here with these Neo-Nazis and Rustin Cohle is there to support his teaching them a lesson. Also a couple of notes: La Eme = the letter M but stands for Mexican Mafia carnal = (pronounced carnál) made man of La Eme, putting in work = Doing Crimes, particularly violent ones in service to La Eme, vica = vice president, usually of a prison cellblock llevero = keyholder/shotcaller, Eme carnal who oversees a specific geographic region outside prison or an entire prison camarada = non-made Eme members, affiliates crimie = (pronounced crim-ee) short for criminal contra = short for contraband la raza = literally the race, but more the community/the people (similar to gente but more exclusive)

… but first! Let’s meet the cast:

Ziggy

Chato

Ginger

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The most startling thing about prison wasn’t the violence. If witnessing his first drive-by shooting when he was six didn’t acclimate Barrón quickly, his old man’s habit of bouncing him and Matteo off the walls certainly did. So, while the tactics and flavors were new, the violence wasn’t. He likened it to living in a war zone. If you panicked about every shell that blew a road to bits, you’d drop dead of a coronary in no time.

No, the most shocking thing about prison was the tribalism. As a plebito in Logan Heights, he had friends belonging to almost every ethnic group the melting pot of San Diego had to offer. The project neighborhoods were chock full of families of different races, countries, ethnicities: Samoan, Filipino, Black, Japanese, Mexican, Guatemalan, El Salvadorian, and the like. It didn’t matter where the neighbor kid’s family was from, when all they wanted to do was play like Bruce Lee from Way of the Dragon in the scrapyard across the street.

So, when he arrived at his first Youth Authority facility, Rancho Del Campo, just outside the dirt town of Tecate, and was told by some of the older Sureños about the “rules” against consorting with Black or White prisoners, he thought it was a joke.

“Wait, you fucking with me?”

“Nah, lil homie. Deader than dead serious,” Eddie Monstruo aka Eddie the monster, Eme vica for his block, set him straight.

“Even if I knew ‘em on the outside? I can’t just eat a meal with ‘em?”

Eddie shook his head in lamentation.

“Trade contra? Say hi? Nothing?”

“Nothing. Con la raza baila el perro, sin la raza bailas como un perro. And they won’t tell you twice, te lo juro, guey.”

He remembered thinking, Are you kidding? This is America. So indignant. What he wouldn’t give to be that green again. But what really bothered him was how the rules weren’t the same for everyone. Like how the Sureños were more simpatico with White prisoners because La Eme was aligned with the AB. Aryan Brotherhood.

He rarely saw White kids on the outside save for when he sold them dope down by the boardwalk. He sure as fuck didn’t have any whiteboy homies. Shoot, on the outside, whitey was The Man. So, it was a blow when he found out the camaradas were aligned with the AB. The way it was explained to him, the Sureños did it out of “necessity” because of the longstanding alliance between the Norteños and Black Guerrilla Family. Norteños, or Nuestra Familia, were Eme’s sworn enemy. Sometime in the 70s, the top carnals saw the need to boost their profile and numbers with a similar alliance, so they took up with the AB.

Barrón never said shit, but the AB didn’t sit right with him. For guys who were supposedly the “cream of the crop,” the “superior” race, they were really a bunch of lazy, disorganized hicks. They talked a lot of shit about the white race being the “one true people,” “purest of the pure,” acted like they shit gold. But then they had to be off-this-planet high on whatever the crank of the month was, just to put in work. That, or they shot up places indiscriminately. No creep to ‘em. Worse yet, no concern for bystanders.

Barrón knew everyone in the game skated a line of amorality, but he drew a few more lines for himself. One from the beginning: at all possible costs, no bystanders. The other line came with time. After he’d been around the block some, he stopped getting blasted on dope and booze before a hit. He didn’t begrudge some of the guys that did and he had his fair share of early jobs where those gears needed greasing. But after a while, being spun on top of spun felt disrespectful. To the job. To his victims.

The two most important things anyone can do is give life and take it. But with how often both happened, it seemed people didn’t consider the gravity of either near enough. Killing wasn’t a trifling thing. So, what did it say about him if he tried to escape, check out by getting high? What did it say if he couldn’t, with his full faculties and finger on the trigger, look the person in the eye and feel the depth of what he was about to do?

There was no off the hook. Actions have consequences. Guilt and remorse? They were occupational hazards of living if your brain was wired like it was supposed to be. He knew there was a worthy place for him in hell. The least he could do was be an adult about it. It’s not that he fancied murder an honorable business. He just hated cowards and hypocrites. That’s why he hated the AB.

That and they just plain sucked. Best way to ruin a party? Be sure to invite the neo-nazis.

The last time he agreed to work with an AB affiliated outfit was a few years after he got out of San Quentin. The Logan Heights llevero, his old homie Mando, called on Barrón to help some biker gang take back one of their stash houses. Apparently, some AB higher-up named Geronimo Jerry was collecting on a favor Mando owed from back when they did time in Folsom. To pay up, Mando put together a team to back Jerry’s guys up, but a couple of his original soldiers got dropped by the cops and another got arrested, and he needed replacements for the six man operation. The minute Barrón heard whiteboys were involved, he tried to get out of it. But Mando was a full-blown Eme carnal by then, a made-man of the Mexican mafia.

Barrón had seen The Godfather countless times as a kid, one of his dad’s favorites. One of the few good things he could remember about the man at all. At five years old, he thought it entirely innocent when Vito said in that whisper of a voice, “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.” Like Vito was offering Woltz a deal so sweet, he couldn’t pass it up. It wasn’t till later on, when Mando asked him to do this job that Barrón got what Vito Corleone really meant. When a carnal said “jump,” he had no choice. He was locked in.

Thankfully, the two others Mando put on it were Barrio LH guys Barrón already knew. He and Chato had been buds since back in YA and had already done plenty of rip-n-runs together. He’d never worked a job like this with Ziggy Morenas but Ziggy was a known quantity around Shelltown as a reliable soldado. He was also Matteo’s best friend since grade school, so naturally, when they were old enough to start puttin’ in work, they did it together. Matteo only ran with the best and taught Barrón to do just the same.

But it was tricky with Ziggy. Barrón got along with him fine but they’d never been close per se. Unofficial Big Bro Ziggy might’ve been more accurate. Still, when Matty died, they fell out for a bit. They’d only reconnected recently because Ziggy started going out with one of Cheli’s friends, Leó. Even then, the void of Matty was always there. A void they shared but could never relate to each other through. Plus, competent a soldado as he was, the thing about Ziggy? He could be a little serious even for Barrón’s liking, which was saying something. Frankly, Ziggy could be a downright prickly motherfucker. All that noise aside though, he’d take serious over reckless any day. There was no mistaking Chato and Ziggy were solid guys.

The AB crew, on the other hand. Well truly, he’d never seen a more unprofessional group of crimies, save one of their affiliates Barrón had met a few times before, a bony-faced, severe-looking guy named Rust who went by Crash. He had the rangy, haunted look of a starved alley cat and commanded an Ivy League vocabulary that, through a watered-down Texas drawl, betrayed just how whip-smart he was. He also seemed to be the only one who could hold his liquor and his crystal, a fact alone that should’ve meant he was the one calling the shots. Unfortunately for them, the actual “leader” of this mess was a brawny, bald guy with too-wide, glassy blue eyes and a long, braided, red beard, who they fittingly called Ginger.

The “safe house” they met at was a piece of shit, rundown bungalow owned by Jerry. Outside, it looked like an elementary school portable. Inside, it was a hoarder’s paradise. When Barrón, Chato, and Ziggy arrived, there were group of about nine or ten guys huddled around Ginger at a foldable picnic table in the kitchen area. Crash was the only one off to the side, smoking by himself in the corner.

As the three of them passed through the living room to join the AB guys, Barrón was overwhelmed by the stench of cat piss, lighter fluid, and an amalgam smoke mixture of PCP and cigarettes. The shag carpet was crawling with roaches and littered with cigarette butts, stag mags, and Skymall catalogs. And fuck finding a place to sit. Barrón had to slide clothes and stacks of papers off the arm of a dank couch that jutted into the dining area just to lean against it. Chato and Ziggy opted to share the edge of the coffee table facing the kitchen.

They all watched as Ginger laid out the half-assed plan they cooked up. Barrón caught Crash out of the corner of his eye, whose gaunt face seemed caught between an apology and a defeated look of warning, like he was telegraphing the breath and time he’d already wasted trying to reason with these idiots and that he shouldn’t be bothered.

When it became clear these morons hadn’t done any legwork beforehand, Barrón asked if they had an alternate route to get out of the complex they were hitting in case they got boxed in. “Only one way in and out? In only one car?”**

Eyes buzzing with a kind of feral, wildcard edge that didn’t instill the slightest confidence, Ginger nodded slowly, licking excess coke off the edge of a credit card.

Ziggy too, looked unamused, the tell-tale whites of the skin spreading over his knuckles, visible as his hands balled into fists. Chato noticed too because he and Barrón exchanged uneasy glances.

Dropping some well-timed Spanish, intended only to be understood by the three of them, “Es lo que ya les pregunté. Todo se fija a ser un espectáculo de mierda,” Crash floored the whole room before calmly taking a drag from his cigarette like an asthmatic on his inhaler.

A big guy named Mitch leaned over close enough to graze Barrón with his beard, and freebase-exhaled this poetry, “We hit trouble? Just gotta fuck it in the ass. Scoop out the soft brains and eat right out the skull.”**

One of the strangest attempts at reassurance Barrón had ever heard. Like he agreed, Crash scoffed at Mitch and rolled his eyes. Homie knew shit was about to go down. Probably because Ziggy looked like he was about to pop his lid. Barrón choked back a chuckle of surprise that Ziggy didn’t slug the fat fuck in the face, right then and there. It wouldn’t have been out of character. Or unwarranted.

Because this was typical AB. These guys never bothered to come up with a plan. They never needed one. Life cut them all the breaks and of course it did. They’d designed it that way.

But as fate would have it, Barrón was actually one to break. He’d reached his limit and put one of their guys down with a bullet in both kneecaps. It was after he questioned their exit strategy.

Some skinny dude, a guy called Whizbang, who’d been spun for probably 48 straight hours, accused him of asking too many questions. Undeniable proof he was an undercover cop. Funny thing was, this moron wasn’t even gonna be part of the actual boost.

“This spic doesn’t say shit the whole time. Now he’s askin’ about tactics? Shifty-eyed motherfucker hasn’t touched shit since we got here.” Whizbang pointed to the curated assortment of drug paraphernalia next to the assault weapons on the table. “What’s wrong? You some kinda beaner cop, ese?” He pronounced it ‘ess-ay.’

Barrón met him with a wall of inscrutable nothing.

The little creep walked over slowly. “You laughin’ at me motherfucker?” Funny, ‘cause he wasn’t even close to smiling.

Relaxed as ever, he drowned the room in a silence that put everyone’s hackles up. Especially Ginger, whose eyes couldn’t get any wider, the whites of his eyes near engulfing his eye-sockets, swallowing his irises along with those pinprick-sized pupils. The look of bored resignation Crash wore every other time Barrón crossed paths with him was now replaced with a smirk of satisfaction; someone who walked through life craving the unexpected and getting more than he’d bargained for.

“Got nothin to say, huh? C’mon Sancho, prove you’re not a cop.”

As he drew closer, he tried his level best to look menacing or as menacing as anyone named Whizbang might hope to be. Patience wearing thin, Barrón’s wall broke and he rolled his eyes and looked off to the side, muttering against gritted teeth and his better judgement, “Can’t believe we have to deal with this shit.”

Whizbang didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s go Sancho, talk or take a bump. Show us you’re not a cop.”

Almost close enough to be nose-to-nose now, he took out a dimebag of what looked like PCP from the pocket of his kutte and waved it in front of Barrón’s face. No one but Ziggy and Chato caught his hand nearing a spot at the base of his back.

Eyes blazing like molten tar, nostrils flared, it was a preamble, simple and quick. “You talk too much.”

Then before anyone could blink, two loud pops and poor, skinny-ole Whizbang crumpled to the floor, howling and clutching his knees as blood spurted out all over his hands and seeped through his jeans onto the carpet. Barrón fixed his nine millimeter on Whizbang’s face, trying to decide if he was going to let the skidmark live. But, spotting a wooden crate on the floor next to the table, he aimed there instead.

A moment of stunned silence passed, until everyone realized what he was aiming at and then all the AB guys scrambled for the weapons on the table. Everyone except Crash who was laughing at the ground now, unperturbed and cracked-in-the-head in a way that indicated the guy had seen some shit in his life. What it was, Barrón could only guess.

Crash cut through the chaos with a whistle and a, “tsk tsk, I’d think on that, boys.”

They all froze and looked at him, then at Barrón, then to the barrel of his gun, then to the wooden crate that was filled with over a dozen live grenades, then back at Barrón. Just to hammer the point home, Barrón shot right, then left, on each side of the crate.

The AB guys looked green. Chato and Ziggy looked torn between panic and hysterical laughter, though he swore he detected a hint of approval on Ziggy’s face. Crash looked on the verge of straight-up applause. Based on the sheer glee this little turn of events brought him, he couldn’t have been with the AB. That must be why he wasn’t in charge.

Looking Ginger square in the eye, Barrón explained, voice quiet and even, “We do this my way or I can nuke us all, right now.” He waited a beat but stunned-stupid Ginger still said nothing. “So Chief, what’ll it be?”

Crash ventured, smirking with an I-told-you-so superiority only somewhat softened by the drawl, “Far be it from me to speak out of turn, here, Ginger. But based on the last few months I just spent in Ojinaga and Juarez, uh– I’d say– well, yeah, just– you’d be wise to take these motherfuckers serious, right brother.” He tacked on brother like an afterthought, maybe to soften the blow or maybe just to sound like a condescending prick. Somehow it worked on both fronts.

Ginger stared at the ground and clenched his jaw so hard it looked like it might dislocate. Then spat out, “Fine. Fuckit,” rolling his head around, glaring through half-lidded eyes, “what does Big Beaner over here propose?”

And just like that, Barrón was in charge.

So, of course then, the heist went off without a hitch.

∴

After the job was done, the loot counted and distributed among all interested parties back at the safe house, everyone exchanged tense, albeit still-amicable goodbyes; good will engendered, no doubt, by fact that the whole thing went off seamlessly. Still, Crash was the only whiteboy to shake their hands.

“Nifty little stunt you pulled there. I’d call you a crazy motherfucker, if you hadn’t saved me the headache of getting my ass greased,” he turned around to look over at Ginger’s crew, back to snorting PCP off the foldout table with plastic straws, “and buried six-feet-under with these fuckin’ imbeciles.”

Barrón smiled and nodded diffidently.

Chato spoke up for the first time since they’d gotten back. “Hey, we’re ’boutta grab some grub before we head back to give the lowdown to the big homie—” Crash nodded at Chato like he knew exactly who Mando was. And maybe he did, since he didn’t seem to be rolling with the AB. Just another soldier filling out the ranks like them. “—wanna roll out with us?”

“Sheeit.” Eyes alight with a crystal-meth vigilance that would’ve been off-putting if he weren’t so devil-may-care all the time, Crash surveyed the room, and shrugged. “Beats climbing the walls here with these assholes. Yeah, lemme take you up on that, buy you friendlies a round somewhere.”

Barrón smiled at Chato, little social butterfly. He, himself, would never have thought to invite the guy, but he was glad Chato did. Following Chato’s lead, he asked Crash, “Yo, you need a ride?”

“Nah, I’ll follow on my bike. Y’all know what’s good.”

The three of them looked at each other blankly until Ziggy offered, “Stoney’s?”

“Any place with booze’ll do just fine.”

“Oh, but we gotta make a pit stop at Micky D’s.”

They all looked at Chato like he’d been an extraterrestrial this whole time, and they’d only noticed just now.

“What?” He asked earnestly. “I want a McFlurry.”

They all just kept staring at him.

“Well, they don’t have McFlurries at Stoney’s, obviously.” Like they were the dumbest people on the planet.

Amused, Crash chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t say I’m in a position to judge, but he’s an odd duck, ain’t he.”

“Aight.” Ziggy cracked a rare smile, the kind really only Chato or Matty could get him to do. “Let’s get the kid a McFlurry. Then Stoney’s.”

The three of them piled into Barrón’s Monte Carlo and rolled out. Crash chugged behind on his Harley.

The crowd at Stoney’s was just starting to pick up, so they opted for the open seats at the bar on the patio.

“First round’s on me.” Crash flagged down the bartender. “What’s everyone’s poison.”

Barrón put his hand on his chest, “Corona,” then pointed to Ziggy. “Y tú, qué?”

Ziggy looked up from the spot on the bartop he had been mean-mugging since they sat down, “Oh, uh—” then glanced at Chato next to him, who was gazing, lost in love, into his McFlurry cup, spooning bite after bite into his mouth, and just ordered for him. “Well, for the lady, a tequila sunrise and me? I don’t— eh, fuck it. Shot of tequila. Nothing fancy.”

Narrowing his eyes, Crash regarded them like he’d been conducting a study that yielded some unexpected results, then passed the order on to the bartender.

When they had their drinks, Crash finally asked what was probably on everyone’s mind. “So, contestame eso,” he slid into Spanish, unclumsily but not entirely without effort. “Ya tango que saberlo. Back there. That just a performance? Or would you’ve done it?”

Somewhat blindsided, less by the question than by who was asking it, Barrón struggled to hide his surprise while he tongued the inside of his cheek, searching for an answer. He got the impression for some reason that Crash could take the truth. There was a hard-lived, stretched-thin quality to him, evidence of a man, unmoored, maybe a bit unhinged, operating at the edge of life itself. But he didn’t want to spook Chato.

And the truth was well, he didn’t actually know. Not then and not now. He didn’t need to because of what he did know: things never would’ve gotten that far. It was a play and the play would’ve worked, even without Crash’s helpful advice to Ginger. Because those AB guys? They were always chickenshit.

Okay, so there. That was an answer. Why didn’t he just say that?

Maybe because of what he wasn’t certain of. That if he’d misjudged the situation, if it hadn’t worked, would he have tried their luck and pulled the trigger anyway? Nah, but he knew that too. Yeah, he would’ve. He meant it. Or at least a part of him. Had to be serious for them to take it serious.

But he settled on equivocation. “What d’you think?”

Ball back in Crash’s court, and the way his jaw cocked to the side, it was clear he wasn’t much for accepting non-answers for answers. “What do I think? Well, what’s the use in asking if I already know?”

Fair enough.

An impatient Ziggy piped up, turning to Barrón. “Quién se cree que es, este pinshe gringuillo?” But before Crash could answer, Ziggy swiveled back around and laid it out for him. “If he hadn’t meant it, we would’ve gone along with their cracked, cracker-ass plan. And if we went along with their plan, we’d either be in jail or riddled with bullets right now, probably buried in the middle of some dirt lot along with those crusty hicks. Okay?”

Huh. Ziggy, having his back like that, defending him. That was … nice, new. Unphased though, Crash put his hands up in armistice. “I ain’t complainin’ insofar as I’m curious as to the level of commitment to the bit.”

“Alright,” Barrón said in a sigh. “Yeah, I meant it. Had to, didn’t I?”

Finally, that seemed enough truth to humor Crash, as he nodded, mouth cocked up in a smug half-smirk, and took a swig of his bourbon. Barrón saw it then. Este güey knew it all along but wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was said out loud. Ziggy scowled and rolled his eyes, maybe still irritated that Crash had asked in the first place. But probably more resentful that he’d folded so quick, telling this outsider the truth.

Poor Chato seemed to be the only one taken by surprise, as he froze mid-bite, eyes wide, plastic spoon hanging out of his mouth. And all of a sudden Barrón and Ziggy busted up laughing. With less investment but still in on the joke, Crash couldn’t stop himself chuckling too. As they all sat there, in varying levels of stitches, Chato just looked at them all, confused. Until he realized the joke was how ridiculous he looked, and then he cracked up right along with them.

When they settled down, Barrón wiped tears from his eyes while Chato contentedly sipped on his tequila sunrise, and Ziggy flagged the bartender again for another shot.

The bartender brought his shot and Ziggy knocked it back before asking Barrón, “Yo,” voice thick as he swallowed hard, “should we work on getting our story straight? Like, what do we tell Mando?”

Chato glanced nervously at Ziggy, agreeing, “Yeah, like are we gonna tell how you kneecapped that skinny guy–“

“Whizbang,” Crash cut in to remind them his name, as if it mattered.

“–and threatened to blow the whole crew away?”

Staring ahead at all the bottles lined up on shelves, lit technicolor by the bar lights, Barrón said cooly, “Is that what happened?”

Brows furrowed, Chato looked from Barrón, to Ziggy, to Crash, then back to Barrón. “Yo, is this a trick question or—?”

“No fool,” Ziggy shot him a disgruntled look. “It’s not a trick question. And yea, fool, that’s what happened.”

“So, that’s what we tell him.”

Chato couldn’t compute, looking at Barrón like he’d sprouted a second smaller, uglier head. With an air of amused cynicism, Crash watched the three of them bickering, citizens in the town square like they were on Court TV.

“Woahwoahwoah,” Chato practically gurgled with a mouth full of McFlurry, “you forreal right now?”

“Look, Jerry and Mando go way back. He’s gonna hear about it. Best he hears direct. Besides, you can’t lie to a carnal when you go off the reservation like that.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Barrón saw Ziggy’s head gravely bobbing up and down in agreement.

Chato was still in disbelief. “Dude, he’s gonna cap you right there on the spot.”

“Actions have consequences,” Barrón explained simply, keeping his eyes fixed ahead. “I’ll see that it doesn’t blow back on you. S’on me.”

Ziggy seemed comfortable in resignation at the prospect of Mando losing his shit on Barrón. Chato was still unconvinced. Pobre was genuinely concerned for him.

Assessing Chato with something like doomed admiration, Crash pointed out, “Milkshakes aside, kid’s got the kinda heart they don’t teach in school.” Then looking around at all of them like the thought just dawned on him, he asked, “How old are you guys, anyway?”

Index finger pointing at his chest, Ziggy said flatly, “Twenty one, last month,” then pointed to Chato, “nineteen,” then to Barrón who finished for him, “eighteen.”

Crash whistled, “Sheeit. And I thought I didn’t have childhood.”

Chato still looked ill at ease. In an effort to cheer him up, Barrón quipped, “No hay tos, compa. I’m living on borrowed time anyway. Shoot, I was ready to die— what,” he smirked and glanced at the clock hanging above the doorway that led from Stoney’s patio back inside, “three hours ago?”

Chato gave him the side-eye but must’ve worked a little bit because his shoulders weren’t crunched up by his ears as much.

After a few minutes of silence, something occurred to Barrón. “Hey, why’d you ask?”

Crash downed the remainder of his bourbon in one big gulp and came back up smiling like he was waiting for that exact question to be asked. He set the empty glass upside down on the bar, and pulled out a cigarette, tapping the tip of it on the bottom of the glass, before putting it to his lips and lighting up.

Through another one of those deep, asthmatic drags, voice thick, he said, “Well, I was jus’ thinking, the kinda nuts it takes, going off book like that? But the three of you still kept your cool. Level headed nutjobs are hard to find. So, might be I got another job for you boys. If you’re interested. And Mando’ll lend you.”

Well that stumped them, as they stood there, puzzled looks on all their faces because actually who the fuck was this guy? And did he know Mando? Or he was just a that good a listener?

Crash gave them a wily look through the two thick columns of smoke that poured from his nostrils. “Y’all ever heard of a guy by the name of Amado Carrillo Fuentes?”

They came back at him with nothing but crickets.

“You might know him as El Senior de los Cielos.”

That’s when Barrón knew he’d sized this guy up correct. Crash, Rust, whoever this guy was, dropping a big name like that, guaranteed he’d seen and done some shit in his life.

And now, evidently, he was looking for business partners. Or maybe a couple of suckers. Which one would depend on whatever came out of his mouth next.

═

** indicates lines robbed directly from True Detective (Because you know I wish I came up with that soft brains line but alas, I am no Nic Pizzolato)

taglist: @narcolini @narcosfandomdiscord

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zanyana626 · 8 months

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Thoughts on Helluva Boss Oops episode! 😈🤡

Everything’s tagged as #hb spoilers until tomorrow for those who haven't seen it yet!

Not a cuckoo c**k for a clock!

Wakey-wakey Ozzie (not a morning person apparently)! *airhorns*

"Burger time! Burger time! Burger Time!" Ok, Fizz is starting to become my new favorite character! Also, why he pronouncing vibrators like that???

Greed Ring having a city named Ransom? Yep, that sounds about right for the ring.

I FUCKING KNEW HE CALLS HIM BIG DADDY!!! AND "Fizzie-frog"?!?!?! Too cute, <3.

And look at them big ol' eyes, I definitely couldn't say no to that face:

"We're so NOT in love!" "Yeah! Love. Is. STUPID!!!" Denial's not just a river in Egypt, you two!!!

"I'll be SUPER low-key!" ... Riiiiight.

The Queives (plural for Queefs, according to the subtitles). And the little disabled one??? VIV, WE WANT NAMES FOR THE LIL GUYS ASAP!!!

Enter Blitzø, who's complaining about some shitty coffee place!

"Well, at least I'm still actually working for my shit & not getting everything handed to me like some pampered attention wh**e!" VS "Plus, my horns were always bigger than yours... weren't they?"

Crimson & Striker teamup! Guess Blitzø & Fizz are gonna have to put their beef aside and work together to get away from them!

Ozzie & the Dildo Factory

So asking for an asmodean crystal was real! Poor Stolas being conflicted about how he feels towards Blitzy.

And Ozzie respecting people's hookup intentions and having the idea of lust as a consensual thing? Glad to know he's not like Valentino, who as far as we know, monetizes sex & treats his workers like shit/his property.

"My partner-um BUSINESS partner" Yep, keep telling yourself that Ozzie, at least you and Stolas are in the same boat for that!

Jeez Crim, what's your problem with Ozzie???

More Blitzø VS Fizz drama

Also Blitzø, Stolas does seem to care, he just has a tough time trying to say it to your face and plus, you're no better by bottling up your true feelings for him & then push him away like whatever!

Fizz, I love you now, but also envy you for having Striker grab you by the neck like that!

"I SAID WATCH 'EM, NOT F**K 'EM!!!" Typical Crimson

Damn, Ozzie could've signed over Fizz's head to be one of Crimson's wall trophies if Stolas wasn't there to help him out!

Nope nevermind, that wasn't the real contract! Also, why does Crimson want more dildos after failing to convice Moxxie that they're around the house for "his liking"??? I'm guessing he's trying to recuperate the funds he lost after Millie murdered all his goons & trashed his place!

Happy owl noises: "I love words!" He's such a dork, I'm living for it! <3

Blitzø always having something up his sleeves when it comes to escape plans!

FINALLY, FLASHBACK/ANSWERS ON THEIR FALLING OUT!!! No wonder why Fizz & Barbie hate Blitzø's guts & Blitzø acts the way he does.

He's very much aware that he screwed up big time even if it was an accident and never meant to almost kill his bestie, traumatize his sister, & HIS MOM!!!

I'm guessing Cash was the one who tried splitting them up. He went as far as to give Fizz a birthday card that literally says "I wish you were my son"!!!

"WE'RE TRYING TO HAVE A F**KING EMOTIONAL MOMENT HERE!"

Using Blitzø as a human/imp? shield does kinda serve him right in a way

"Kaiju C**k". Yep Fizz, we're very much aware that Ozzie's a big boy

"Look At This" has been stuck in my head since listening it for the first time. Perfect distraction musical that makes no sense other than just being a distraction musical!

"So, f**king, BYE BYE!!!" 🎶

Damn, cowboy daddy's starting to go insane in the brain! He's most likely gonna have burned scars now the next time (yep, he got away again) we see him!

You can take Blitzø out of the circus, but you can't take the circus out of Blitzø!

THE BOIS HUGGED IT OUT!!!! Hope this means they're on more neutral terms now! I get that it might take Fizz a while to fully forgive & start over with Blitzø now that they're aware of the whole misunderstanding on both their ends, but still, it's a start!!!

"Woooould it f**k up the moment if we made out now?" Blitzø please, we're aware you had a (love) note for Fizz before the incident, but he's clearly happily taken by one of the 7 sins!

Fizzmodeus/Fizzarozzie reunited & it feels so good! <3

At least they're trying to be more open about their relationship, even if it's limited to their coworkers/entourage at the moment!

Welp, looks like Stolas is getting that crystal after all!

I'd say this is the best episode so far out of Season 2, Fizz & Ozzie were totally worth the wait and have now become part of my top 5 characters of the show!!!

#ana speaks #hb spoilers #helluva boss

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direwombat · 1 year

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tagged by @socially-awkward-skeleton for wip wednesday and @poetikat a day or two ago to share some of a wip!

taggin: @natesofrellis, @thomrainer, @adelaidedrubman, @strafethesesinners, @strangefable, @funkypoacher, @harmonyowl, @schoute, @aceghosts, @confidentandgood, and anyone else wanting to share anything they have (but no pressure, as always)

i just published ch 5 of fragile creatures and i don’t really work ahead, so everything i have for ch 6 is super rough, but here’s something that’s polished enough to share. it still needs a lot of work lmao but it’s better than the skeletons and single lines of dialogue/description or notes that are my other wips...

“So,” he sniffs. “Put any thought into how you wanna die?”

Pratt doesn’t look at him, or answer.

“No? You don’t give me any input and I’ll have to decide for you. And I gotta say, Peaches, whatever I come up with, you’re not gonna like.” He slices a piece of apple and pops it in his mouth, chewing thoughtfully.

He watches for any reaction, but Pratt gives him nothing. Just a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. Disappointing. Jacob thought he’d be a wreck by now. “Tell you what. I’ll give you a choice,” he continues. “One of two options. Either A,” he holds his index finger up, “I crucify you. Hike you up somewhere into the mountains and nail you to some trees and leave you up there all by yourself. Someone may find and save you. Or you’ll die a slow, agonizing death.”

Still nothing, save for the bob of his Adam’s apple.

“Or,” he says, holding up his second finger. “You’re shot. Back of the head. Executioner’s style. Hell, I’ll do it myself if you want. Nice and quick. Comparatively painless. Caveat is you gotta dig your own grave first -- assuming you want one. I’m not making my men waste their time putting your body to rest. Otherwise your body’s being fed to the wolves. Might be the only useful thing you’ll ever be good for.”

And Pratt still remains a statue, huddled in his little corner of the cage. The deputy isn’t a resilient man. He bows and bends at the slightest hint of pressure. Getting him to break had been easy. But for some reason, it’s here that he’s found some resolve. If Jacob were a more charitable man, he might even find his newfound conviction admirable. Pratt has only known Deputy Rook for only a few months, yet he’s confident she’ll put her neck on the line just to save him.

But Jacob isn’t a charitable man, and he thinks Pratt is naive and a fool.

“She’ll be here,” Pratt rasps, his voice rough from pain and thirst.

Jacob gives him a look. Amused but pitying, the same kind of look one gives a child who failed entertainingly at whatever task they were attempting. “Whatever helps you get through the day, Peaches,” he says.

annnnd here’s a snippet from the charlie/paola pre-ship fic that i’ll finish someday....no paola in this particular scene, but have some fun old fashioned heist planning with charlie + the lost legacy trio

He raises his hand. Chloe nods at him. “Yes, Charlie?”

“What are we gonna do about the provenance documents?” he asks.

Sam scoffs. “Provenance documents,” he parrots. “Lookat you using big boy words.”

“Fuck off, it’s a legitimate question,” Charlie bristles. “This guy’s a scumbag, but he’s by the book, right? Technically he bought the piece legally, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Chloe says slowly, and he’s suddenly a little uncomfortable with how everyone’s eyes are on him now.

“Then there’s gonna be a paper trail. It’s not gonna matter how long we sit on it, the second we try to fence it, alarm bells are gonna go off somewhere. And if it can get traced back to us…”

“Bad news bears,” Sam finishes.

Charlie points at him. “Exactly.”

Chloe chews thoughtfully on the inside of her cheek. “Okay, so we steal the provenance documents too. Easy.”

Charlie shakes his head. “Won’t be enough. We’ll need to get the digital files too.”

Chloe pulls a face, puffing her cheeks out and exhaling heavily. It’s so much easier to steal from other criminals. Nadine frowns, working her jaw as the cogs turn in her head, and Sam drums his fingers against the counter. Then he says, “I can do it.”

“Are you sure?” Chloe asks.

Sam nods. “You’re sending me in through the front door anyways. We’ll pick up a USB or something at the airport and I’ll figure out a way to get into his office. Easy peasy.”

They all know it’s anything but, but there’s no way to hash out a more concrete plan without actually getting eyes inside this guy’s mansion.

“What do we do once we have the documents, then?” Nadine asks.

Charlie shrugs. “Find someone who can forge them?"

“Do we know any forgers in Italy?” she asks the table. Both Chloe and Sam shake their heads.

Charlie awkwardly clears his throat. “Well, there’s Miss Orsini, right?”

The silence that follows his question drags on for an eternity.

Then Sam bursts into laughter. “You’re joking, right?” he says, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “After last time, I don’t think she’ll be too keen on the idea of working with us again.”

“Naw, mate, she just doesn’t want to work with you again,” Charlie responds. He doesn’t know much about the history between Sam and Miss Orsini, but he does know that the events of the previous job working with her put him squarely on her shit-list. But she seemed to still be on professionally amicable terms with both Nadine and Chloe last he heard.

“She’s a civilian, Charlie,” Nadine says dismissively.

“One who specializes in the preservation of both digital and paper records.”

“I have seen her literally pull ink off of paper,” Sam says quietly.

Nadine sighs. “Alright, I’ll talk to her. But I won’t make any promises.”

#wip wednesday #wip: fragile creatures #brain hasn't been good for writing recently but here's some stuff

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aronarchy · 2 years

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you're asian. you should understand. do some research into what a tool of imperialism and colonialization and war, what a tool of racial fetishization """sex work"""" is.

Ah. And there it is.

You had quite a different tune just three asks ago:

youre 16. women which have been trafficked their entire childhoods, which have been sex slaves, which have been "sex workers" have more a right to speak than you, im sorry but you quite literally dont understand. i am nonwestern. i was poor.

stop with the fucking sex work shit because you think anything else is offensive. its privileged. its privileged western bullshit which is offensive as fuck and speaks over those of us who are Actually impacted by this god damn narrative.

Make up your mind. Am I evil privileged white-adjacent imperialist oppressor or poor fellow victim oppressed uwu femme of color? Ignorant invading outsider or alike comrade who’d understand your struggles? Person Deserving Of A Voice here or person who should shut up about this?

Do you think someone like me with my particular marginalizations and experiences would see your offer as kind generous benevolent helpful education, or as yet another example of the misogynistic and adultist (and racist) paternalism I have been subjected to throughout my life?

Do you think someone like me with my particular marginalizations and experiences am the type to buy into moral panic, to leave behind rigorous examination the moment the buzzwords come out, to cave to sex negativity the moment I am pressured with think of the poor women and think of the children? I’m a freak and a deviant and a degenerate, along with “(C )SA survivor” and “feminist of color.” I feel no loyalty to you and your crowd. I have nothing for the people who wished to tokenize me and then call for my murder the moment I stepped out of the Acceptable sj circle and I have no interest in repetitions of the same argument that has been used trying to justify my and my communities’ extermination (“if you say/do that you are literally offending/harming every single rape survivor”--“rape apologist/enabler” weaponized as a marker of an Immoral person to level violence and abuse against, and not just to indicate someone with specific sets of beliefs that actually enable/support rape)

“You’re Asian. You should understand.”

And then, not one sentence later:

“do some research into what a tool of imperialism and colonialization and war, what a tool of racial fetishization """sex work"""" is.”

Gotta pick one, anon. Asian, so should understand? Or privileged bourgeois white-adjacent westerner, so doesn’t understand, and should do their research?

All of the above which ties fairly well into one of the things I answered to your first ask: SWERFs’ habit of tokenizing the marginalized, treating us all as monoliths, then silencing us if we disagree or don’t fit the narrative, or immediately jumping to a “poor deluded brainwashed lost little lambs” narrative (which they of course are immune to, and can “save” us from), but also going back to tokenization and agreement if they find us useful. “Privileged” and “oppressed,” “imperialist” and “colonized” becoming idpol buzzwords instead of meaningful material class indicators.

I usually do slightly different discourses here; sw crim vs legalization vs decrim hasn’t really been one of my major topics of interest compared to others. I’ve only properly posted about it with my own commentary very few times over the past year, so I��m not exactly sure where this is coming from, but I have several guesses:

- yesterday on fedi I live-tweeted my reactions to a sex-negative TIRF piece I was reading and felt annoyed about. the portions I screenshotted might’ve mentioned sw a few times, though it wasn’t the focus of my critique, but maybe one of you people with a vendetta regarding my discoursing decided to follow me here? wouldn’t be the first time that’s happened

- yesterday, on my alt, I reblogged a post calling out a “transfeminist” for citing Esperanza Fonseca’s SWERF piece to a transfeminist reading list, and calling out her paternalistic sentiments in attempting to speak for Asians and the third world as a westerner (I put in some snarky tags but I didn’t think it would catch much notice)

- several months ago I posted a few quotes from Kate Zen Joy’s pro-decrim Medium essay responding to Esperanza’s, and reblogged it with a long personal rant about some unpleasant dynamics I have observed in swerf discourse and attempts by westerners and sympathizers at discussing Asian/Third World communism (the thing only received one note, a reblog from a friend who has since been suspended)

- on this blog I’ve also reblogged some other callouts of Esperanza and AF3IRM for their carceral proposals regarding prostitution and covert racist transmisogyny, and I reblogged one a few weeks ago with some snarky tag commentary (but no one has put any notes on that one either yet)

- two days ago some radfem decided to spread trafficking conspiracy theories in the notes of a leftist post. I responded, they doubled down and were rude to me, I checked their blog and saw several rightwing posts. I blocked them and posted the interaction to my blog. my post was not tagged with any swerf/radfem tags.

- a few months ago my mutual was arguing with some terfs about sw, and I decided to add my take to a few of the reblogs, and blocked everyone, and shortly after someone decided to traumadump in my inbox in graphic detail complete with adultist insults and other patronizing language, but no one else harassed me beyond that

- earlier this year some terf tagged me to accuse me of hating third-world cis WOC by derailing a post about femicide (I didn’t; it was someone else who’d had this URL before they deleted and I took it), and a lot of terfs reblogged the OG to dunk on the previous aronarchy, but no one else apart from her complained at me directly (apart from another vague anon a few months later)

I’m not even really active in arguing with people on Tumblr at all (anymore). Apart from that I’ve retweeted and posted a few things on Twitter but none of this is much at all compared to the people who devote their entire days and life’s work to defending decrim and arguing with swerfs, many of whom are (T)WOC and/or sex trafficking survivors, I’m really not sure what could’ve warranted or provoked four separate anonymous asks sent to me almost completely out of the blue to harass me. Callout post I haven’t noticed yet? Or just plain stalking? I don’t know.

Again, I challenge you to simply replace “sex work” with “____ work,” “____” for literally anything else, any other occupation, any other form of labor, any other form of labor which involves coercion or exploitation. I ask you to differentiate between “has been used as a tool of,” “has involved,” and “inherently equals/involves/requires.” Keep your rude condescension to yourself. Keep your bold fucking assumptions about my supposed lack of knowledge to yourself. Shut up about my privileged and marginalized demographic traits until you have an accurate map of which is which, and stop treating one like the other.

I would say “do your own research,” but I’m not really sure which recommended readings I would start with--my stance is based off several years of listening to various sex workers’ experiences and opinions here and there, and reading swerf/authcom pieces and interrogating them for their internal inconsistencies and spending time thinking about their arguments and other arguments (I only started actually writing them down very recently). And some things some discoursers/activists I admire have written, but I don’t have many of those saved, and some have been wiped from the internet. Mainly building off a larger theory base of materialism/anti-essentialism, several years of unpleasant experiences regarding radfem spaces and following the flow of their/your arguments to their roots, and a great deal of lived experience regarding christian fundamentalism and purity culture (and things from/for the perspective of someone like me don’t seem to be written down in longform very much at this point in time).

Like--I’m a very tired, very traumatized person, I stopped trying to hold puritan hands a long time ago, I don’t have the time or the spoons to entertain your bullshit and try to talk you through all of our disagreements all while you hurl insults at me, I’m really not interested and I’ve already wasted a lot of time I needed to do other things on writing out surface-level responses to all these today, I would really appreciate if you just fucked off from my blog forever and left me the fuck alone, and all your swerf friends with you.

Get out.

#ask #anon #anon hate #racism cw #swerfs #ageism cw

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tricxiedumlao · 2 years

Text

1. After 10 years I see myself with some good qualifications (degree), working in a reputed institution, spending time with family and doing something for my society and mother nature. Over the next few years I will try to fulfill all my plans with all my strength. My goal is to live a healthy, sustainable life. So, in the next four to five years I will be completing my BS Crim degrees that are required for a stable career and stable handsome earnings for the fulfillment of all the needs. I know I have to make myself capable enough to take good care of my family and myself. You know money plays an important part in living a good life. I also know that money is not as important as health, peace and happiness. But in order to survive, money is a must. I am a person who is inclined towards a healthy lifestyle and I want to remain the same even when I start working. Because you can work happily and peacefully only when you are in a good physical and mental state. In order to achieve the same, we must eat a healthy vegetarian lifestyle as it has a lot of benefits and shall also avoid plastics to save our mother Earth from land & water pollution. This is what my aim is – that is to follow the above and spread awareness about the ame. Yes, it is vital to being to where i’m leaving to because being a Christ-centered service institution, St. Paul University Philippines sees its roles as providing the students opportunities to discover and develop their human potentials to the full. We commit ourselves to make every Paulinian. I envision myself as successful in the future and as a policewoman in ten years. I can see myself as one of them who serves others as well as our country in order to improve things. Yes, it is, as my education at SPUP is preparing me for my course and aids in my comprehension of it, particularly in terms of politics.

2. Yes, I believe it was beneficial to me and will aid in my understanding of my course. I think it helped me and will help me grasp my course, especially if there are people around who don't understand me. Humss will increase my self-assurance because it emphasizes speaking more than anything else, and I already know that here is where my journey to overcome shyness starts.

3. I'm pursuing a BS in criminology at college because I want to work with people and train to be a police officer. I anticipate becoming a fully qualified policewoman in ten years, and when that time comes, I know that my parents will be extremely proud of me and that I will do everything in my power to make up for their struggles during the times when I have a lot of needs and they are reluctant to provide for them.

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health-mastery · 2 years

Text

Chapter 3. The First Procedure, A Bizarre Introduction

In his usual lecture-style manner he said:

“The first procedure is called an introduction. You have to do this procedure first otherwise the next procedures that you want to do, won’t work” he told me. “Some people call it ‘arranging a meeting’ and there may be other ways of saying the same thing, other wording’ ” he said as he waved his hand and chuckled to himself.

“An introduction! What introduction?” I cried. “what meeting? I was never introduced to anyone” I said. He chuckled to himself and gave me a few furtive glances then said

“you were introduced, but you didn’t know it. You didn’t know that it was an introduction” and wreathed grinning for a while. Then after he’d taken control of himself he added, “The target on all occasions” he said with considerable air of satisfaction “doesn’t see anything unusual, nothing out of the ordinary. It has to be ordinary everyday events, which can then be deemed unimportant or irrelevant. Just some strangers doing what people normally do” he continued grinning widely and rapping his fingers on the table.

“Ordinary every day events! I exclaimed. “Such as?” I asked. This was more incredible than the movies, but I was truly intrigued. “Go on” I urged him, “what is that all about?”

“It looks ordinary” he emphasised .

“Ordinary” I echoed.

“Yes, ordinary” he said. “It’s the normal approach”. I narrowed my eyes and frowned at his words. So he went on to explain that birds may go and sit on what looks like a log floating in the water. In fact it may be a crocodile’s snout. The crocodile has its head is just barely out of the water, just enough to breathe. The birds feel safe standing on what they think is a log of dead wood.

“This” he said “is called using the normal approach because it normally doesn’t sound any alarm bells”.

So give me some examples I said.

“Well, for instance, a minor incident takes place outside a restaurant. The evil one will have made sure they are seated at a table where the target can see the strangers in the street if they were to look up or look around. The crims make some commotion” he said and tapped the table again,

“it’s nothing out of the ordinary” he continued “Something that can likely happen. The criminals are behaving in an ordinary manner, like any ordinary strangers.

So they may call out to one another suddenly and loudly. One might shout ‘Hi mate, over here!’ And the other one looks up at the guy, who called out. Or he might look around and wave at the first guy, as if he’d just seen him. One of them may walk over to the other and they chat”. He again stressed that “they are dressed ordinary and the incident appears ordinary. It’s normal” he stressed.

He then proceeded to tell me that it’s not uncommon for one person to just spot another, an old friend in the street. He may not have seen the friend for some time and call out to them. “The friend just happened to be there” he said “so it’s normal to call out to him suddenly and loudly to get his attention” and then brazenly he added, “of course it’s all acting”. I was still mystified so I asked

“So what is that supposed to do?” He gave a momentary grimace and in a reasoning speech he explained. “The sudden loud call attracts attention and causes the target to look up or look around. Their attention is momentarily captured” he said. “But the target only sees something that is part of everyday life, two people, who obviously appear to know one another, two friends greeting one another in the street. It will be deemed to be of no significance, so they will dismiss the incident as unimportant”.

I stared at him for a while. Then he added in a formal manner, in lecture theatre style, “the aim is to draw the attention of the target. You want the target to become aware of the crims, to see and/ or hear them” and then grinning momentarily.

“The crims… well errr, the strangers as they appear” he said correcting himself and then continued. “You want the target to pay attention to the strangers, see, but only momentarily.. well usually momentarily or for a very short time”. Then waving his hand emphatically, “then you want the target to dismiss what they have seen as unimportant or irrelevant”. He said. “Once they have dismissed it as unimportant. That’s it.” Then reflectively he added, “that’s the introduction. I don’t know why they have no knowledge of them later, but that’s it, and that’s what happens”. He said.

Then again in formal lecture style he said: “we have come to know that if the target becomes aware, sees and/or hears the strangers, then dismisses them” he grinned in his usual self-satisfied manner, “then when the crims are again brought into the target’s vicinity, the target will become aware of them, but they won’t have any knowledge about their awareness. It’s like they have developed a blind spot. The awareness is vague. Most won’t be suspicious of them, even if they were to see them up close.” He stopped for a minute and grinned casting his eyes aside as if in memory of something.

So they are seen in the street calling out to one another? I said.

He mumbled momentarily and then gave me another similar situation.

“They may be in two cars driving by; One beeping, seemingly in a hurry to overtake the other. Then the guy in front shouts back something like ‘piss off’ ” he said

“Another example might be that the target only hears them. The crims may be out of sight. You can simply have the target only hear them. The target may pay just momentary attention before they dismiss the information as irrelevant or unimportant. If you think that they are paying them too much attention you can suitably distract them.

You can engage them in conversation so that their attention is shifted away from the crims. That works too because they will have dismissed what they overheard in favor of what you are saying to them!”

Then staring hard at me he emphasized “You want the target to dismiss the information that they gained because otherwise the next time around the target might look around, being aware of them and think that they have seen them somewhere before. You don’t want the target becoming suspicious” he said.

I want to add here that throughout our talks he spoke in a totally matter-of-fact manner, as if he was discussing how a carpenter measures and cuts up the wood to build a table or chair or something. I began to really appreciate just how dark he was. That is when I started to buy candles and glue them on the table with some wax so that I’d have a full force of light in front of me all the time.

To sum up what he had told me I said “so you want the person that you’re going to intimidate to see or hear the criminals, but only from afar. And you want them to dismiss what they had seen or heard as unimportant or irrelevant because the event just looks ordinary and of no relevance.

“Not necessarily from afar” he said. “They can be seen at a closer range. They can even be right next to the target, but they must always look like strangers.. strangers doing ordinary things. You must not arouse the target’s suspicion” he said. I frowned.

“For instance?” I asked.

“The crims may stop the chief and ask for some directions to some nearby street or public place” he told me.

“And who’s the chief?” I asked, knowing that this was a reference to himself..

“The chief” he pompously replied, “is the one, who wants the intimidating done”. Of course he was talking about himself.

“So the targeted person may see them more closely and for a longer time” I said annoyed because he had done just that in Sydney. Then I said “what if the person becomes suspicious and refuses to dismiss it?” I had become suspicious on that and a few other occasions and argued with him.

“Oh in that case they can easily be persuaded to dismiss it” he told me confidently.

“How?” I asked wanting to see what he’d say.

“Simply by calling the target delusional or paranoid” He said and pointed out. “No one wants to be called delusional or to be seen as paranoid, so they will dismiss whatever was seen”. He gave a quick wave of his hand and laughed.

In Sydney when I had become suspicious of him giving instructions to two strangers in the street, he brushed me off with exactly the same reasoning. He had said something like…

“Oh you’re so suspicious. Do you want me to get their names and addresses next time?” He had successfully made me feel stupid for asking. And a similar thing had happened in Cairns as well. And the Cairns introduction on that occasion happened on the very same day as the panic attack, in fact no more than an hour earlier.

A woman, who I believed at the time was a friend, had dropped by my place and wanted me to go downtown with her and have coffee together at the pier. When we arrived she announced that she wanted to park her car in the underground car park. Unusually there was plenty of parking at the first level but she said she wanted to go down another level.

On the next level, having gone past several parking spots near the main entrance, she slowed her car and started to look around and said “we should get something here”. It was close enough to the entrance. So far I didn’t see anything amiss. Then suddenly as she looked around for a parking spot, two men in two cars on the other side of the round, started to argue. One grabbed a parking spot before the other had a chance to move in. The other beeped his horn and the first one told him to go elsewhere. The scene looked strange, as if there were not plenty of parking spots around.

I got the feeling that there was something wrong and I said so to my friend “something wrong here:. She was a false friend.

Her immediate response was laughter and then she looked up at me and said

“are you paranoid or something!”. I certainly didn’t like her calling me paranoid, so I shrugged my shoulders and let the matter go. She then proceeded a little further along and parked her car. She fussed around in her handbag as I got out of her car and then we uneventfully walked back to the entrance and up the stairs to the pier restaurant.

I was thinking aloud when I wondered “what would happen if they refused to let it go, to just forget it as irrelevant?” His immediate response was:

“Oh that would count against them”.

“What do you mean count against them?” I asked.

“Well”, he explained, “depending on other circumstances, you could find a case against the target that maybe they are mentally ill and have paranoia or something” he said. “You might want to force the target to have to take drugs” he said. Then he told me about someone he knew that was getting divorced. “The husband wanted to take the kids without any opposition in court” he said. So he had her troubled over time and she got diagnosed as paranoid. This helped him get a favourable court judgement. She only got to see the kids once a month” he said with a grin.

I realized then that the person does not let go of it simply because of the inhumane person’s response. There is a lot riding on what they do. The “delusional or paranoid” accusation rests on the “authority” of medical opinion. And this is hardly any authority. Psychiatrists trash a person’s life issues, their complaints, suspicions and problems as non-issues. And they have made up the science, by which they make a diagnosis. The theory that chemical imbalances in the brain underlies mental illnessi is pure fiction. There was never any science done to arrive at this theory. Furthermore, evidence since shows that the theory cannot be valid, but they persist with it. We are encouraged to not trust our gut feelings.

Citing a gut feeling as evidence of something to a doctor, or more so to a psychiatrist, would mean you could get labelled as deranged.

We are told that we should only accept objective evidence. By objective evidence of course the scientists and doctors are referring to something that can be seen by a third party, some disinterested person. This means the evidence has to be something physical or at least something said in no uncertain terms. Without obvious, physical evidence we can be said to be “reading too much into something”.

You have to see another person holding a gun or a knife or at least waving a fist at you to say that he or she is threatening. There are plenty of psychiatrists on the internet that argue that a person can’t call another person ‘threatening’ or wanting to do harm, i.e., holding criminal intent, on a gut feeling or intuition. Even a suspicion without physical evidence is seen as delusional. The psychiatrists are virtually saying that you have to see or hear the other person making a threat for it to be treated as some sort of evidence. And even there, if it is something said or some physical cue, it can still be uncertain because the other person may deny it. So, it becomes one person’s word against another. However, in foul game play nothing obvious is done.

Not trusting a gut feeling can land a person in serious trouble. And if we dismiss the gut feeling and end up in some serious situation, then the scientists and psychiatrists in particular would put it down to coincidence. Well, you had this gut feeling and it just so happened that these bad circumstances arouse. The two can’t be related because there’s no evidence it is argued. A psychiatrist considers that the person doesn’t have any valid gut feeling. It is taken as mere imagination. All forms of life are considered to be machines that evolved over millions of years from dead matter. A human being is just a meat robot. Chemicals drive the show. A meat robot and chemicals can’t know what someone else is thinking or intending.

The scientific arguments for evidence are all ludicrous. And I realized just how bad the situation was when he went on to joke that ‘we’, meaning the inhumane subculture, ‘have medical cover’ and then laughed saying “free medical cover”. Of course the medical opinion favors the inhumane. Anyone who becomes suspicious of another person’s intentions, cites his or her gut feeling as evidence, is said to be delusional and/ or paranoid. If he or she were to insist that there is some unseen danger, then they, the victim, could be said to be ‘a possible danger to the public’. Most especially if they feel angry about the situation they find themselves in,

Note here: In Appendix 2 A gut feeling, a lifesaver. I describe two occasions, one, I most definitely saved my life by acting on my bad feeling of the situation. On that occasion I had found that one door had been left open and another unlocked. And there was someone looking to enter the house. The perpetrator, who set up the ‘occasion’, would have at no time been held responsible, not even considered a suspect, by any scientist or psychiatrist. A serious crime committed by such means would, on the reasoning of no evidence, just be treated as a coincidence, random violence.

I recall a policeman in a documentary on television saying that there were several cases where the victim allowed the criminal into their house. He said that this was concluded because there was no evidence of any break in. Without evidence of a break in, he said the criminal must be someone that the victim knew and possibly knew well enough to allow them into their house or flat. So the search for the offender would be limited to the people known to the deceased. Of course, they won’t find the criminal among the victim’s friends and relatives.

Continuing with our discussion I then asked “Why must the person dismiss it? Why is that important?”

“It is important they dismiss it” he said, “otherwise they may become suspicious in the next procedure, and you don’t want that happening.”

“And why is that? What happens if they become suspicious in the next procedure?”

Well it puts a spanner in the works” he said. “They will know the fear is due to something in their environment and they may look around instead of falling for the ideas that you want influencing them”. He looked hard at me and then added “they may suspect you are involved somehow, and you don’t want that”. And then with a wave of his hand he said “this procedure simply relates the criminals to the target. And being a golfer he said, “you are just teeing up”. Then added “if all goes well then in the next procedure, when you bring the crims back into the target’s vicinity, the target will become aware of them, but without any knowledge. That way the target won’t become suspicious or worse still knowing” he said bent his head slight as he looked back at me.

“So it has to be a trifling incident and any relationship forged is trivial”

“That depends” he said.

“Depends on what? I resounded.

“It depends on who you are and what you want” he said.

“Now you’re being cryptic again” I accused him.

If you are closely related to the target, then a trivial incident taking place for just a moment or two is enough” he said. Then he continued, “but if you are not closely enough related to the target, and you don’t have any related person to use as your agent, then you want to imprint it a bit, give it a bit more oomph.”

“A bit more oomph?” I asked disgusted by his suggestion.

“Well, you know, give them a bit of a jolt, jar them a bit, put some fear in them, but still without arousing any suspicion.

“Fear, without arising suspicion” I echoed “without arousing suspicion” I reiterated. “Crikey, how do you do that? I bellowed. Then I remembered years ago this may have happened to me too So, I was all ears.

In the next chapter I continue with the discussions on the introduction that has more oomph, as he said.

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uni-linked-verse · 2 years

Text

Here's Skys' template (at least, for now)

Game(s); Skyward Sword

Name; Link, Hero of the Sky

Nickname(s); Skys or Sky (prefers Skys)

Pronouns & Gender; He/Him, Cis Male

Age; 19

Height; 5'5"

Defining Features/Traits; Limps on his left leg from damage done to his ankle. Top lip is noticeable darker than bottom. Scar from his jaw point, up to mid cheekbone on the left side. Colored triforce on right hand (hidden by gloves, normally). Lightneing scar on right for arm, leading to the colored Triforce (hidden by sleeve and gloves, normally)

Skin Tone & Reasoning; Warm Walnut. Instead of going for the white color he's given ingame, the Skylofters are close to the sun. Naturally, their skin would become darker due to evolutionary, or stay the same if it was already dark.

Hair Color & Reasoning; Ash Blonde that is dyed brown. Basically, I've given an unrealistic scenario of what would happen in the real world, but oh well. Born naturally with a muted blonde that's easy to dye over with a darker color, simply because it would fit better, and not everyone wants blonde hair at birth.

Eye Color & Reasoning; Sky blue eyes with light hints of brown near the iris. This is where it becomes unrealistic in real life. Blue eyes, blonde hair, and dark skinned is barely possible in real life naturally. But, it doesn't look good together either. It's too much contrast against the skin. But, still wanting to keep with the "Link" style, it's why I kept the blue eyes and made the hair dyed brown to make things match. In my opinion, Skys hair being blonde in the game didn't fit him from the beginning. Even if I kept his skin light, it would have been changed anyways.

Jewelry & Reasoning; Water Dragon's Scale necklace and Fire Shield Earrings. The necklace would be tucked into his shirt at all times, still usable, but not clashing with anything. And the fire shield earrings because, you really think he's gonna catch himself on fire? He's a little slow, but not that slow.

Other Accessories & Reasoning; A new sailcloth (gifted by Zelda) that's tied to the shoulders of the armor, Master sword on his hip in a sheath, and a cane by his sword. The sailcloth being a new design of a triforce mixed with a bird (picture below) because Zelda would do that. Master sword because he wouldn't trust anyone else with Fi. And the cane for the bad days, where it causes an unnatural amount of pain to walk on his leg with all of his weight.

Corruption; Redacted

Extra info; Fluffy hair that tangles quite easily. More than likely, there's a twig he's pulling out by the end of the day. Cane has a bird feather in it. The bird feather is one of Crim's. His crimson bird is a female named Crim (beginning of crimson). Absolutely loves tea. Like, no joke. Loves tea. Can sleep ANYWHERE. Both a blessing and curse, but he is a light sleeper. He'll wake up to the smallest noise/presence around him. Can, in fact, sing, and only does it when someone else can't sleep, if Majora doesn't get to them first.

The cane is made up of sturdy sticks, rope, and a hope that it doesn't suddenly fall apart while he's using it.

Sailcloth is scrunched at top because I tried to make it realistic to the folds of fabric. Didn't work, but it's late, so not gonna redo it tonight.

Edit(s): #1- I lowered the height, simply because he felt a little too tall, in what is to be compared to the rest. #2- I had to take the bold away since it kept crashing my app. Anyways! After finishing the game, I tweaked and added a thing to his defining traits and a little thing to his extra notes. #3- Added to extra notes

#reference sheet #u-l-v skys #u-l-v fi

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wickedpact · 4 years

Note

dear tumblr user crim wickedpact pls write the essay/dissertation about nicky being shakespeare's fair youth (if you have time, ofc!!)

Not To Imply Nicky Was Shakespeare’s Fair Youth But Ive Read The Fair Youth Sonnets & Nicky Was Definitely Shakespeare’s Fair Youth, an essay by me, tumblr user crim wickedpact

background knowledge: our man shakespeare wrote some 120 sonnets about a young man referred to as the Fair Youth during the mid 1590s; there has been some debate among shakespeare enthusiasts whether shakespeare’s interest in the Fair Youth was platonic or romantic (but like. they were definitely romantic). no one knows for sure who the Fair Youth was, but it was definitely nicky and my first and most important piece of evidence regarding this hypothesis is the ‘lmao babe do you remember that guy who had a crush on me?’/ ‘i try not to remember the guy who had a crush on you’ look joe and nicky exchange when Merrick brings up shakespeare during the movie. especially since gina confirmed in a tweet that joe and nicky canonly did know shakespeare

my second piece of evidence is that it just Works (except for a couple small facts like.. the Fair Youth was prolly closer to his 20s than his 30s. and the fact that shakespeare implies that the Fair Youth slept with his mistress at one point. but he doesnt know what hes talking about shhh we IGNORE)

long post under cut

A. The Description Matches

when describing the Fair Youth (who I’ll call the FY from now on), shakespeare says he has a ‘gold complexion’ and ‘beautiful eyes’ and compares him to a ‘summer’s day’. He says the FY has “A woman’s gentle heart" and “An eye more bright than [women’s are], (...) Gilding the object whereupon [they] gazeth”

As much as shakespeare’s perceptions of sexuality and gender are very........ late 1500′s (whoo boy sonnet #20 is a wild ride) ...... the description does match, and also:

B. The Fair Youth Refused to Get Married

it’s never really said why one way or another (shakespeare assumes it’s because the FY is selfish) but the FY didn’t/wouldn’t take on a wife and have a kid, and this was something that was a real sticker for our man Willy S. because, as he says in his sonnets a million times: beauty doesn’t last forever, but having a child not only passes down the FY’s beauty, but also blesses the woman the FY would have a child with (im not saying shakespeare wanted to bear the FY’s children, but he definitely did)

Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest, Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose uneared womb Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?

(ie. If you don’t renew yourself/ have children, you deprive the world and deprive a woman from having your child, since what woman out there is so beautiful that she wouldn’t want to bear your child?)

Like.

1.) if nicky is the FY then so many of these poems center around the idea of nicky growing old sometime soon and that must have been pretty funny to Nicky and

2.) the fact that shakespeare would have been So Desperate for nicky to find a wife must have been the opposite of funny to joe. considering the ease of his and nicky’s relationship and the fact that being gay in late 1500s england was probably not a walk in the park, it is very likely shakespeare wouldn’t have known they were in a committed relationship-- or at least not known how close they actually were. Thus:

C. The Rival (aka. Joe)

shakespeare mentions having a poetic rival in regards to the FY in several sonnets. In sonnet #21 he talks about how he’s not like Those Other Writers who use grand metaphors to talk about their muses

So is it not with me as with that Muse, Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse, Who heaven itself for ornament doth use And every fair with his fair doth rehearse, Making a couplement of proud compare With sun and moon, with earth and sea's rich gems, With April's first-born flowers, and all things rare,

(ie. I’m not like other poets who, when inspired by a ‘painted beauty’ use heaven and every other beautiful thing on the planet to make a grand comparison to their muse: he specifically lists the sun and moon as examples as well as other beautiful things)

He then goes on to say

And then believe me, my love is as fair As any mother's child, though not so bright As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

(ie. my love [the FY] is as beautiful as any other beautiful person, though I wouldn’t compare them to the stars/heavens (which is what he means by the 'gold candles’. those are stars.))

So shakespeare insults poets who compare their subjects to the sun, moon, and stars (amongst other things) and in the comics, Joe does literally exactly that

That man is the stars in my sky, and the sun that lights my days. That man is the moon when I'm lost in darkness, and warmth when I shiver in cold.

shakespeare also goes on to say in the same sonnet “Let them say more that like of hearsay well / I will not praise that purpose not to sell” which is to say ‘let people who like that kind of language use it, I wont because I don’t want anyone else to have the subject of my affections (the FY)’.

(which is a bit of a contradiction regarding his feelings abt the FY getting married, but these sonnets are full of contradictions. shakespeare was a confused dude; man spent the first 100 or so sonnets convinced the FY loved him back only for him to start wondering if the FY ever loved him near the end)

(not to mention Marriage For Love wasnt really.. much of a thing in Ye Olden Times but thats a different conversation. so shakespeare prolly didnt associate marriage with love/competition? anyways)

Shakesy-boo goes on to complain about this rival several times. In #79, he says

Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent He robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word From thy behaviour; beauty doth he give, And found it in thy cheek: he can afford No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.

(ie. everything ‘your poet’ (as the FY apparently favored this unnamed rival) says about you, he takes it from you in the first place. he talks about your virtue, but learned the word from watching your behavior. he calls you beautiful but only discovered beauty by looking at your face. every compliment he gives you he took from you in the first place)

[and, as a smaller example, he also bemoans the fact that people want to paint the FY in #67, saying, “Why should false painting imitate his cheek, / And steal dead seeming of his living hue?”. and yknow. Joe’s an artist.]

And then another example in #86

Was it the proud full sail of [the rival’s] great verse, Bound for the prize of all too precious you, That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse, Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?

Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?

(ie. he’s talking about how he’s having difficulty writing abt the FY and is rhetorically asking if ‘the proud sail’ of the rival’s verses was the reason his ‘ripe thoughts’ were killed in their ‘womb’. He then asks (again rhetorically) if it was the rival’s ‘spirit’ (or creativity, maybe) ‘’’‘by spirits taught to write’’’’ that killed his own drive to write. none of the analyses I’ve read really explain what shakespeare means by ‘spirits taught to write’, other than maybe being a joke or reference to something we dont know, but... ‘taught by dead people to write in a way mortal people can’t�� very much sounds like a description of an immortal poet, eh?)

Which brings me to,

D. Willy Boy Thinks There Are 500 Year Old Writings About the Fair Youth

shakespeare talks about people having written about the FY ‘500 years ago’ from the late 1500s in #59 which......................... would have been around 1100 AD. :thinking face:

Oh that record could with a backward look, Even of five hundred courses of the sun, Show me your image in some antique book, Since mind at first in character was done, That I might see what the old world could say To this composed wonder of your frame;

(ie. Oh if I could look back 500 years and see how you were described in some old books so I could see/reference what people used to write about you)

Which again brings me to,

E. I’m Not Saying shakespeare Stole From Joe, But:

1.) In #22, shakespeare says this,

For all that beauty that doth cover thee, Is but the seemly raiment of my heart, Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:

(ie, your beauty is due to the ‘clothes’ my heart gives you-- probably means something like ‘you’re beautiful because i love you’. goes on to say his heart lives in the FY’s chest, and the FY’s heart lives in shakespeare’s chest)

so: shakespeare tells the FY he has shakespeare’s heart. in comparison, Joe calls nicky ‘my heart’ in the comics...... :thinking face x2:

2.) In #109, shakespeare tells the FY ‘thou art my all’,

For nothing this wide universe I call, Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all.

which rings similar to Joe’s ‘he’s all and he’s more’ as well as (from the comics) ‘he is my everything’

and just saying. joe looks pretty #done the mention of shakespeare.

F. The last One

Despite shakespeare writing 30+ poems about the FY eventually growing old, the very last poem he writes about/for the FY says,

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein showest Thy lovers withering, as thy sweet self growest.

(ie. you [the FY] have power over the ‘mirror’ (fickle glass) of time as well as time’s ‘harvesting’ ability (sickle hour) and as you grow older, you remain beautiful while your lovers [shakespeare] wither and grow old)

The transition from ‘get married and have a baby before you get old!!!!’ in #1-20 to talking about the FY’s presence in 500 y/o books in #59 to admitting the FY isn’t growing old in #126 kinda seems to imply shakespeare learning of/about nicky’s immortality at some point, and this last poem is him accepting it.

TLDR: not only does it make perfect sense if nicky was the Fair Youth from the FY sonnets, but it also makes perfect sense if joe was the Rival from the FY sonnets. its canon nothing will convince me otherwise

#IS THIS GETTING TAGGED? YES #nicolo di genova #joe x nicky #my_essays #the fair youth saga

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nectarous · 4 years

Text

smart mouth

warnings/tags: deepthroating, choking/gagging, breath play, spit

wordcount: 789

a/n: second installation of kinktober, already so behind because crim justice is kicking my ass.

oral fixation: in which a person is unconsciously obsessed and aroused with the mouth

dabi has a thing for your lips. a very obsessive, persistent thing. there’s always a need to keep for him to keep them occupied, with his lips or his fingers or something. similarly, you have a thing for his cock. long and sturdy, with silver studs that decorate the entire length.

currently, he has you on your knees in front of him, two fingers in your mouth, staring at the bright red already spreading across your face. all day, he couldn’t stop staring at the shade, imagining that color all over his dick and your face.

your shirt is pulled and tucked away under your tits, nipples rubbing against the rough fabric of his dark washed jeans. plump lips wrap around his porcelain fingers as you look up at him.

there’s a glimmer of mischief in his turquoise eyes, and that’s all the warning you have before he shoves his spit covered fingers down your throat, effectively causing you to gag. almost instantaneously, you start choking, eyes watering. you don’t move to pull back and you maintain eye contact the way that he likes, but your hands inch up pulling out his throbbing cock. he’s warm, almost feverish.

he pulls his fingers out slowly, thumbs tracing the outline of your lips before forcing your mouth wide. you feel like some sex toy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“open wide, doll” he murmurs. of course you obey, and he instantly pushes his dick in, slowly so you can feel the silver piercings pushing against your and you feel as you roll your tongue anything you can get with your tongue. one strong hand holds you down for what feels like eternity as you feel the back of your throat twitch. your saliva run’s down, pooling at the balls and into his jeans. you both know he’s stronger than you, and it’s futile to try and pull yourself back, so you stay in the same position. your knees sting from hardwood flooring, thighs shaking slightly from the effort of propping yourself up. you feel the thick drips of spit pooling in and dripping out the corners of your mouth. it’s glorious.

without warning, he immediately sets a rough pace. forcing yourself to keep his dick in your mouth, you can barely breathe as he does is hold you down harder, thrusting his hips up faster.

“fuck… you’re little throat feels perfect around me.”

the scarred bastard’s smirks across his face, before pinching your nose shut. for a panicking, you tried pulling your head back, slap his thighs, but the hand tangled in your hair held you in your place. your grip on his lean thighs gets tighter as black dots start to crowd your line of vision, seconds before you pass out, he lets you go and you gasp for sweet, sweet air, coughing and rubbing your throat as you glare at him.

“can you stop being so fucking rough,” you snap. you know you look pathetic mess, mascara and lipstick smudged every which way on your face, furrowed brows over glassy eyes. there’s absolutely no authority from the position you’re in.

he slaps your face before gripping your jaw making you look up at him. “you want to cum tonight you whiny bitch?” you glare through residual tears and nod glumly. “then stop being a fucking baby and take it you little slut.”

you scowl up at him, trying to at least pretend to be defiant, but it’s only a matter of time before you pry your mouth open. he forces you open all the way and thrusts in again, his piercings clinking against your teeth and rubbing against the back of your throat. he tangles his hands in your hair, pulling you back and forth with a roughness that had you burning.

“that’s it” he groans, throwing his head back, “take it, take it, take it you little pathetic dump.”

your face is a mess, tears and drool running down your face. even though he was treating you like nothing more than a hole, his rough treatment and demanding words got you dripping.

“fuck i gotta cum” he groans, pulling back. you close your eyes, and keep your mouth open as thick white paints your face and your tits. your senses are clogged by him and only him. you can taste his salty release, smell his sweat. the mess left on your face is award worthy. spit and cum dribble on your face, red lipstick and spit smeared on your cheeks and chin. your lips are puffy and stinging , and that pretty tongue is lolled out holding little droplets of cum.

you look absolutely fucked over.

he tells you to hold still, before snapping a picture.

kinktober tag list (comment on pinned post to be added): @babycarrot-1 @kozumeskitty @goblintim3 @suga-cream-chocolate @fakeanimefanntnt @honja-saranghago @mightymegamoo @thatquietblackgirl @dumbledork24 @babyhvunjin @utopiamiroh @wh0relibrarian

#bnha smut #mha smut #dabi smut #bnha x reader #mha x reader #dabi x reader #kinktober 2020 #bnha kinktober #bnha imagines #tag: choking #tag:[breathplay]#tag:[spit]

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imonthinice · 3 years

Text

The Criminal Psychology Majors, Jason Todd x Fem!Reader Part 2/?

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: Y/N - your name, A/N - any name (your best friend’s name)

Warnings: Swearing, no beta bitch we die like Jason Todd

Welcome Back! I have, once again, written more of Jason Todd because he’s a fucking teddy bear and I love him.

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8) (Part 9) (Part 10) (Part 11) (Part 12) (Part 13) (Part 14) (Part 15) (Part 16) (Part 17) (Part 18) (Part 19) (Part 20)

Y/N and Jason both returned from that date feeling all giddy about each other, but trying their dammed-est to not let their hopes get too high about the other. However, that was extremely, extremely hard for Jason to do with family like Dick in his life. It’s like coming home to a hopeless romantic of a shipper as a nosey bitch. Lovingly, of course. No one’s like Dick.

“So, Y/N?” Dick asked Jason immediately as he entered the Manor.

“Yeah, what about her?”

“So, many questions: Was that a date? If no, will there be a date? Is there going to be a second date? Do you like her? Do you think we’ll like her? Does she know you’re Bruce Wayne’s son?” Dick rambled at his little brother.

“Okay hold on god damn, yes it was a date, yes there will be a second, yeah I think she’s cool and I like her, slow your roll Circus Boy, I don’t know when she’ll meet you lot, I don’t think she knows who I am, she’s from Metropolis, so I don’t think she knows the Waynes well.” Jason answered Dick with confidence.

“So you like her!” Steph mocked as she entered the hallway, probably heard her brothers talking about Y/N, so she wanted in on it. Somehow she had evaded Jason’s gaze though, so she startled him immensely.

“Jeez, how many of you will scare me today? And yeah, dumbass, I like her. But I’m doing this magical thing called ‘Not getting my god damn hopes up about her since it’s only the first date’ you hopeless romantic fucks.” Jason barked at them.

“Yeah, but you love us.” Dick said.

“That might be true, but your meddling is only going to cause chaos, Dick and Steph.”

“What about my meddling, Jay?” Bruce asked. Once again, he had heard the talking about Jason’s new crush and decided he’d parent the boy on his girl. Jason jumped out of his skin, because, he had once again, not seen Bruce enter the hallway despite his best efforts to not get startled again.

“You, are going to give me a heart attack.”

“Looks like this girl let your guard down.”

“Can we just go on patrol and stop badgering me?” Jason muttered under his breath.

“Nope!” Barbara exclaimed. Clearly, there’s a pattern with Waynes escaping Jason’s attempts to not get startled today, “We’re still going to badger you, Jay,” Barbara finished.

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

When Y/N made her way back to A/N, she couldn’t help but turn her radio as loud as she could and try to take the longer journey back home. Pieces of quiet and tranquility always surprised and drew her in. Like a good book on a Sunday morning before the rest of the bustling city of Gotham or Metropolis awoke itself. If New York never sleeps, she thought, then what the hell do Gotham and Metropolis call themselves. She laughed.

There were a few good things about Gotham, like the people you’d meet on the street at 4am were some of the weirdest but kindest people you’d ever know. It’s like the city radiated off of the energy of the people in it, and in spite of the villains constantly hitting the city with their worst, somehow everyone never let it get to them. It was admirable. Metropolis was the same in that avenue, but it didn’t feel like the cold Gotham streets.

Y/N thought Jason was one of the kinder people she had met in her travels and classes. And she never thought that she’d meet someone she liked this much in her criminal psychology class of all places, but hey, the universe had different pen strokes for her.

She went and parked her car in the driveway of the rental house she and A/N shared. Only the two of them shared it, but if either of them lost their jobs, they’d be looking for another roommate immediately. Pulling out her bag which was full of notes written by Jason, the original notes written by her, and binders upon binders of criminal cases she was looking into at the time, she would get out of her car and begin walking to her door.

Of course, like most people, she would kick off her heels the minute she walked through the doors of the house, to which, A/N paused her music and went to go question Y/N about Jason.

“So, you know how this works, babes, lay it on me, how’s hottie? Is he kind?” A/N pondered.

“He’s so kind, he paid the printing fees for my notes and rewrote all of them, I guess it’s a system for us now. I write the notes in class while he tries to take it all in, we meet up, and he rewrites them all and pays the printing fee.”

“He paid the fee?! At that college?” A/N said, completely shocked.

“Is that shocking?”

“Well, the printing fees are so fucking expensive, hun. Mans must have daddy’s money to do that.”

“Really? Well regardless money doesn’t matter, he’s kind and I can make a name for myself if I graduate at the top of my class.” She said, fully believing this. Smart woman. She knew she could do it.

“I believe in you, do you have homework tonight? I can make dinner for you so you can study.” A/N offered.

“Nah, I’m just going to go file my notes and shower, I’ll come join you and help after.”

“Well, don’t drown.” A/N joked.

“Do you know how much effort that would take?” She laughed as she walked towards her room, once she got there she pulled out her papers and began the slow filing process of them into her desk.

About 2 minutes into this, she got a text:

Hey stranger.

If someone had a heart monitor hooked up to her, they could have bet their last penny on her heart skipping a beat.

Hey Jason. She sent back.

I had a fun time today with you, do you want to do the same thing tomorrow, I could use your fast writing skills to get by in classes. And I just like talking to you. What do you say?

She thought. Maybe something legit is here, hopefully I’m not just used for notes. She worried about that, since she was just a tad insecure about him. He was pretty. She knew she was a looker, sure. But he was something more.

I would love to go on another budget date with you.

Budget? Actually yeah, I guess it is budget lol. Maybe next time I’ll actually take you out to lunch like I said I would.

I, honestly, completely forgot you said you’d take me to lunch, I was just having fun as we were talking.

Me too. You’re a hoot.

A hoot? That’s a book nerd statement if I’ve ever heard one. She joked. She didn’t actually know if he was a book nerd at this time, but they had been joking the entire time when she was filing her notes. She was no where near done filing her notes, Jason was a distraction from that, it wasn’t that important, she would end up finishing it later. She just liked some semblance of organization so she didn’t have to put it off.

I’ll have you know I’ve probably read more books than you.

Well book nerds are cute.

Eventually the messages from Jason and Y/N started slowing, Y/N assumed he was tired or working so she took her chance to file her notes and start running her shower.

Sorry Y/N, this has been fun but I’m going to get really sparse with replies, I got work to do.

That’s fine! Where do you work, by the way?

And she got into the shower. Halfway through her shower her phone pinged, she assumed Jason was texting back, so when she finished her shower, before she even got her towel on, she decided to answer him:

I work at Wayne Enterprises with my dad. It’s quite fun. He had said.

Oh! I’ve heard the owner of Wayne Enterprises is a lovely man, have you met him? She asked him back.

And within an instant, he answered.

He’s my dad, so yeah.

You’re the Jason Todd? Heir to the Wayne Manor and Wayne Enterprises? She started thinking back on what A/N had said. Yep, she thought, Daddy’s money indeed. She started to slip into her pajamas, which were literally a mess and not put together, because this is the real world, not every girl has matching sets, when he answered:

I hope that doesn’t change much, Y/N.

Explains the camera I saw but didn’t mention, and that’s about it.

You saw the cameras? Damn it. I tried to shield you, they may have pictured us together, sorry.

Worth it for a lovely date. I’ve seen worse, my mum works with Clark Kent, who I guess you probably know since he’s Bruce’s best friend, and the paparazzi loves to take Clark’s picture.

Oh yeah, Uncle Clark. Yeah, the pap love him. You get used to it. I guess you somewhat know my family lol.

Nah, that’s about all I know. Wasn’t really interested in drama about you lot because it’s just not my business. Probably not a shared ideal with the general public.

She finished getting dressed and went to go cook with A/N, and share the news.

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

“Girl! You were right about daddy’s money oh my god,” Y/N said when she entered the kitchen.

“Go on,” A/N urged.

“You know Jason Todd? Guess what. That’s hottie from Crim Psych 101.”

“Are you serious? That’s insane. You’re probably plastered across the internet right now for that date,” A/N laughed, “are you scared to date a famous man?” She asked.

“No, he’s really sweet and if this gets serious, I can just block out the flashes.”

The two of them laughed and started cooking. A/N was Latina, so, of course, she was in charge to cook most nights. But Y/N made killer desserts and pizza. Tonight was fajitas, so Y/N kind of sat bat and let A/N do her thing. Trying to know more so one day A/N wouldn’t have to do all the work, Y/N went onto the internet and the first thing she saw?

Globally Revered Son of a Millionaire, Jason Todd, out on a DATE with a Mystery Girl?

Like clockwork, Jason answered:

I guess I have a lot to teach you, and I hope you haven’t been on the internet recently.

I have. Globally Revered Son of a Millionaire. She texted back.

Fuck those damn tabloids. He said, she couldn’t help but agree, the paparazzi seem like they’re very invested in stories that aren’t theirs to tell.

Can’t agree with you more. We should put on a show for them tomorrow, actually give them something to write about.

I like your thinking.

You’ve opened up a lot today.

Is it your turn now?

What do you want to know? You asked him before turning to A/N.

“Tabloids talk too much,” you sneered at her.

“Cat should get their tongue and choke on it,” she finished, “did you at least look cute in their pics?” she asked.

“Somehow. Wasn’t even posing,” Y/N finished.

“Well, food’s done, are you still hungry?”

“Always.”

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

Jason turned to his brother, Dick, Nightwing, and said,

“She knows now.”

“That you’re rich?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess I have to be more wary of her now,” he sighed, “I hope she’s not in it for the Wayne fortune.”

“Doubt she is if she agreed the tabloids can suck it, Red Hood.”

“I pray you’re right.”

He then drew his guns and fired at the ground underneath their laest venture into crime-fighting. This was gonna be one hell of a ride Y/N embarked on, not even knowing what she was getting into.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd #jason todd x fem!reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #red hood x fem!reader #red hood x y/n #red hood x you #batfam #batfamily #batbros #jason todd fluff #red hood fluff #dcu #dc #dceu

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writefasttalkevenfaster · 4 years

Text

Aaron Hotchner / August Part I

Request: Hotch and reader become unlikely friends after a broken doorknob brings them together, and maybe start to feel something a little more? (College AU)

Word Count: 8,224

Warnings: Fluff, angst, mutual pining, mentions of Hotch’s dad and difficult home life, Haley being jealous, a kiss (*gasp*),

He was never yours, you thought, your fingers grasping at the pen, the same hands that had held his once. You knew that, but you let him in anyway.

Into your apartment. Into your life. Into your heart.

And then you let him go.

Out of your apartment. Out of your life. Out of your heart.

You signed your name, placing it on the arrangement of fresh cut white lilies, wrapped in plastic, before handing it to the florist.

But you wouldn’t now, not again.

~~~

A knock on your door roused you from sleep. A groan on your lips, you rolled over on your bed, kicking off what remained of your thin blanket draped over you. A cool breeze rolled over you, cutting through the thick, sticky August humidity, but it wasn’t enough to lull you back to sleep. And the sharp rapping at your door certainly didn’t help. You grumbled, stuffing the pillow over your head, hoping whoever it was would take a hint.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

Apparently not.

You threw yourself up, face twisted in a scowl, as your eyes flickered to your clock: 12:17 AM.

Yet another knock, and you pulled on a robe over your tank and shorts, draping it over your shoulders, “I’m coming,” you growled, and the fourth knock stopped short, and you tripped over nearly every piece of furniture in your sleep, throwing open the door, “what?”

He blinks, his dark hair as black at the night behind him, several locks falling in front of his forehead, “Sorry, I, uh—”

“Hotchner?” you tilt your head, crossing your arms, “what are you doing here?”

And it’s his turn to be confused, “I’m sorry, do we—”

He didn’t remember you — how lovely, an unwelcome interruption who doesn’t bother to learn your name. You tell him your name, and it still doesn’t register, “We’re in the same criminal justice class? The one we literally started last week?” One of two summer classes that you seriously believed that you conned into taking, all in the hopes that you would be able to finish up your degree a semester earlier. If you passed, you would be done next semester.

Red runs across his cheeks, “I’m sorry, I sit in the front, I—”

You wave him off, while fanning yourself with your hand, “I don’t care honestly, just why? Why are you here?”

A flush climbs his neck, “I just moved in next door, and I got locked out of my apartment. The door handle is rusted over, and my roommate is out of town—”

“And?” you rubbed at your brow, your manners didn’t exactly shine at 12 AM.

“Could I stay with you? Just for tonight,” he held up his hands, “we have that midterm tomorrow in Crim, and I really—”

“So you remember the midterm but not my name huh?” and the flush bridges over his nose and cheekbones, “I’m kidding Hotchner.” you scratch your head — on one hand, you didn’t want to let a stranger into your apartment, but at the same time, you didn’t want him to sleep outside his apartment, you sighed, “take the couch, but I’m locking my door, and I don’t want you disturbing me unless I’m somehow sleeping through the exam tomorrow.”

“Thank you, I—” you wave him off, “I really appreciate—”

“Just come in,” you yawn, stretching your tired muscles, still heavy with the sleep you were deprived of, but just like that, you felt your mind rouse, sleep deflating from your head in a slow leak, “ugh fuck.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m wide awake now,” if looks could kill, you were sure your criminal justice class would be investigating Hotchner’s murder, “I have a hard time falling back asleep once I’m awake.”

He raises a brow, “I thought you were exhausted?”

“Well tell that to my brain,” you groan, collapsing in an armchair, covering your face, “now I’m going to be up until 5 AM.”

He glances at your kitchen, “How about I make us some tea?” you look up, lips twisted in a frown, “decaffeinated, if you have it?”

“Third drawer from the left,” you snuggle into the chair, hoping to lull your brain into a false sense of sleep.

His voice cuts through your haze, the familiar click of the gas burner, “Can I ask you something?”

“At your own risk,” you mumble, utterly too comfortable.

“How did you know who I was?” the sink knob squeaks as he turns it, the rush of water, the quiet hum of the water as it filled the cups he was undoubtedly rinsing now, “there must be at least fifty people in that class.”

“You make a hell of an impression, Hotchner,” you sigh, shifting in your chair, wiping the sweat from the back of your neck, “the first day of class, you argued with the professor about his opinions about criminal justice reform and the necessity of it, or as he put it, the unessential nature of it. ”

“Well, his opinion was wrong,” you laughed, eyes still very much shut, “his opinion wasn’t even based on facts, he was just dictating to us on his own notions—”

“I know, and you made sure he knew that,” you finally opened your eyes when you heard the tea kettle whistle, “that’s why I remembered your name — the way he asked you for it, and the way you replied—”

He poured the hot water into each freshly washed mug, “With hopefully with an equal amount of respect,”

“A very minimal amount,” you propped your head up on your elbow, watching him bring over the mugs.

“So an equal amount,” you take the mug from his hand, pressing it against your lips, warming your lips, chuckling, “I give respect to those who deserve it.”

“And what does that mean for me?” and he smiles.

He raises his mug, a wry smile on his lips, “Well considering you could kick me out at any point, I have the utmost respect.”

You roll your eyes, hiding the smile on your lips by taking a sip, “Smart.”

~~~

And you soon learned Hotchner was very smart — when he touted his 100% on the exam a week later, next to your measly 98%.

“You owe me two points, Hotchner,” you would say to him, walking back to your apartment building, the humidity as thick as a fog. You tugged at your oversized shirt, hanging loosely around your torso, but somehow still sticking to your sweaty body. You felt like a drowned rat who hadn’t even had the pleasure of being in the water, “I would have gotten your score if someone hadn’t woken me up in the middle of the night.”

“Well, how about instead of talking the professor into giving you two points, how about a coffee instead?” he offers, hands in his pockets, “on me.”

You grin, “It better be.”

~~~

“FBI track?” you whistle lowly, sitting across from Hotchner in a coffee shop around the corner from your building, “some ambitions you got there, Hotchner.”

“I aim high,” he takes a sip of his drink, “What? Can’t see me as an agent?” You shrug, your eyes flickering over his form, biting your lip — well he would look good in a suit and tie, wouldn’t he? And the vest— “What are you smiling about?”

“Just imagining you as a G-man,” you admit, a grin on your lips, “let’s just say I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“And what high aspirations do you have?”

“Nothing too fancy,” you stir your drink, watching the liquid swirl, “law school is the plan, hopefully eventually landing at a corporate firm and then move into the nonprofit sector.”

“You don’t seem so excited,” you shrug.

“Not everyone has high hopes and dreams, G-man,” and he rolls his eyes, lips pressed into a purse, unconvinced, “well I would love to be a writer, but I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” he raises an eyebrow, “or you’re too scared to try?”

“Cute mind games, nice try,” you sigh, eyes falling to stare at your drink again, “it’s hard to believe in yourself when you’re the only one who does, and I can barely manage it.”

He leans back in his chair, black locks falling across his forehead, “Well, how about I pick up the slack?”

“You don’t have to say that—”

“I want to,” he cuts you off, and you glance up, his gaze utterly paralyzing and earnest, that you almost want to believe and maybe you do just a little — otherwise that thump against your ribcage is something else — some other feeling you are not ready to contend with. But you don’t get the chance. He breaks your gaze to glance at the clock, and curses, “I have to get home. My girlfriend is going to be calling me soon.”

Your heart twists, but you ignore it, because this was enough — this moment was enough, “Yeah, get home quick. You gotta tell that girlfriend of yours about that grade of yours. Nothing is hotter than a nerd,”

“Speaking from experience?” you scoff, and he pauses, “can we do this again sometime? This was fun.”

It was enough, right?

You smile, “Of course.”

~~~

“Fucking fuck—” you hissed the shattered glass all over the floor, and the hot liquid splattered across the wood, “Shit.” you stare at the mess, cursing, stepping over the broken glass, as you pick up the shards with a cloth napkin, grabbing the broom and dustpan from the closet.

You sweep up the mess best you can, but now before cutting your finger on a shard, “Shit, fuck,” you wrap the cloth around the wound, digging through the drawers for a bandage. Fuck your roommate for going away for the summer, and also moving everything around while digging through the apartment for their shit. You slam the last drawer shut, no bandages, but you found a dozen condoms of varying shapes and colors — not exactly useful for treating a wound.

So either you walk down to the corner to the store with a cloth wrapped around your finger, or you could tie this cloth around your finger while you studied.

Well, you glanced at the door, there was a third option.

You and Hotchner had seen quite a bit of each other over the past few weeks— June bleeding into July — studying, watching TV, grabbing bad coffee after class. He was one of the only people in three years who had made you comfortable to be yourself — to admit to things you would have never dreamed of telling, without guarantee of a memory wipe (well maybe if he joined the FBI).

What was it about him anyway?

He opened the door, a smile pulling at his lips, before he glanced at your hand, “What happened?”

“Cut myself on some glass, do you have a bandage neighbor?” you glanced at the door knob, “I see the landlord finally fixed your door knob, so I won’t have any more late night visits.”

“Come in,” he herds you in, shutting the door behind him, “give me a second, I have to find the first aid kit.”

You grip the cloth, watching him dart around the apartment, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration — you particularly enjoyed the way his lower lip— no. No you could not do this.

“You’d think a first aid kit would be easier to find,” you call after his disappearing back, “since ‘first’ is in the title.”

“And where’s yours?” he asks, as he walks back into the living room, kit in hand, “I don’t think you’d be over here if you found yours.”

“Ah, I like the company,” he raises an eyebrow, placing the kit beside you, “plus I don’t have to use my own bandages,” you watch him grab a paper napkin, running it under water, before returning. You reach for the cloth, but he brushes you off, taking your wrist, “you don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” his eyes remained concentrated, as he pulled the rag away from your finger, “it’s mostly stopped bleeding now, it’s not so deep.”

“Really, Dr. Hotchner?” and you hissed a little as he cleaned the wound, red staining the nearly translucent tissue, “did you ever consider a career in medicine?”

He clicked his tongue, his hand was so much bigger than yours, his touch gentle, sending warmth blooming up your body, “Biology puts me to sleep,” he raises his eyes, “no jokes. Plus,” he scrunches his face and pulls the napkin away, grimacing at the blood, “I don’t like blood.”

You chuckle, “Come on, Mr. FBI agent, won’t you have to deal with a lot of blood?”

His lips twist in a line, “Actually seems like I may see you in law school,”

You furrow your brow, “What do you mean?” he sighs, grabbing a bandage from the kit, peeling the backing off of it, “Hotchner—”

“Law school is a safer option. I can still put bad guys away, I can be a prosecutor, and I won’t be at risk of getting shot—”

“Bullshit,” you cross your arms, “it’s not what you want.”

“It’s not always about me—”

“This is your life,” you get up, and his shoulder sag, “we get one life, Hotchner — are you going to waste it doing what other people want?”

“You’re one to talk,” he snaps, “you should be a writer, but you’re going to law school, just like me.”

You know he’s right — you know you’re a hypocrite, but you don’t care, “Why did you change your mind?”

Your question is quiet, but heavy — it hangs in the air, in the silence, and you feel as if you know the answer already, “I was talking to Haley,” and you hold your tongue, “it’s safer if I go to law school. It’ll be better when we start our life together.”

“Hotchner—”

“That’s not the only reason,” he swallows thickly, he slumps in his chair, “my father — he—” his voice broke.

You shake your head, throat dry, “You don’t have to—”

“He abused us,” he says quietly, “He worked a lot, and if it wasn’t for that, I…” he trailed off, glancing down, “but when he was around…” he scoffed, “nothing was good enough. No one could please him, not my mom or my brother. I never tried. He didn’t like that,” he ran his fingers across his face, flinching as if he can still remember the blows, “It wasn’t long after he gave me a black eye and broke my rib that he had shipped me off to boarding school. And I never looked back.”

Your chest aches,“Aaron—”

“I want a good job, and I want a good life,” his eyes are hard when he looks up, “ I don’t want to be the kind of husband that my wife isn’t happy to see. I don’t want to be the father who isn’t there. I want to give them everything I have, and if this is what it takes…” he shrugs, biting his lip.

“I understand, I get it,” and he nods, taking your hand again to place the bandage over your cut, “But Aaron, one thing?” he smooths over the bandage with his finger, glancing up, “just don’t lose yourself along the way, okay?”

Your fingers entangle with his, he squeezes your hand, “It’s a promise.”

~~~

There’s a knock on the door, but you don’t bother to get up from your bed. Only twisting in the sheets, burying your head in the soft comfort of the pillow. And you hear the faint and familiar call of your name through the plaster thick walls and paper thin doors.

And you knew how this went.

So you rolled out of bed, stalking over to the door, but instead of opening it, you frowned at it, rubbing at your forehead, “What?”

“Some way to greet someone who brought you today’s notes and assignment,” and you sigh, opening the door, plucking the assignment from his hands, tilting your head.

“Thank you. Anything else?”

He frowns, “What’s wrong?” you sigh, shaking your head.

“You sure that you’re here to study criminal justice? Maybe you would be better off as a Psychology major,” you mutter, allowing him in, as you collapse on the couch in a huff. And you see him sit, waiting and watching, and you slump against the cushion, “what?”

“Words are dangerous around you,” he shrugs, “I’m waiting for them not to be.”

“I’m just having a bad day,” you cross your arms, words sharp, “have you ever had one before?” and then you crumple at the hurt that flashes across his face, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry — this is why I wanted to be left alone.”

And he moves, sliding in beside you, grabbing the TV remote from the coffee table, “You up for something light?” and you furrow your brow, “or we could watch what I want to watch?”

“What are you doing?”

“You clearly don’t want to talk about it, but I’m not going to leave you alone,” he shifts next to you, gaze unverring from the now lit TV, casting the contours of his face in a low light, “so what are we watching?”

He clicks on some medical drama, and you snatch the remote from him, hiding your smile from him, as your shoulder brushes his, “Not this.”

~~~

Aaron doesn’t remember when he falls asleep, but he does. When he wakes up, the sun has already peaked over the horizon, the low hum of the TV rousing him from his sleep. And he stirs, before feeling a distinct weight on his shoulder, the mumble of his name near his ear, and fingers brushing his thigh.

His eyes flutter open, and he realizes where he is.

Shit. You both had fallen asleep. His neck aches as he turns to look at you, making him pay for the position the muscles were forced to contort to the night before. He glances at you, biting his lip. You snore softly against his shoulder, lips parted. A few strands of hair fall across your forehead. He brushes them back, tucking them into place. He should move. He should wake you. But he doesn’t. He watches you sleep a moment — you were so peaceful, unlike yesterday.

There was a part of him that wished you would have told him what was wrong. Told him what was bothering you. Told him what was on your mind. Told him everything about you.

But that was normal right? Friends always want to know everything about each other? And he would consider you a close friend, right? A friend, a good friend. Just a friend.

You murmur his name again, under your breath, and he feels a small shiver run down his spine, as he shuts his eyes again, finding your hand and resting his on top.

Just a few more minutes.

~~~

“Hey Hotchner,” you knock at his door, clutching your binder to your chest, hearing only silence in return. “I wanted to give your notes back, and see you were free, open up,” still nothing, you knock harder, “come on. I know you don’t have class today, I really don’t want to go to that movie alone—” Your fist nearly collides with a person’s face as the door whips open, and you rear back, finding not Hotchner, but a very upset girl, “hi, uh—”

“Who are you?” she crossed her arms across her petite frame, her blond hair tied in a loose pony, bangs hanging loose and framing her face.

“Hi,” you say your name, plastering a weak smile on your lips — you weren’t used to this much hostility this quickly (usually at least took five minutes before someone hated you this much), “I’m Hotchner’s neighbor, we’re in the same criminal justice class. I wanted to return his notes and see if he was free—”

“He’s not,” a saccharine smile pulls at the corners of her mouth, “He’s spending the weekend with me. I’m his girlfriend, Haley.”

You nod, “He’s mentioned you before, it’s nice to meet you—”

“And you,” her fake smile informs you that it very much has not been nice to meet you, as her eyes flicker to the bathroom, “Aaron’s busy, but I’ll let him know you dropped by—” and you open your mouth, holding the notes up, “I’ll take those. Thanks again. Bye!”

The door shuts, as you stand mouth open, staring at the door.

And that was Haley.

~~~

You see Aaron the next Monday in class, as he slides in beside you, rubbing his eyes, hair askew, “What happened to you?”

“Didn’t sleep very well last night,” he mumbles, pulling his book from his bag, and you frown, opening your mouth again, only to be interrupted by your professor.

Class passes in a painfully slow haze as always, with one exception — Hotchner wasn’t taking notes. Usually each class he would be thoughtfully taking careful notes, while you scribbled every word the professor said, hoping your notes would be legible when needed later. But today, he wasn’t. Instead, he stared straight forward, his pen unmoving, lying flat against the page between his fingers, but he wasn’t looking at the professor. Not really anyway. His eyes were glazed over, his brow impossibly furrowed, expression twisted under a thick haze of anxiety and worry. Even when the professor adjourned the class for the day, he still sat, staring at the blank notebook page.

“You planning to attend the next class? Heard that Immunology is a hot ticket,” and he jerks from his thoughts, blinking as he glances around the quickly emptying classroom.

“Shit,” the expletive flies from his mouth, as he gathers his things, shoving them unceremoniously into his bag, following you out of the room as students for the next class begin to file into their unassigned assigned seats.

He doesn’t say a word as you both schlep back to the apartment building, the only accompaniment the low buzz of flies, the too warm embrace of the sun, and the silence that hangs between the two of you, much like a funeral march.

“Okay,” you said, standing in front of him, “what is going on?”

“Nothing, I’m fine—”

“So you don’t want the notes from today?” his mouth opens and closes, shaking his head, “Hotchner, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to — but I just want to know you’re okay.”

“I’m having a bad day, you ever had one before?” he echoes your words, before a smile pulls at the corners of his lips, a heavy sigh following it, but your gaze is unwavering, “You really care, don’t you?”

Your cheeks burn, ignoring the way your heart skipped a beat, helplessly exposed, scratching at your skin under his steady gaze. You hide it under rolled eyes and a coy smile, “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

Friends, just friends. Because that was all you were. That was why you cared.

And you don’t notice the corners of his lips falling or the dimmed amusement in his eyes, “Of course,” he sighs, “I’m fine, just long distance with Haley has been hard on both of us.”

You nod, not bothering to bring up your tension injected meeting in the hallway, “I understand, it’s tough doing long distance,”

And you see an unreadable look cross his expression, before it’s gone in a moment, and he just sighs, “Yeah.”

~~~

Things don’t get better.

When Haley isn’t here, Hotchner is constantly on the phone. And when she is, you could hear the faint sound of yelling through your all too thin walls, until you chose to put on headphones to drown out the noise.

You don’t want to hear his heart breaking anymore than he wants it broken.

He’s quiet in class, and snapping when he’s not. He comes out less. He declines your invites. He spends most of his time on the goddamn phone.

And it stings.

You stare at the wall you share, the apartment feeling wholly emptier than it did at the start of summer. You glare at it, a cross between huff and a sigh filling the silence for a moment. How did Hotchner weasel himself into so deeply in his life that you felt his absence?

Three years at this school, and you had barely made a friend. It was hard in large lecture halls and even small classrooms lined with people who were nothing like you. It was harder when you often left class right after. It was difficult to connect to people, it was difficult to get beyond small talk. But it was never difficult with Hotchner.

Not once.

You supposed that’s what made this so difficult. And there was nothing more to it than that — right? The question lingered in the back of your mind, an unspoken thought that did not wish to be punctuated with a question mark, but nevertheless was.

It was stupid. It was so stupid. You lay back on the couch, staring at the ceiling, pulling a cushion over your face — hoping it would be enough to drown out the “evidence” your mind presented as signs of his affection — it wasn’t.

He stayed with you that night. Like a friend would.

He always is looking at you, longer than necessary. You’re imagining it.

He was so gentle when you got cut. You were hurt, he was trying to help.

He told you about his dad and about his dreams. Again, a friend? He trusted you, but it doesn’t mean he has feelings.

He fell asleep with you on the couch. And then went back to sleep. You paused. That was one thing you couldn’t explain.

You were awake when he had woken up, you had felt him rouse because you had already awoken yourself, his name flying from your lips without a thought when you saw him, felt his solid presence, his head resting against yours. You panicked. So you pretended to be asleep, and you felt him awake, heard his pause, felt his touch, and then felt him settle back in beside you.

But you didn’t know why.

It was easy to explain things away, it was simple — but nothing was simple when it was him. Nothing was easy.

~~~

"No I'm sure, I don't want to go to the party tonight." you waved off Alex, who still followed you instead, her arms crossed.

“You shouldn’t be waiting for him to call,” you furrow your brow, as she jerks her head toward the wall you and Hotchner shared, “you need to move on.”

“I’m not waiting, I’m just tired, and unlike you, I haven’t had the entire summer off, and just came back after a fabulous vacation,” you cross your arms, lips pursed, but you know that she sees right through you, “just go, Alex. I’ll come to the next one I promise.”

She sighs dramatically, shaking her head, "I'll see you tomorrow." The door shuts behind you and you groan.

What the fuck were you doing?

Who were you kidding? You collapsed onto your couch, facefirst into the couch cushions. You knew what the fuck you were doing — the exact thing you promised to never do, you sighed loudly into the cushion, pulling a pillow over your head — canceling any plans in hopes a guy would call. A guy — a guy with a girlfriend who he was in love with, one who didn’t give you the time of day anymore, and one who was barely a friend now.

But still, he wasn’t just any guy was he? He was Aaron Hotchner.

And that was the fucking problem.

But right now, you turned your head to glance at the clock, your main problem was that you were still conscious, and that meant it was time to go to sleep. You looked to the wall you and Hotchner shared — you weren’t going anywhere tonight, that was for sure.

~~~

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

You groan, pulling the pillow over your ears, “This is a joke, right?” and again, you are stumbling out of bed, half asleep and half blind, eyes barely open, “who is it?” But a part of you knew the answer before you even asked.

“It’s me,” Hotchner intoned, and you opened the door, frown on your lips dropping when you saw his face — even in the dark, you could see the tell tale sign of tear tracks on his cheeks, barely glistening in the dim light, “can I come in?”

You step aside, shutting the door behind you, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he shakes his head, and he catches a glimpse of your hands crossed across your chest. He scrubs a hand down his face as he slumps down on your couch, “I just...broke up with Haley.”

The words echo in your ears, as you gape at him, blinking, “You...what?” you shake the shock from your mind. He needs you right now. He needs your support.

You slide next to him, “I’m so sorry, Hotchner, I—” the words die on your lips, as you see him stare at the floor, his gaze blank, “hey—” He finds your gaze, his eyes glassy but somehow still so steady, and your heart stutters in your chest, “It isn’t your fault.”

He gives a bitter chuckle, “How do you know that?”

“Because I know you,” you tuck one leg under the other, one hanging off the end of the couch, “and I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone, much less Haley, intentionally.”

His expression is inscrutable as his eyes fall to his lap, his teeth grazing his bottom lip, and he looks back to you, “Are you sure?”

And the question hangs in the air — words wrapped up in meaning, tucked away behind punctuation and subtext. And he’s looking at you — a look that you can’t pin down, but it makes your heart squeeze harder in your chest and your blood turns molten in your veins. Why is he looking at you like that? And why for so long? The way his eyes linger make you want to believe — makes your foolish heart want to believe — maybe, maybe there’s something more to his question, something he’s asking you without asking you. A question within a question, that only makes your head spin and butterflies bloom in your stomach.

“Of course I am,” a statement within a statement, tentative and as unsaid as his, but the words were on your tongue like an ice cube, rapidly melting away like your hope was that maybe — maybe this was something more. But the moment is broken when he looks away, and silence encroaches once again, strangling and consuming — you have to say something, anything to break it. More than that, you needed to do something — so you said the only thing that occurred to you, “Do you want to go to a party?”

~~~

You were surprised.

And you weren’t sure by what more — the fact Hotchner agreed to go to a party on a weekday or the fact he was two shots ahead of you now.

The party was in full swing by the time you arrived. The blaring music shook the fraternity house to the screws and joists holding the building together. The kitchen had been set up as one giant alcohol station — bottles of every kind of cheap alcohol lining the counters and shelves, much of which Hotchner was helping himself to.

He was pouring himself another shot, and another beer into a red cup, as you watched him, eyebrow raised.

“Pace yourself,” you tell him over the music, as he downs another, no chaser, the chaser long forgotten, but Haley seemingly wasn’t by the melancholy scrawled across his face, “have you eaten a single thing tonight?”

“Isn’t the point of college parties to drink?” his words are more than a little slurred, his usual crisp intonation down for the count, and his balance was barely existent at this point, swaying as he spoke.

“To drink, not to leave in a body bag,” you say, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder, and to your surprise he doesn’t brush it off — no, his hand rests over it, holding it there. His eyes flutter shut, as he leans against your hand and his, “You alright there?” your cheeks burn as his eyes open again, his gaze intense and steady, and you see something you hadn’t seen before — a look that you can’t decipher.

“Let’s go,” he says suddenly, his hand around your wrist now, dragging you through the kitchen and the throng of people in the house.

“Where are we going?” you call over the roar of the party, but you don’t know if he even hears you, his head still turned as he weaves through the crowd, and up the stairs, until he pulls you into an empty bedroom, the door shutting behind you. Moonlight streams in from the window beside the bed, what little light illuminating his figure in the inky black between the shutters, “Hotchner, what is—”

“I just wanted to say sorry,” he shakes his head, sitting on the bed, gaze dropped to his feet, “sorry for pushing you away. I didn’t mean to— I didn’t want to— I just—”

“It’s okay,” you find your way to his side, the creak of the bed beside him making him look to you, “It happens. You were going through something. I’m not mad—”

“You’re important to me,” he shakes his head again, insistently, “I shouldn’t have— I was a fucking ass, I just—”

“Hey, I know you’re a fucking ass,” and he scoffs, “who’s the bigger fool? The person who’s an ass or the person that’s friends with him?”

“I always knew you were a nerd, but Star Wars, really?” he grins, elbowing you, “you are full of surprises.”

“Takes a nerd to know a nerd,” and he leans back, palms splayed against the bed, “I am a person of many facets.”

“I know,” he whispers, finding your gaze in the dark, “And that’s what I love about you.”

You blink, your heart stuttering in your chest, “Hotchner—”

He leans forward, his fingers cupping your cheek, his eyes flickering from your lips to your eyes and back again. He’s so close, you can see his eyelashes flutter as he stares at you half-lidded, the heat from his body radiating off of him, as his chest nearly brushes yours now, “I’ve wanted— I want to kiss you,” he murmurs, his words sending warmth blooming across your cheeks — his scent consumes you — pine, musk, and mint, your breath stolen by his words — ferreted away in the night that covers you both.

“Please,” you whisper into the night, and when his lips brush yours, you wonder if it is real. Or a dream of your own design in the dark. But no, it’s real as the forehead that brushes yours after he parts a moment, “Aaron,” you sigh against him.

Your lips find his again, noses brushing, and he lingers this time — more sure, but still hesitant. Just as hesitant as you are. He’s sweet on your lips, sliding against yours softly, his thumb brushing at your cheek, before your fingers knot themselves in his hair, deepening the kiss. You want more, you need more. And you hear him moan against your lips, a deep rumble that sends a shiver up and down your body.

Then his tongue runs across your lips and you taste it — the alcohol on his lips, and you remember — Haley, the drinking, everything — it had been just to get over her.

And your palms press against his chest, stopping him, his quiet pants still warming your lips, “I can’t do this.”

You couldn’t be his rebound. Not after all of this. Not after what you felt for him, what you still felt for him. You didn’t want to be something he’d used to forget, something he’d want to forget. You couldn’t be his second choice. You deserved more. You wanted more.

But you also wanted him.

A moment passes, another, and he pulls back, “I understand,” he nods, “I’m sorry if—”

“Don’t be sorry, you didn’t—” you cut off, “I’m sorry if I—”

“You didn’t,” he rises slowly to his feet, rubbing at his eyes, “let’s go home?”

The walk home was in silence, which was somehow more eruciating than the two hour of constant, deafening music you had just endured. Your head throbbed, and whether it was from the alcohol, the music, or the night — you glanced at Hotchner — that was up for debate. Your nausea burned at your throat in time with your headache hitting a crescendo —- just not at this particular moment.

“Good night,” were the only words he managed when he dropped you at the door, stumbling into his own apartment. And you only realize as you slide into bed that you realize you didn’t explain why you couldn’t — why you couldn’t kiss him. But with your face pressed against the cool pillow, the memory of his lips on yours lingering, and the siren song of sleep, you couldn’t dwell on it.

Your eyes fluttered shut, the sandman’s embrace too tempting. There was always tomorrow.

~~~

Or maybe there wasn’t, you realized as you stepped out of your apartment, at least, not a tomorrow that included him. After pacing for an hour, convincing yourself to talk to him — to say something about last night — after you had re-lived that kiss a dozen times, after you practiced what you were going to say to him, and after you realized he was worth the risk.

But you weren’t to him.

But Haley was.

Her lips pressed against his, right where yours were last night, her bags dropped beside their feet. His arms winded easily around her waist, comfortable and familiar, pulling her somehow impossibly closer than she already was. Her fingers cupped his cheeks, evidence of tears gliding down her cheeks. He inhales her breath, as they part, murmuring things only the other can hear, until your door bangs against its frame, still helplessly open behind you.

Their eyes snap to you, and you have to tuck away the hurt and pain quickly — quickly, your lips somehow finding itself in a small smile, even as your heart splintered to pieces in your chest.

His mouth opens silently, eyes painfully wide a moment, while Haley greets you with a smile, your name from her mouth painful to your ears, “It’s so nice to see you again. Aaron told me he wouldn’t have been surviving class without you.”

Painful because you can’t hate her, painful because it isn’t her fault, painful because maybe in another life you could have been friends, painful because you had to fall for her boyfriend — “Of course,” you manage to find your voice, “someone has to keep their head on straight.”

And you had to.

“I keep mine on,” he withers under both of your gazes, “sometimes.” His eyes linger on you a moment too long, but Haley doesn’t seem to notice, instead, stepping over her bags, and pulling you aside a moment.

“I just wanted to apologize for how I acted before,” she shakes her head, “me and Aaron have been having a hard time lately, and I think I took it out on you — but we’re okay now. I just don’t want any bad feelings between each other because I know you’re a good friend to him.”

Friend, the word rings in your ears, “Of course,” friend, and you wonder if your ears are bleeding by now, “we’re good. Don’t worry about it.”

You find him unable to meet your eyes, his stare fixed on Haley instead.

Of course.

You were just friends after all.

~~~

You don’t see him much after that.

And you prefer it that way.

There was only one more class before the final, and you arrived late, slipping into the back of the lecture hall, tucked away — out of sight.

You left before it ended, sparing one last glance at Hotchner.

Out of mind.

The exam rolls around soon enough, the study period relatively short for summer courses, and you find yourself packing as you finish studying. But still, your mind drifts to him in between moments of taping up boxes and trying to remember the answers you scribbled on the back of flashcards. You would have been studying with him — he would have quizzed you while you boxed up your kitchen, he would have teased you for your barely legible chicken scratch, and he would have been here.

But he wasn’t. You folded the flaps of yet another box down, tape gun in hand, pressing it to the lip of the box.

Out of sight, the rip of tape across cardboard, But was he out of mind?

~~~

“You’re moving?” he catches you moving boxes out of your place, the van you rented outside, sticking his head out of his apartment, his brow furrowed.

“I am,” you continue down with your boxes, and he moves forward to help you, but you brush by him, heading down the stairs, “I got it, thanks.”

But he doesn’t let you go, “I thought you still had another year left—”

“I’m finishing a semester early,” you reply, opening up the trunk again to place the two boxes in the back, “and next semester I’m studying abroad. That’s why I did summer classes.”

“Studying abroad?” he blinks, “when—”

“I’m going home for two weeks, and then I’m flying to Switzerland,” the thump of the boxes is loud in his silence, as you slide them into place, “that day I wasn’t doing well— It was because I had gotten rejected from the program. My financial aid hadn’t pulled through,” you pull the trunk closed again, locking it, before brushing past him and trudging up the stairs again, “But last week, my financial aid office helped me to find a private lender. So I’m going.”

You hear the slow clunk of his shoes following you up, as you grab another two boxes, and you finally glance at him, finding his lips in a thin line twisted in something resembling a smile, “Congratulations, I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” you nod, bite your lip — biting back the words burning on your tongue — hauling the last two boxes into your arms. You try to slip past him again, but he grabs a box from your hands.

“At least let me help you with this,” at least let me do this if not anything else — unspoken words lingered in the air, his fingers grazing yours as he took it, hefting it with relative ease.

“You know, I’m happy for you too,” you say when you slide the box into place, after unlocking the trunk again. His brows knit together, and it’s not from the strain of carrying your things down the stairs, “I mean it,” and his eyes meet your gaze — you see too many emotions to pull them apart — sadness, regret, worry — and a few you don’t care to pick apart. It doesn’t matter now, “for you and Haley, it’s great you worked it out. You’re good together.”

And you know it’s true. He’s happy, lighter than he had been for weeks, but now, his shoulders seem so heavy, weights pressed upon the corners of his lips and against his brow.

“We are,” he shakes his head, sighing, “I just wanted to say s—”

“We’re good,” you cut him off with a small smile, and you shut the van up, locking it. You turn back to him, only to find his lips pursed, glancing between you and the van, “I’m not leaving until tomorrow morning, so this isn’t goodbye. Can’t get rid of me that easily.”

He chuckles, “Intent on dragging this out?”

“I’ll never make it easy for you, Hotchner,” your hands slip into your pockets, walking back up to your apartment, adding, “but you’ll always have my respect and my friendship.”

“I know,” he says softly, over the low buzz of the hallway fluorescents, “you’ll always have mine too,” he frowns, looking at your door and his, a question on his lips.

“I should get to bed early,” you turn to unlock your door, “I’m leaving at 7 tomorrow.”

“Right,” he shakes his head, stepping back, before sparing one more smile, “I’ll let you get some sleep. I should too — you don’t mind if I say goodbye tomorrow right?”

You shake your head, “I expect it, bright and early,” and he rolls his eyes, “Good night Hotchner.”

“Good night,” he says your name, and even as you shut the door behind you, you love the way his mouth curls around your name — achingly and annoyingly perfect. And you remember what else he could do with those lips, how your name felt whispered against your own lips —

And you remember who those lips would be kissing for the foreseeable future — at home, at their engagement, at their wedding. You catch yourself, heart twisting unto itself, and you had almost forgotten that it was broken — for a moment.

And you know — you know then that you can’t say goodbye to him.

Not in person.

Because you wanted him still, despite it all. And wanting was enough — for a time. But now wanting only hurt because you were wanting what you would never get. You wanted him — but he was never yours to begin with, was he?

He wasn’t yours to lose — but you did.

And he would lose you too.

~~~

Aaron had woken up on time.

He woke up before his alarm went off, eyes fluttering open to sunlight streaming in his bedroom window. And he tossed off his sheets, rubbing at his eyes.

He couldn’t be sad — he was happy for you.

You were graduating, you were moving on, you were doing something you always wanted to do. He sat up, throwing his legs over the bed, pressing his fist to his lips, elbow digging into his thigh. He only wished he was brave enough to go after what he wanted.

What he wanted, his eyes drifted to the picture of Haley on his bedside table, did he even know what he wanted?

He slips out of bed, brewing two cups of coffee — knowing you would be on the road for quite a while. He still had some time before you were leaving.

He opens his apartment door, finding your apartment door open. The landlord pokes his head out, “Hey Hotchner, that doorknob treating you well?”

Aaron raises an eyebrow, “It’s fine, what are you doing?”

“Just going over to see what the damage is and if I’m going to be returning that security deposit or not,” he fussed over the clipboard in his hand, pulling the pencil from behind his ear, “looks like the apartment was in relatively good shape so guess I’ll be mailing a check.”

“Mailing?” Aaron blinks, and the landlord tilts his head.

“How else do you suppose I give something to a tenant who has already moved out and split?” In that moment, he brushes past him, peering into your empty apartment — the only things left were those of your roommate’s, “Left about an hour ago in a rush, couldn’t even wait for me to do my walkthrough.”

He was on time, he was early even, he stepped downstairs to only find the truck long gone.

But he was still too late.

Always too late.

~~~

But always wasn’t always forever.

“Hey, stranger,” you nestled the phone between your cheek and your shoulder, hands full with a bread dough you were currently trying to knead for its next proof, “it’s been a long time—”

“Did you hear?”

“Hear what, Alex?” her voice grows quiet on the phone, “what’s wrong?”

“You know how I’ve been organizing in preparation for the reunion in a few months?” and you lick your lips, moving to wash your hands.

“Yeah, you told me about that and said on uncertain terms could I refuse to attend, unless I’d like to risk certain bodily harm,” you shook your head, “I didn’t forget, so is that what—”

“It’s Haley, Haley Hotchner?”

You pause, “Yeah Hotchner’s gi— wife?”

“She died, just a week or two ago,” her voice falters, “I just heard about it from Paul, do you remember him? He was in your poli-sci class. He’s in the FBI too. I wanted to get Aaron’s information, and he told me it probably wasn’t a good time. And I pressed him and then….”

“Oh my god,” you rested your back to the counter, “How did she—”

“He didn’t get into details, but it was pretty fresh it seemed like. He’s still on leave, and the funeral is soon.”

Your hands shook, squeezing your eyes shut as your mind returned to that summer — his smile, his laugh, his touch, his care — “When is it?”

She says your name slowly, “Why?”

“I have to go,” you swallow the lump in your throat, “I have to go see him.”

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