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possumteeths · 10 months ago

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Like a Rotten Dog

Baldurs Gate 3, Rolan x Reader, Rolan x Human!Tav (Second person nondescript femme insert) 5,800 words, Porn with feelings, Rated E. Rolan POV. My works will never use the Y/N device.

Summary:

Rolan miserably fucks a pillow while thinking big thoughts. He thinks about how obnoxious you are and how it's completely unfair that you've forced him into such a state. Unfortunately for him, his train of thought betrays his determination to hate you. "What are you to do now? Storm Ramazith’s tower atop a glittering pegasus? Perhaps you’ll declare him a poor maiden in need of a hero and expect him to swoon and fall at your feet? Should he kiss you for luck as well? Give you a handkerchief? For all the painful obedience he’s given to Lorroakan, it would be a simple thing to give it to you instead, wouldn’t it? So far you’ve asked for nothing, (not that he would’ve given you anything besides a pinched declaration of thanks) but surely his bill is due soon." "Surely you’ll come to collect since you’re so adept at finding him no matter his location."

Fic & tags under the cut or on ao3!

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He should’ve known that you would arrive at Sorcerous Sundries sooner rather than later.

Regarding Rolan’s well-being, you were like a bloodhound to his discomfort. You were always exactly where you needed to be, which was often exactly where he wished you’d keep far, far away from. With the sense of incoming doom in Baldur's Gate, he should’ve assumed you’d be hot on its trail and he was soon to run into you eventually.

Still, he wished you could’ve reunited under more pleasant circumstances. Your face lit up in recognition once you saw him behind the counter, only for your expression to morph through the motions of shock and anger before settling on disgusting concern. It was the concern that burned him, the bruise under his eye flared up like a fleshly bleeding wound and Rolan did everything in his power to keep his head held high. He didn’t need your help and he certainly did not need your pity. The very concept of pity coated his throat with the acidic taste of bile.

You had no right to swoop into his life and save him from his failures time and time again. For once, he wanted to fix his own problems. Lorroakan was a… difficult man, but a learned one. Rolan thought that if he could just toughen up and learn all that he could, perhaps he’d finally be free of your meddling. Perhaps he’d finally be able to sleep at night, unafraid of being an utter failure. Didn’t he owe that to his family? To himself? If he could just be better— a better man, a better wizard, then he could defend himself for once. He wouldn’t need you and your concern. He wouldn’t feel inadequate or unsure of himself ever again. If he could be a better version of himself, then he would be able to look you in the eye without all the shame that came with it.

How was it possible that you managed to look so good while he knew that you spent your days out there fighting and surviving by the skin of your teeth? All he’d done since reaching the city was bow his head and allow his master to use him as an outlet for his temper. He felt like a whipped dog who’d done nothing wrong besides give his utmost obedience and you looked like hope incarnate. Your pity felt like freedom although it burned like shame. By the time you left the shop, Rolan firsthand witnessed the steady growth of determination swell beneath your skin and he knew that you were soon to do something that left him no choice but to thank you for his life again.

At this point, there weren’t enough words in any language to voice the gratitude you were owed. The crumbs of respect that Rolan begrudgingly handed to you were too much and not enough. So far, the only recent decision he’d made for himself left his ego and body badly bruised. Sure, he’d taken charge of Zevlor’s incompetence and got as many people as he could to safety— but if saving the refugees were up to you, no one would’ve been left behind. Perhaps his siblings might not have been taken in the first place.

The creaky door to Rolan’s meager living quarters feels heavier than normal as he defeatedly pushes it open. All his confidence and what he used to think was talent awarded him the finery of a single room and splintery floorboards. He heads for a mostly empty red bottle atop a shelf and downs the last few dregs of it, hoping the potion might soothe some general aches and pains if it wasn’t enough to heal any of them. Earlier, you’d purchased as many health potions as the shop had in store, traded three magical amulets for an extremely powerful scroll, and tipped him for the trouble of bringing you everything you purchased. Throwing gold at him, you had the audacity to ask if he was alright with a tinge of fury in your tone. Gods he hated you at that moment. He was doing what he had to for survival. Because of him, his family had a roof over their heads. What was the cost of a few arbitrary wounds for the price of safety? What would you know about something like that?

Immediately, the thought is shut down by guilt and fresh anger has him slamming the empty potion bottle down. The rickety shelf rattles, but there’s no one around to witness his frustration. Right now, he can’t bear the idea of his siblings seeing the state of himself. Heavy feet drag him to a mirror and Rolan concludes that he doesn’t look awful, the wounds he wore were trophies that displayed his dedication to magic. Ugly to only the ignorant. No one but him could understand that. His siblings didn’t care to listen to reason, and Rolan didn’t need to ask his sister to know she was conspiring to do something about his problem— only she didn’t hold a candle to your ridiculous tenacity.

What are you to do now? Storm Ramazith’s tower atop a glittering pegasus? Perhaps you’ll declare him a poor maiden in need of a hero and expect him to swoon and fall at your feet? Should he kiss you for luck as well? Give you a handkerchief? For all the painful obedience he’s given to Lorroakan, it would be a simple thing to give it to you instead, wouldn’t it? What would you ask of him in exchange for your help? So far you’ve asked for nothing, (not that he would’ve given you anything besides a pinched declaration of thanks) but surely his bill is due soon. Surely you’ll come to collect since you’re so adept at finding him no matter his location.

A fresh wave of outrage guides him away from self-depreciation, but it comes with a delicate aftertaste of something new. You asked him why he was so rude to you back in the grove, —the conversation feels as if it happened a lifetime ago— and Rolan haughtily remembers your displeasure in his lack of reverence. At least that’s how he chose to interpret your question. Unbeknownst to you, he had the makings of greatness in him too. You were just a stranger to him, a mere moment in his soon-to-be great story. One day he’d be a powerful and renowned spellcaster and you’d likely be a statue or a painting, felled in battle and remembered by few. Your meddling was only delaying the inevitable. You were keeping him from his destiny and you were upset with him for refusing to inflate your ego? Did you expect him to look at you like a wide-eyed pup, stars in his eyes in the shadow of your glory?

If he was less of a man, Rolan would’ve picked up a pillow and screamed into it. You’ve tainted the distaste he has for you and because of this, guilt-laced shame makes his stomach twist. A healing blister on his side reminds him that he’s a coward, he’s too stubborn for his own good and a tiny part of his pride rolled over on its back, belly up, tail wagging when he set eyes on you this morning. Even now, his tail flicks behind him in the way it does when he thinks of you. Rolan couldn’t find it in him to ask how you were faring, but now he regrets his clipped words and the demand for you to leave him and his problems alone. You weren’t going to listen to his plea anyhow, so why waste the words? He should’ve swallowed his attitude and spoken to you as a friend.

But— there lies the problem.

Rolan doesn’t have friends. He never felt the need for anyone's company besides his siblings. He’s bookish, too busy with his studies and his magic to go out of his way to socialize with anyone. Why would he? No one ever wants to talk with him, and when he finds himself forced into a conversation he’s overly aware of the humor that people find in him. No one respects him. Cal and Lia keep him company because they have to, and they’re all the support he needs. He doesn’t know the first thing about friendliness or pleasantry and he doesn’t care to learn.

After you wiped out the goblin camp and set his people toward hopeful safety, his sister told him to seek you out at your party— but you ended up coming to him instead. Caught off guard, all he could do was lamely conjure a few dancing lights for your entertainment and he wasn’t able to hold the spell for very long. His tongue felt as if it had become furred, he couldn’t remember what exactly he’d said to you but he did remember his sister’s horrified expression in response. She thinks he’s harboring feelings toward you, and he supposes her assumption is half correct. He has a lot of feelings pertaining to you but none of them were sweet and soft.

It didn’t matter anyhow. By all accounts, he should despise you (and perhaps he does), but the way he feels is overly complicated and tightly wound. Why do you dress the way you do? Why do you smell so pleasant? Caked in mud and splattered with gore, you manage to wear it all stylishly. Why do you care about everything as much as you do? Where do you find the motivation to put one foot in front of the other and carry on? Aren’t you tired? Every time you’ve sought him out, you ask if he’s alright before immediately offering your aid. You try to speak with him, you’ll ask him about his siblings out of politeness, but he always shuts you down like an idiot addicted to the taste of his boot wedged between his teeth. Everything you are rubs abrasively against everything he tries to be. His confidence is always received poorly while yours shines obtrusively enough that people are forced to love the way it blinds them.

You’ve done your best to put Rolan into a daze as well, but his determination to dislike you has become a core tenant of his personality. You deserve his thanks, you deserve his respect. You have every right to force him to kneel and then command for him to kiss your boots. The only thing you’d have to do for such worship would be to demand it. You could take it from him just as Master Lorroakan does. But you won't. The confusing, awful way he feels toward you would be so much easier to compartmentalize if you were cruel. He wishes disgust would replace your pity, that way it would be easier to justifiably hate you. If he could imagine you laughing at him, calling him pathetic, and exposing him for the coward he is, then he wouldn’t be rushing for his bed, hands already working at his robes to find the ties that hold his breeches at his hips.

This world is cruel and the animal law of predator against prey is just as prominent as it is amongst beasts. He’s survived thus far because of you and now he bows for false promises, willfully misleading himself into thinking that he’s anything besides a whipping boy. The punishment bruised and burned into him is deserved. For all that he’s given in exchange, he thinks that he’s gotten off easily if anything. Certain laws of nature shouldn’t be broken and he should not have gotten to this point by cheating his way along instead of taking the hits that came with his repeated failures. What pact has he declared in exchange for your patronage? What are the stipulations he’s agreed to? You’re not winged but you’re radiant just the same. Perhaps the obnoxiously attractive body you wear is an illusion, perhaps you’re a devil who followed him from Elturel with the sheer intent of ruining his life.

Caged and afraid, desperate to be anything besides what he is, you’ve rendered him into a broken thing. A broken thing whose throat is dry, whose hand shakes as he miserably gropes the swollen length of his cock. A stubborn part of his psyche still thinks he’s a man, you’re a pretty face and the closest thing to a friend that he’s aware of. Of course, you make him hard. There’s no shame to be found in a natural reaction to someone whose attention wanders back to him like a pet with a penchant for running away. In the quiet moments of whatever respite he’s able to steal for himself, Rolan’s wandering mind often breaches a handful of thoughts that he’s determined to keep under lock and key. If he lets his mind dash away from reason, sometimes he thinks about touching you, he wonders what you’d feel like if you were wet and wanting.

Weeks ago, while flipping through a book on anatomy from the tower’s library, he paused on a few figure drawings of a naked human woman. He dared to look at her breasts and the shape of her hips in a rather unstudious manner and his composure unraveled from there. He’s never wanted to dwell on things he finds unnecessary; women and all the struggle that came before sex felt like too much of a headache to pursue. Rolan’s seen what fools it makes of people, he’s seen more people than he cares to think about who are horns deep in grief after losing someone they loved. Keeping himself safe from such matters felt like the smartest thing he could do, he didn’t wish to expend time or effort to pursue anything with anyone. So… he didn’t feel like a pervert for utilizing the anatomical drawing of a woman’s body for masturbatory purposes. If he wouldn’t pursue anything real, this seemed more efficient than wasting his time daydreaming about physical touch and a certain someone’s attention. With one hand on the book and the other wrapped around his cock, he quickly worked himself to completion and that was that.

Unfortunately, the release didn’t bring him any pleasure. His orgasm only felt like a momentary distraction from the angry thing he’d awoken. Now he blindly seeks a sense of relief that he can’t seem to get his hands on because he doesn’t know what he’s searching for. For days, he thought about the damned book and the terms for various parts of a woman’s anatomy. He thought about their function and how it was more than likely that a woman could find herself in the exact predicament he was trapped in. Task after nonsensical task was performed for Lorroakan and all he could think about was the book hidden beneath its proper shelf and the way he wished he could somehow enchant it so the diagrams would be in color.

After a particularly brutal “lesson” that involved his naked back and a shock of lightning, he stole away to find his recent obsession. While lost in his thoughts, eyes tightly shut and a desperate fist working himself over, he proceeded to ruin the book with an errant splatter of his release. Once the first rope stained the pages, he didn’t care to lessen the blow. He was bitter with his master, bitter with his newfound curiosity that only grew in size. The hunger crept into him only because of weakness— He was a failure in too many ways and so Rolan felt justified in coating the diagrams with everything he had. Shame was far from him when he closed the soaked book to shelve it back into place.

That should’ve been the end of things, he wished more than anything to smother the awful birth of late blooming desire but the damned thing refused to simmer down and die. You kept that from happening. You left him with no choice but to use the promise of self-release as a coping mechanism. He’s always been an impetuous ass and he’s never felt the need to find any distaste in accepting the fact. He’s impulsive but Rolan felt he was too smart to asphyxiate on any lasting consequences. Rubbing himself raw was a byproduct of everything else wrong in his life. Why should he worry about consequences when you’ll be there to save him from whatever circumstance? He wanted to drink himself to death in Last Light Inn, but you wouldn’t let him. So he ran headfirst into the shadows, figuring that he’d either save his siblings or die trying and you apparated from the darkness to rob him of the martyrdom he aimed for. You took everything from him, smothered his pride, and strangled his ego as if his wants and needs meant nothing to you. You’re in his head, you’ve stolen all of his impulsivity and alchemically perverted it so that it all revolves around you.

And he can't hate you for it because you’ve destroyed his previous definition of hate.

He can’t drink in self-pity because he thinks of you and the disappointment on your features when you found him completely pissed and slurring his words. You told those little devils to stop serving him and shooed them away as if you were his mother. If he goes past his limits, all he can think of is your annoying face all screwed up in pity. Eyes soft, voice gentle. You’d probably let him rest his head on your lap only for him to vomit on your thighs. He can’t imagine you shouting at him even if he was to soak your clothes in wine and stomach acid and he hates you for it. You’d pet him with the gentleness you might administer to someone on their deathbed and ask in that awful pitying tone of yours if he felt any better.

He can't drink without thinking of you. He can't touch himself without obsessing over you. You’re the horrible reason he started this habit in the first place. He can’t even bare his flesh for his master to abuse without thinking of your gods' awful pity either.

“Are you alright?” Must be the majority of all the words you’ve ever said to him and he imagines you finding him like this, shoulders sagging as if too heavy for his spine with his hand shoved into his breeches. Sharp teeth sink into his lip and he tries to envision himself through your perspective. To you, he must look like a miserable excuse for a tiefling, and an even worse example of a man. He feels soggy, bogged down by the weight of his failures. The only aspect of his species that he displays is his pride and right now, such a concept is far away from where he usually keeps it. The mask of confidence is replaced with a whimpery fat-lipped need to feel anything besides the desire for self-flagellation, and he shudders in disgust while imagining you looking at him, pretty mouth held open for a moment while searching for the words to say.

“Does it hurt?” You’d ask carefully because you’re aware of how easily he finds the audacity to snip at you.

He doesn’t know if you’re asking about the bruises or the awkward way he strokes his cock. You wouldn’t ask him if he needed help, nor would you be shy about closing the distance between your body and his to take charge of the situation. You’d use your thumb and forefinger to pick up his chin and he’d look up at you, unburdened by the undead desperation that plagues his body. In his fantasy, he doesn't think about the complicated feelings he harbors for you, instead, he submits to the determination in your gaze.

In real life, he’d fumble his way through such an occurrence and ultimately be left racking his brain for an apology which he doesn’t know how to say. He doesn’t know how or when to shut up, he’d never let you take charge of him even while painfully aware that you’d figure out a miraculous way to make him feel better. He’d disappoint you and embarrass himself into the binds of a torture chamber of his own design. Even now, just squeezing himself over his clothes, he struggles to quell the gut punch of an orgasm that wants to swallow him whole. He wouldn’t last through your touch, he can’t imagine kissing you because on principle, he can’t entertain such a ridiculous thought. Not only is the concept too embarrassing to hope for, but he wouldn’t know what to do. He’d accidentally cut your soft human lips with his teeth. He’d say something idiotic and you’d slap him right in the face. Perhaps you’d find his body heat too estranged from yours, maybe you’d find his features too odd. Perhaps his shaking breath would betray the way he wants you to see him. Perhaps he’d pass out from all the blood rushing to engorge his cock and then he’d crack his head open on the ground.

Too aware of himself, he thinks that he’d try to kiss you like the muscled heroes in trashy books and he’d somehow manage to poke your eye out with a horn. Analyzing every possible outcome has led Rolan to believe that anything he could try would end up in complete failure. He’s… resilient, but his recent track record displays failure after hard-headed failure. To allow himself a proper delusion where he's able to touch and fuck you without envisioning tail curling embarrassment, he feels as if he needs to give you a reason to see him as anything other than a pathetic dog. He limps as he walks, his tail’s tucked between his legs and he’d bite you if your hand got too close. Why would you ever look down at that with anything besides disgust or pity? If you were to force his door open right now, he’d drench the inside of his pants with cum and before he was able to catch his breath, he’d find a way to make an ass of himself because when it comes to you, he’s mastered the art of behaving like a pompous prick.

You’d never want this… and he’d never be able to charm his way into being passably desirable. It would only add another foot of dirt atop his grave if he finally found the nerve to do something about the complicated basket of feelings he keeps on hand, only for you to reject him outright. He’d never find the right things to say so that this could have a squalid chance of poking its head into reality.

Still, he thinks about your hands sliding down his chest, slowly mapping out the shape of his body as if you intended to remember it. Humans are so soft, his skin is thicker than yours, his chest is ridged and he wonders if such a difference would be pleasurable or painful. Imagining your naked breasts, nipples pressed against his textured skin as he explores your soft curves with his hands makes a gritty moan fall from his lips. He would never be yours, nor would he ever know the pleasure of knowing your body— but he could pretend. He could convince himself that if the stars aligned once he sacrificed his soul, maybe he could have one night with you. A few hours would be sufficient enough for a lifetime of longing. A single kiss, a moment of your time would be enough fuel to help him mentally leap over everything that kept him up at night.

He wishes you really were a devil. The temptation, the need for you would finally respect the concept of reason. If he were to give you his soul, then at least you’d be bound contractually to give him anything he asked for. In all the stories, the seduction of such a being is inevitable. Even the strongest people succumb eventually. The prelude to his demise would drain his soul out of his balls and he’d finish without the disgust that usually rose after he figured out how to think again. In the sticky aftermath, he could say whatever drivel that would fall out of his mouth and you’d take it with an entertained eye-roll. Nothing he could do or say would matter if you had his name neatly signed at the bottom of a horrendously unfair contract. It would be a good deal on your end, you already have him weak and dependent on you so you could do wonders with the usage of his soul. Wanting you would be so much easier if you owned him. He couldn’t hate you or himself if he had no choice but to obsess over you. He wouldn’t chase away your constant presence in his thoughts if he’d given his mind away, completely at peace to let it rot in your greedy hands.

The bed creaks under Rolan’s weight as he finally lays down with a bratty huff. He buries his face into the mattress with his eyes tightly shut as if that would keep him from hating the desperate way he claws for his pillow. He already knows that his hand won’t suffice, he’s already bunny fucking the mattress, hopelessly grinding himself against the solid mass, wishing he could bore a hole into it without anyone discovering his shame. His breeches barely escape his ire when struggling with the ties takes a moment too long. They’re shoved down with a growl and his pillow is folded in half to then be shoved beneath his hips. With his thoughts soaked self-admonition, he finds enough of an in to slot his cock into the plush crease of his folded pillow. Nothing about it feels right, it’s loose and dry but he whimpers with the idea of what it represents.

Thankfully his rushing thoughts are a potent enough concoction to mask the way his mind struggles to imagine thrusting into you. He can’t think anymore, he’s so hard that it hurts and all he wants to do is thrust into the cushy relief of his pillow, panting into his mattress while obsessing over vague ideas of what your body would feel like.

You’re always so attuned to his well-being. Always so eager to offer your help. If he told you that the only thing he wants from you is to fuck you until he can’t think anymore, would you graciously bend over the nearest surface and offer your pretty cunt? The diagram painted such a vivid idea of what you’d look like. Apparently, your cunt swells similarly to his cock when aroused and he imagines the offering of a swollen flower, petals engorged with need and the dripping center of it drooling steadily in anticipation. You’d be so inexplicably soft. Humans are a ridiculous species, and he wasn’t immune to the inherent curiosity he holds for your kind. With zero real-life experience to go on, he believes that humans have heavier breasts. He thinks that fat settles differently on your species’ bodies and there just seems to be more to grab and hold onto. You’re tailless and he wonders if that might make it easier to drive deeper into your body if you were positioned on all fours. Lust soaked daydreams of hips and thighs torment him daily. He’s much larger than the four inches of your body’s comfortable limits (a fact provided to him by the anatomy book), and Rolan wonders if you’d be able to handle the intrusion of his cock.

According to the tiny font of raunchy, cheaply printed novelettes, it would be a tight fit but you’d eventually be shouting his name in place of any god you pray to. He imagines you reaching for his ass, your legs locked around his hips and you do your best to hold him deeply inside of you, wet heat begging him to remain buried in your depths. Women can orgasm contrary to popular belief, and aided by the combination of educational journals, books on body function, and a few trashy epics, he’s decided that at least once in his life, he’ll make a woman come for the sheer sake of curiosity. With you, he’d make you come as often as physically possible, but if he can’t have you he thinks that just once with someone else will be enough to quench the intrigue.

Gritting his teeth, he jerkily thrusts and grinds into his pillow. The bulbous base of his cock is painfully swollen and he closes his fist tightly around it, squeezing hard and wishing for the tight clasp of your body. He’d seal you up and pump you so full of come that you’d forget every sorry state you’ve ever found him in. The looming understanding that satisfaction will remain at an atrocious distance forces his hips into a frenzy, too stubborn to admit defeat. Rolan hisses in frustration due to the sorry pillow that doesn’t offer nearly as much friction as he needs. The needy mouth of your cunt would be so much tighter, so much wetter than this awful thing. You’d take him with a gasp of shock, surprised by the heat of his turgid cock as he encases himself inch by inch into all of that softness he imagines. The underside of his cock is ridged similarly to the rest of him, and according to the anatomy book, he differs in other ways as well. Would the shape of him shock you? Would your tight little cunt spasm around him as if in awe of the pleasure he brings? In the few dirty stories he’s discovered over the years, human women adore his kind. Blunt-headed human cocks pale in comparison to a tiefling’s. Filled to the brim, your eyes would roll back and you’d ask him to please fuck you. Would you tell him that he’s ruined you for all other men and you’ll need him from now on to satiate yourself? Rolan's delirious thoughts decide yes, those are definitely things you’d say.

More likely, you’d give yourself over with that teasing, snooty look of yours, all too aware that he needs you because you’ve learned how to read him like a book. He’d take you although the acquisition would feel more like blind surrender. You once asked if he intended to thank you for your efforts and he imagines you asking him to thank you for the privilege of just the sight of you. You’d spread your cheeks, exposing the vexing pink blush of your folds and he’d have no choice but to fall to his knees before you. He’d fucking crawl if you’d let him just breathe in the scent of your cunt. Even now, he feels light-headed and caught between too many contradictory points. His heart is wedged in his throat, his lungs feel strained and he swallows dryly while imagining what it would be like to drag his tongue between your folds.

Rolan curls in on himself and uses the heel of his palm to press against the pillow, desperate for more friction. Caught on a new train of thought, he pants open-mouthed, tongue painfully dry while imagining your legs spread over his face. He’s thirsty, he’s half alive and the short distance between your body and his mouth feels like torture. You bossily direct him to speak his adoration into your cunt and before he can promise that he will, you proceed to cover his ears with your soft thighs. You’ll call him a golden boy like you did when telling him that he shouldn’t leave the grove alone. Instead of telling him that his apprenticeship doesn’t make him some sort of golden boy, the term is given to him as a pet name. You like his eyes, you like his tongue and the way he’ll die before disappointing you again. You’ll reach for his horns, forcing his head up so you can grind against his mouth, and his tongue moves in untrained flat strokes because he doesn’t know what you like. He envisions fucking you on his tongue, thrusting it into your heat with the intent of worshipping the hidden sanctuary of your cunt. Your reward for his resignation, for finally giving you the thanks you deserve tastes like the safety he longs for and he feels at home with you above him.

In the present, his tail thumps against the mattress, and the pointed tip flicks in agitation as something final settles in his bones. This realization has been building in ferocity long before he began violating his pillow and he rubs his cheek against the mattress, breathing hard with the back of his throat feeling inflamed. The moan forced out of him crackles, his ragged breath sets it alight and the fiery resignation is executed through a blubbering whimper. Rolan’s hips punch forward as if trying to punish the pillow for its current form, he thinks that it should be you. He should be in your arms, he should be driving his pitifully sensitive cock against your skin, and he’d beg for the privilege of fucking your thighs because he can't bear the idea of disappointing your cunt with his ultimately early release. This should be an act of supplication. You’ve won. He’s at your mercy. He needs you, he needs you. You’ll save him from his pride once again and he’ll finally find the words necessary to declare to you what an ass he’s been.

As if his body was politely waiting for the mental submission, his spine straightens, and cum shoots from the head of his prick before he’s fully realized the impending threat of his orgasm. Reduced to sensation alone, Rolan rumbles out a long groan as he fucks a deluge of cum into his pillow. All he can do is thrash against the violence of his every sense expelling from his body in the form of viscous white sludge. His mouth hangs open stupidly as his frenzied thrusts soon dispel into non-movement. When it’s all over, he takes a long, slow breath and he’s surprised to discover that doesn't feel the pressing need to clean up his shame before hatred can find its way back into place. Right now, his wounds don’t exist, neither does his anxiety. His pride’s already fucked off to another plane and Rolan hopes it’ll take an extended holiday. He wants to confront you without it for the first time since you forced your way into his life.

Determined, his ego picks the pieces of itself from the ground as Rolan grinds his softening cock into the now cool mess of his release. He thinks that such a tribute has to be well received. With no experience with women, people, or conversations and social normality— Rolan has high hopes that the next inevitable run-in with you will end on a pleasant note. Of course, nothing of his fantasies will be realized, —he’ll hold those thoughts in the dreary prison he keeps them in—, but he’s resolute to to let you in on the secret respect he’s reserved for you.

You mean a great deal to him, and he hopes to let you know as such.

Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! I'm sorry I made you read the word turgid, I thought it was funny and refused to edit it out lol.

#baldurs gate fanfic #Bg3 fanfic #bg3 fanfiction #rolan x tav #rolan x reader #rolan x you #poki writing #Poki fics #bg3 rolan

357 notes · View notes

danikamariewrites · 3 months ago

Note

modern lucien? <3 <3

more rockstar!Lucien headcanons bc I said so

Notes: I will never be over rockstar!lucien

Warnings: none

He’s very chill and go with the flow, you’re the one with the schedule

And Lucien will gladly follow you and the schedule anywhere

Lucien so badly wants you to quit your job so you can be the bands manager (also so he can just take care of you)

He’ll talk you into quitting one day, he knows it

Lucien loves having you all to himself and loves your undivided attention

When you guys are home and just chilling on your phone or reading Lucien starts to poke you and whine for attention

“I just got to a good part, babe. Give me 5 minutes.” “But you’ve been reading for hours,” Lucien groans and flops on the couch. You giggle at his antics. You lift your arms and smirk at him. “Come here,” you say, faking an annoyed tone. Lucien lays on your chest, wrapping his arms around your middle. You play with his hair as you keep reading until Lucien falls asleep

When you moved into his LA house he was so happy bc he finally had someone to share his space with

The house is so big and he always questioned why he got a house when it was just him

Saying goodbye when he leaves for tour always makes you cry

You hate when Lucien leaves and you can’t go with him, it breaks your heart

Lucien hates being away from you as well. When he goes on tour and you can’t come he feels like a piece of him is missing

But the two of you text and call every day when you can

You do surprise him on his last show abroad and the smile on Lucien’s face when he spots you in the crowd is priceless! This man is smiling for the rest of the night

You join the band for an after party at a club in the city and Lucien keeps his arm around you all night, constantly kissing you any chance he gets

When he comes home from tour you’re always anxious for him to get there

You have his favorite snacks and drinks stocked up, his fav tv show ready to play in the bedroom, and a warm towel for when he showers al the airport germs off of him (there’s no way Lucien is getting in bed until he showers and changes bc eww)

Lucien gives you the biggest, longest hug when he comes home. He tells you how much he missed you and kisses you like its the last time

That never gets old and makes you very, very flustered

His love language is gift giving and quality time

Sends you flowers when he’s away with cute notes

Brings you home gifts from different states/countries. You have a whole collection of ugly tourist t-shirts that you will never get rid of

Rockstar!Lucien was def a party boy before he met you, like frat boy with a heart of gold antics and all. But when you started dating that life style became unattractive to him knowing you’re there to spend time with him

You will occasionally go to clubs with him

When you do go to shows with him you like to hang out in his dressing room backstage

Watching him warm up his voice and practice guitar is always so entertaining. When the band warms up you like to sit out in the empty arena and watch. It’s a special thing that very few people get to do and seeing Lucien be authentic with his best friends on stage is heartwarming

#acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar reader fic #acotar reader imagine #acotar imagine #modern acotar #Lucien vanserra #lucien fluff #lucien fic #acotar lucien #lucien fanfic #lucien headcanons #lucien acotar #lucien x reader #Lucien x you #lucien vanserra x reader #lucien vanserra x you #lucien vanserra acotar #lucien vanserra headcanon

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tokiwarcube · 6 months ago

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general dating hcs for nathan? (both sfw and nsfw, if u want!)

Thank you for waiting -- I had a lot of fun with this! It ended up getting longer than I expected, so NS/FW will be posted separate (already written, just splitting for accessibility.) Thank you again for the request, enjoy! <3 Gender-neutral reader.

Pickles HERE ; Toki HERE ; Skwisgaar HERE ; Murderface HERE ; Charles HERE

Nathan Explosion is a man who is deeply compassionate, but has difficulty showing it. He cares so much, but he’s hesitant to show that side of himself for fear of not seeming brutal.

That being said, he does still crave a relationship. Maybe he himself doesn’t know how badly he wants something serious, something more than a distraction or a fling with a groupie. The full extent of his longing is kept deep under wraps, perhaps even from himself, for a long time. Maybe you’re already in a relationship, or maybe he’s still pining over you, but he does realize how badly he wants something serious with you, eventually.

And when he does? Oh, baby. You really do get to see a whole separate side of himself, and its one that you really, really like.

Despite the eloquent lyricism of Dethklok’s later albums, Nathan is not that eloquent on the fly. Communication is something that’s worked on slowly over time — “I love you” and “I’m sorry” might not come overnight, nevermind praise or reassurance... but he gets there. In the meantime, you can expect some more Nathan-typical compliments, in the form of brutal lyrics about how fucking metal you are. He never holds his tongue in that regard.

He usually sleeps on his back (it helps with the back pain that comes with his stature… and the headbanging… and hunching over all the time), with you tucked into his side or sprawled over his front. Either way, make sure you do what you need to do before laying down with him, because he cuddles with a vice grip. It’s not that he doesn’t know his own strength — he does! He just likes to use it to his advantage.

Thankfully, he is very pleasant to cuddle with — he makes you feel so safe. Strong and warm with just the right amount of give beneath your fingertips, you’ll find yourself cursing your alarm clock each and every morning. He’ll let you up if you ask (a few times,) but believe me, he will grumble about it. He’s a complete "kicked puppy," if said puppy was a full grown mastiff.

Although if it’s been a particularly long day (or if he’s drunk), he might just come in and lay on you, face pressed into your stomach or neck with his arms wrapped around your middle. You are highly encouraged to run your fingers through your hair at this time. If you don’t, he might just ask… albeit in not so many words.

“Can you do that thing that you do? You know, the uh, thing.”

He’s surprisingly religious about repainting his nails, and at some point, you’ve taken over the mantle on this routine. He’s loathe to admit it, but he loves the way his hand looks in yours, cradled so delicately.

Quality time is absolutely one of Nathan’s biggest love languages, and being such a busy man, much of that time is spent in parallel play. Just working on your own respective tasks and sharing space together, with the occasional summoning of attention to run a concept or lyric by you. Some people might think that these “dates” are only out of circumstance, but he secretly really loves and needs them. He treasures every moment spent with you, and they remind him that you actually love being around him, too. You actually like Nathan, not just the lead singer of Dethklok.

(As a side note... It doesn't go unnoticed that you’re one of the only people he actually wants real feedback from. He respects your opinion a lot. The boys have started begging to have you in the recording room, just to keep him from deleting their re-re-re-records.)

Hate to say it, but Nathan does indeed get jealous. He likes to claim that he’d "never let some jackoff piss him off,” but after the whole Trindle situation? He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little insecure. It doesn’t help that headlines have such a love-hate relationship with him — it’s not easy, being subjected to constant criticism from atop the world’s pedestal. It’s not a severe, relationship-ruining jealousy — he does trust you, genuinely — but he will… loom, at parties. Talk with him later, tell him about all the little things you love about him.

As for the boys… they just love to fuck with him. This goes for double if you were friends with everyone prior. Although by that point, you know well enough that everyone just loves to piss each other off. Make sure you include him in shenanigans, and he’ll be right as rain.

Also, PDA? PDA! Enough said. He has absolutely zero shame in front of the camera, and isn’t afraid to let the world know you’re together. He’ll tone it down if you really want it, but at the very least, he likes to have a hand on you. If there’s any space to wrap a hand around your waist, then he will. And if not? Someone better fucking move.

He has this thing where he just likes to grip, to hold. I wouldn’t go so far as to call him restless, but he does subconsciously give little massages when cuddling. Something about the way your body gives beneath his hands just feels right, to him. And unsurprisingly, this applies to makeouts, too.

On that note, kissing Nathan is an absolutely transcendent experience. He’s overwhelming in the best way possible, with every thought and sensation crying Nathan, Nathan, Nathan.

Despite being the least-talkative member of Dethklok, he is surprisingly vocal when making out with him. His voice drops even further, vibrations rumbling against your chest. Sometimes its murmured praise, sometimes its questions on whether or not you want to bail from the event, sometimes it's just quiet groans. Either way, the soothing growl leaves you feeling heady.

And despite his fast-paced lifestyle, he actually really likes doing “regular jackoff shit” with you. And sure, he probably wouldn’t be caught dead out in public without you, but it feels special when you’re by his side. Put his hair up, take a few Klokateers, and hit the town — local metal bands, coffee shops, movies… it’s all on the table!

And even through all of the ups and downs with his parents, he does love them. And he does want you to meet them... eventually. They’re still his parents, after all. But when that day does come, just know that he’s really serious about you. You’re probably the first person he’s brought over since highschool.

Oddly enough, he isn’t too worried about whether or not they’ll like you. In his words, you’re fucking awesome. What’s not to like?

(They do love you, and are ecstatic to finally meet you in-person. Nathan quickly finds himself regretting the introduction when his mother starts pulling out baby photos, but you seem happy enough, so… He can’t complain too much. Until he finds out that his mother gave you the worst photo to keep.)

Nathan is a fantastic listener, and loves to listen to you talk — especially if it’s something that you’re passionate about. He might not always have a response, but you know he’s listening. Lovestruck is cute look on him.

He always lights up a little when you enter the room, or when you jump into a conversation. His eyes brighten, and his lips upturn just a fraction. Again, lovestruck is a cute look on him.

All in all, Nathan loves you a lot. It takes a little while for him to really open up, but when he does, he is the most loyal partner you could ever ask for.

#nathan explosion x reader #metalocalypse x reader #dethklok x reader #dethklok nathan x reader #metalocalypse nathan x reader

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mass-panicking · 6 months ago

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no caller id

omg hi! this is like my first work on here and if u read it I hope u like it!! its inspired by the song no caller id by megan moroney bc I keep hearing on the radio and I just had to write smth abt it

and also thank u to my friend @kestrel-wish for helping me edit this shit they're so great

okay enough yapping bye and i hope u enjoy reading!!

wc: 483

You were a few months deep into therapy, a last resort to finally get your ex out, and get him to stay out, of your head. You were doing well enough by now that your friends weren’t by your side most days as you cried over the man who broke your heart over and over, even well enough to be able to block out those memories of him sometimes. The keyword being sometimes.

Around 3 am some nights your phone rings, it used to be more frequent, at least a few times a month, a very obviously drunk, deep voice giving you a half-assed “sorry, how you been?”, trying to get his way with you once again, it was like every time you finally started to move on he found his way back around you.

You’d gotten word that Simon was back in town, all that was left was waiting for your phone to go off and wake you up, and here it was. Picking up your phone from your nightstand and looking at the familiar string of numbers, the phone number you've seen so many times over months between breakups and deployments, it never had a name attached in those moments but you knew those digits like the back of your hand.

Squinting at the numbers on the too-bright phone screen made the emotions in your mind swirl, taunting you, daring you to answer his call. You didn't even need a name to know it was Simon, you're sure he expects that you'll pick up like you always did, but this time it was different, you’ve changed, you'd gotten better and you weren't going to let him break your heart once again; like he's already done so many times before.

You wondered if he would’ve gotten tired of hurting you by now, just like how you were tired of hurting yourself over him. The usual thoughts started to circle in your mind,“Why does he do this to me?”, “does he just hate losing?” . You wondered if Simon had ever thought of how badly he wounded you whenever he would call or if he still hadn’t even changed and every chime of your phone made you want to pick up and see if he would say something different for once, even if you knew he wouldn’t.

Even though all you wanted was to answer all you did this time was stare blankly into your phone screen, no matter how hard those instantly recognizable numbers made you want to answer. You just let the melody of your ringtone slip into silence while the caller display faded to black, laying underneath the warm fabric of your duvet, doing your best at trying to keep yourself from breaking down until he would inevitably try to call and get you on the line again just for you to ignore it once more, leaving it to ring.

#simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x you #cod x reader

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jaketsparrow · 1 year ago

Text

Tending Part 3!!

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x f! Reader

Word Count: 11.4K

Preview: What happened between Jake and Mariella? What’s happening to you?

A/N: Y’all wanted the angst, so I present to you ANGST... Please don’t be mad at me.

MINORS DNI

MENTIONS OF/ TW: Oh boy get ready… dirty talk, name-calling, unprotected p in v sex (don’t do this!), explicit sexual content, impact play, hate fucking (oops), dom/sub, mature themes, brief mentions of body dysmorphia, language, choking, safe words, public activities… fluff (hehe)… But as always, it's filthy (IMO). Sorry if I missed anything!

Tending Part 1!

Tending Part 2!

It’s been almost a week since you’ve spoken to Jake.

Who knew so much could happen in a short amount of time? Dreams came true, and in one swift kick were knocked down. Your life was starting to feel like a movie. Like a meet cute, romantic, and sexy movie. But now, you were just becoming a sad Lifetime movie that your grandma would watch.

You were the sad woman alone in her apartment whose dream boy let her down. It felt pathetic to be this cliche, to be this hurt by a man who didn’t even seem to feel the same way. Cue the sad montage of memories, and bring on the melancholy music; because this scene was never-ending.

Saturday night ended in a catastrophic way. You finally had all the control and you still let it- well him, go. The feelings have been burning deep inside you. Your heart feels heavy thinking about it all; how you reacted, how he reacted.

“Jake…” You coo, “What was going on with you and Mariella?”

He pulls his head away from your hand and looks at you with a disgusted expression.

“Nothing.” He replies, still in his dominant form. “You have to get over this.”

Was there anything that could’ve changed the outcome? Yes.

The heat of the moment boiled over you and you exploded. You were in no place to be jealous; he wasn’t yours to claim. Still, the anger sat inside you, brewing, accumulating. There was no letting go of that. It was hard to feel like there wasn’t more going on between you two. He cared for you, he protected you in ways you hadn’t seen before. He made you feel like you were actually important to him in some way.

You’ve run through the scenario countless times, thinking of what would have been better, how you could’ve cut deeper, how you could have forgiven. You’ve learned from your past. Learning that secrets might have been hidden from you, not only from Jake but from Mariella, was painful. You weren’t sure whether to believe what he was saying. There was no emotion, only facts. You felt crazy snapping at him as he remained there perfectly calm.

The worst part of it all was that he didn’t even seem sorry about it.

You try your best to remain cool, calm, and unknowing in front of him, “Hi Jake,”

He smiles at you. He holds his gaze for a moment trying to read you, but like every typical man, only sees the surface. He pats your head one last time and walks off to clock in. Fuck. Why is he choosing today of all days to actually be soft with you? He’s never been this comfortable in your presence, giving you pets, actually excited for a shift. You want so badly to feel normal for this moment; to be thankful that he’s trying. But every nice gesture feels like it's souring.

You move your hair back to its rightful place and walk down to the new set of customers that just arrived.

“Hey, what can I get for you?” You ask.

The couple doesn’t know, but inform you that they’ll call you over when they’re ready. You move on to the next gentleman, who before you can even ask, informs you that he’ll take the cheapest beer we have. How charming!

You walk over to the tap and begin to pour him a glass. Jake is heading towards you and you try to be in deep focus on your pour. He turns parallel to you, sliding the front of his jeans over your ass; scooching past you to exit the bar. Purposefully. Not an accident. On purpose in an attempt to mark his territory here.

He’s stuck his flag on the moon! He’s painting JAKE in big red letters across my ass. He’s trying to remind me that I belong to his cock. You want to belong to him. The butterflies in your stomach are fluttering for him, pleading for you to get over this jealousy and take him right here on the dank bar floor. You think back to the times this exact situation has happened before; maybe those other times weren’t accidental rubs. You want him amidst all your feelings, you want him to take you into his hands and fuck the anger out of you. Really prove to you that you're his and he's yours… But he wouldn’t.

Twenty minutes ago this sentiment would have been great. But now? You feel nauseous. Desperately waiting for a clue of what happened in Mariella’s house. He probably would touch her the same as you, taking control of her body… Commanding her to his will. Touching her in all her favorite spots, which of course would probably be the same as yours. It would be easy for him to do the same things, just interchanging the women.

You bring the snippy gentleman his beer and take his credit card from the counter. Hardly looking at him. Men. Gross.

What really could have happened last night? Why did Jake go to Mariella’s house? It had to be for some sinister reason. The smidge of doubt you had saved for him was starting to shrink the longer you waited for the truth.

Mariella was a beautiful girl. She had this amazing long black hair that she would always style in cute ways for her shifts. Her face was soft, but she had these gorgeous piercing blue eyes. She also had the body of a fucking model. Not those skinny tiny runway models, but those Instagram models with hourglass figures. The ones who make you feel jealous that your ass isn’t that round, or that your body didn’t fit that way into a dress. You always felt a little intimidated by her beauty, surprised that she would want to work in a bar and not run off to Paris Fashion Week.

After one night of seeing her tips though, you understood exactly why she stayed at this job. Everyone loved her. She barely had to show up for work to make crazy amounts of money. When you both would work Saturday nights before Jake came along, you were thankful that you split tips. She was beautiful, had a bubbly personality, and always convinced everyone that they should have just one. more. round.

The insecurities are building inside of you as you compare yourself to her. You try to shake the feeling. You still have no idea what happened, you remind yourself. Dwelling on each negative thought that sat in your head wasn’t fair to Jake. You were only allowing the devil’s advocate to speak, instead of remembering that there are two sides to this story and you’ve only heard one.

You were on a bender of sorts. The mania of the past week left you so high and now you were really feeling the low. Your bed had become a nest of random objects: chip bags, the book you tried to read, the clothes from Saturday night you still refused to move since you took them off, and your childhood stuffed animal you had pulled from your closet to comfort you. You were neglecting your body, neglecting your mind.

Your room had an aura of depression. You didn’t think this collapse would hurt you so badly, but you felt so low. All that build-up and anticipation for Jake was lost by a dumb mistake. Or was it a mistake? You still didn’t know. Was it easier to preserve your feelings for him rather than trust him? Was it easier to end now instead of waiting months to find more secrets? Were you wrong to be so distrusting? These thoughts plagued you, shocked you… Hit you like lightning; thunder shaking everything you wanted around you.

You only cried on Saturday night after it was over. The whole ride home you were struggling to see through the tears. Your breath was heavy, staggering, trying to stay alive. Panic was surging through you. Anger, fear, and sadness were attacking you from all angles. You felt even worse knowing you had no right to feel this way about a man who didn’t belong to you. He could have done whatever he wanted and you should have let him. But the way he touched you, the way he made you feel special… It made you feel like you had a fair fight.

You even cried the whole way into your apartment, to your bed, and really, until you fell asleep from the exhaustion. You had been dreaming about building something with Jake, and you made a very serious decision to cut that dream short. You finally let yourself take control over him, and cut the chase off for both of you. The heat of the moment, the insecurity, the jealousy, exploded in a fiery argument. You felt played, you felt angry, you felt… misled.

You woke up Sunday morning feeling empty. Your heart raced waiting to see if Jake would text you, would say something about how sorry he felt, or that he didn’t mean to hurt you. You were rotting in bed, smothered in blankets and grime. You feel empty. Your brain cycles over everything. You wish it was Friday night again and he was here, showing you brief moments of weakness…

Stroking his hair as he smiles at you. Caressing your thigh as a means to say thank you. Kissing you softly, holding you close. Finally giving you the form of aftercare he showed you Wednesday night. Staying the night with you. Playing with your hair to wake you up…

But that didn’t happen. And it wouldn’t now.

A message never came on Sunday, so you sat and rotted in bed.

A message never came on Monday, or Tuesday, or Wednesday, or Thursday…

And nothing today.

Around nine, people started showing up to really drink. Each seat at the bar was full, and the tables were even starting to fill up too. The servers had tons of orders; large party groups treating themselves to more drinks than they should. Jake and you were jumping around the bar, trying to clear the orders. He brushed up on you a few more times, but you didn’t even have time to process or be angry at it with the amount of people that needed their precious alcohol. It's surprising to see how frustrated people get when they have to wait longer than five seconds for a drink to appear in their hands.

When you finally had a moment, you stepped off to the corner of the bar to make yourself your own drink. You couldn’t do this completely sober. You filled the glass with whiskey and put some cola in it, as secretly as you could. This was dangerous considering Chris would probably be checking your favorite whiskey during inventory, but you needed it. You took a few big sips, the dark liquor burning through the bubbles. The invigorating fire burns down your throat, forming a pit in your stomach.

You were savoring this moment, drinking tonight was a means of self-care. You knew to be careful, not take too much at once, not to take too much at all. You just wanted a distraction, but it wasn’t really helping. You just wanted to convince yourself that numbing the feelings was better than feeling them all. You couldn’t numb everything though.

Seeing him jump around you in this new energy… It was hard to watch. Jake always looked so sexy behind the bar. He wore these tight dark wash jeans, black vans, and a black button-up that really showed off his tan. It made you mad how much you wanted him, how much you were thinking about your nights together. Thinking about how he corrected your behavior the first time you were petty with him. You felt better in his presence. Even though he never claimed any wrongdoing, you felt like his touch was his way of apologizing.

You need to stay focused at the bar, but it was proving harder and harder to do. Every time you saw him, you thought of what Mariella said. You were creating scenarios in your head, convincing yourself that you weren’t the only one Jake was seducing.

Why else would he go to Mariella’s? Why else would she be so upset? Wait, why was she upset about it?

Maybe she had the same situation as him and you, and she was the lucky one who found out about the other woman.

Is she why Jake wanted to take it slow? Is she the reason why he didn’t stay over that first night?

She wouldn’t even look at him the night after he played, well actually, she wouldn’t look at either of us. She only brought us drinks, she wouldn’t talk or engage with us. She too was trying to focus on something other than him that night. Did she know he was playing that night? Is that why she agreed to cover his shift? Did he ask her to cover for him so that she could be the one there to support him from the sidelines?

Why didn’t she tell you if anything was going on? After your first shift with Jake, you ran to her to tell her how sexy you thought he was. You even laughed about it together! She said you were crazy to go after a coworker, and that things would get messy. Was she trying to warn you then?

When you came into the bar Wednesday night she wasn’t necessarily happy to see you there either. You specifically asked for a drink that wouldn’t get either of you in trouble, but somehow you did end up in trouble the next day. Did she tell Chris that you were asking for free drinks? How else would he know? We’re usually pretty good at hiding it or we always cover for each other. Was she upset at what happened that night? Knowing Jake had to drive you home?...

Could she sense something happened?

These thoughts are engrossing you. Breaking you down bit by bit. A lump starts forming in your throat. Your hands are getting clammy and you can feel the warmth taking you over. Picturing a teakettle, slowly starting to whistle and shake with the fire. Every time you turn down the stove, you pump it back up to high, screaming with the heat. You know you want to cry, but standing in the middle of a bar crying wouldn’t exactly solve anything.

You swallow hard. Forcing the tears to pull back from your eyes. There would be no crying now. There’s a bar full of people and you have your job to focus on. You’re making it impossible for yourself by lingering on every little thought that pops through your mind. Each passing by like a highway billboard, advertising your mistrust and envy.

You rush back over to your drink and chug as much as you can. Your judgment is severely clouded, not from the liquor, but from the emotions. You feel the tension growing in you, tearing you apart limb by limb, nerve by nerve.

You swear that if you were lifted out of this bed, there would be a you-sized indent in the mattress from how you’ve sat there for so long. The bed became a hiding hole. You were sitting at the bottom in the dirt, trying to climb and find any way out. You put yourself in this hole to try and protect your feelings further, but it just made you feel worse. He was standing at the top of this hole, waving down to you; telling you to get out.

You couldn’t trust Jake and that made you heartbroken.

11:30 hits and you’d swear this bar became a fucking nightclub. College season is both the worst and the best time for Fleets. We have too much business coming in.

Jake and you were handling it the best you could. You started pre-preparing the beer buckets; throwing 5 bottles in the tubs, and filling them with ice to pass along when they were ordered. Jake was taking his usual commanding role, telling people off, passing orders off to you, and-

“Back the fuck up!” Jake yells at the man reaching over the counter to touch your ass. You turn to look at the guy. He is quite literally standing over the bar, reaching his hand out, his finger inches from your ass. He’s stuck in a moment of shock, arm extended, completely caught. “Chris!”

Chris is occupied at the table of regulars, but still, fortunately, hears Jake yell. Chris runs over from the table and removes the gentleman from his overhang on the counter. He yanks him off the bar stool, and escorts him not so gently out of the bar, with his friends in tow. The man is screaming at you, at Chris, and at Jake.

“Fuck you! Fucking prude! Good thing your boyfriend’s there to save you!” His voice echoes into the night as Chris pushes him past the doors.

You break your pause and continue making the vodka sodas in front of you. Trying your best to ignore what the man just said. Working in a bar like this means things like that will happen. It's not the first time someone has been caught trying to grab you, and you’re trying not to let it bother you. You didn’t want to feel protected by your ‘boyfriend’, because he wasn’t your boyfriend; you were alone.

Jake walks up behind you, resting his arm on your hip, checking on you.

“I’m fine,” You bark. Trying to prove you’re not a damsel in distress.

“Hey,” Jake nudges at you to turn to him, and you look back, scowling, “You sure?”

You close your eyes and breathe for a moment. You feel the heat building, growing, trying to come out of you. Your whole body is sweating, clamming up at the overwhelmed state you’re in. Trying to hold back your confusion, trying to hold back your anger at the man, trying to hold back the praise you desperately want to give to Jake. You wipe your hands on the front of your shirt and ball your fists up beside you. “Yes, Jake. I’m fine. He didn’t actually touch me.”

He looks at you with a sad gaze… Maybe he can see below the surface. He rubs your side briefly and gives you a firm squeeze before heading back over to the customers. You exhale slowly, trying to collect yourself. Why did he have to be so protective over you when you were so clearly trying not to be happy with him right now? He clearly wants something; wants you to feel trusted by him. You want to trust him, but it felt so hard to in this moment.

If he didn’t tell you he was going to Mariella’s, then it obviously was something he didn’t want you to know about. He clearly was being secretive, hiding. You also realize, he probably knows that you know something. How could he not? If Mariella had that big of a reaction with you, then she probably had that big of a reaction with Jake. So here he was, being all calm, cool, and collected, meanwhile knowing that you know what he didn’t want you to know!

You’re spiraling.

You reach over and finish the rest of your cocktails. You grab the three vodka sodas in front of you and balance them between your fingers, gingerly carrying them over to the blonde party girls in the corner.

“About time!” One of them snickers.

“Next time, you can make them,” You snap back. The shocked look on their faces was priceless. That line would probably get you in trouble if anyone heard, but these girls are already too plastered to even form full cohesive sentences. “Also girls, the other bartender and I are a little concerned. We’re going to bring you some water and cut you off for now. Okay?”

They were understandably not happy about that. Your frustration was mixing with the liquid courage and taking you to an unhappy, and honestly, quite rude place. You tried not to care so much about it, but your heart was growing heavier with each interaction you were having.

You wave over to Chris, who jumps and scurries to your side. Damage control.

“Hey Chris, you see those girls behind me?” Chris turns to peer at the girls, quite obviously.

“Yeah?”

“Well, I think they’re probably done for now. They were being pretty snarky. Can you bring them some water?”

“Fine.” He grumbles.

You sigh. Chris would probably ignore whatever those girls had to say about you since you forewarned him about their behavior first. It wasn’t your first time throwing the customers under the bus, but you didn't enjoy doing it.

You woke up from your second nap of the day around four. It was still light outside, but just barely. The clouds were making the sky a dull blue. Your hair is a mess, tangled around you. Just by the way it feels against your face, you can tell it probably looks like you accidentally left your windows down at the carwash. Your body is achy and tired. These naps are not exactly refreshing; more depressing than anything else.

It takes you a moment to realize that your phone has been buzzing. You look at the screen through sleepy eyes.

No... Jake.

He’s calling you. The buzz buzz buzz continues as you stare blankly at the screen. Pick. me. up! Answer. The. phone! You tap the screen, sending him to voicemail. That lumpy feeling is happening in your throat again. You feel the sting of emotions wanting to bubble out. Everything you have ignored since Sunday wants to be thrown out. You take your palms and hold them over your eyes, pressing hard; trying to physically repress your tears.

Buzz buzz buzz. Buzz buzz buzz.

His name is flashing again over your phone. No! You grab your phone and tap voicemail again. The tears are coming now. They burn going down the sides of your face. The skin is still raw from Saturday night’s blubbering. You use your arms to wipe the tears as fast as they are coming. Your breath is shaky, uncontrolled. You breathe in deeply and try to hold everything in for another moment; trying to collect yourself.

Buzz buzz buzz… Buzz buzz buzz.

“No!” You yell. You grab your phone and throw it into the pile of laundry on the other side of the bed. The faint buzzing continues, only now muffled on the clothes. The burn of feelings is crushing you. Rising again, forcing the heaving and uneasiness to return. You collapse into your hands, holding your face and allowing the tears to fall around you. You lower your head into your lap, folded and compressed in your distress.

Beep! Beep!

Can you get one fucking second? Some idiot out in the parking lot is deciding now is the perfect time to be honking their horn. Do they not realize this is an apartment complex? It's not your friend’s house, it’s a fucking community of people who don’t want to hear that you’re impatient.

Beeeeep! Beeeeep!

You grunt, exhaling as much negativity into your groan as humanly possible. You remove your hands from your tear-soaked eyes and sit up from your stupor. The sadness inside of you is quickly forming into an aggressive mood, overwhelmed by all the excitement. You swing your legs over the bed and angrily stomp over to the window, forcing the glass up to give this asshole a piece of your mind.

“Shut the fuck up!” You yell.

A familiar voice shouts back up to you, “Maybe if you answer your fucking phone!”

You look down to the parking lot to find him there. Jake. In the same spot as he was Friday night. His arm is reached over to the horn, temping another honk. In his other hand, he’s waving his phone at you. He’s wearing black linen pants, a distressed t-shirt, and wearing sunglasses to block any emotions from his eyes. He looks so good.

Seeing him after all of this is painful. You want to jump out of the window and let him take you. The sneaky twinge of jealousy and frustration consumes any feelings of absolving him. You made your decision for a reason.

“No!” You yell back to Jake and slam the window shut.

You return to the bar, and Jake is clearly behind on orders. Breathe. Walk over to him.

“Give me something,” You say, watching him line up the tickets.

He hands you three orders. Beer, beer, and oh more beer. Easy. You slide over to the tap again and start pouring.

“Hey!” Jake yells to you over the crowd and music, “Last time, you sure you’re good?”

You fill the glass and place it down in front of you. Freezing again, trying to collect yourself. Whenever someone asks if you’re good, they clearly know that you are not. That question pushes even a person who is good to a breaking point. But it was especially pushing you, someone who wasn’t good. No, you were not good. No. Not at all. He is the perfect specimen. The perfect gentleman. The perfect lover. Except, he wasn’t perfect. He was hiding. Lying. Holding back from you.

You were also probably being delusional and tipsy at this point which didn’t help your feelings towards him. You wanted to still give your heart away to him, even if he stabbed it, broke it, and kicked it around.

“Not right now,” You look at him, seeing genuine concern in his eyes, “Not now Jake, okay?”

He swallows and nods.

Maybe he did know that you knew.

Shut up. You’re spiraling.

Why the fuck is he here? What is he doing?! What are you doing? You walk over to the bed and fold in half over the mattress. Screaming softly into the comforter. The sheets and mattress vibrate your aggression. You weren’t ready for another confrontation. It was easier to try and ignore everything and let the world slowly collapse in on you. What the fuck?!

Buzz buzz buzz... Buzz buzz buzz.

Ignore it. You’re still upset. You don’t have anything to say to him, and if you tried to now, you’re not entirely sure what would come out of you.

Beep! Beep!

Dont. Don’t engage. Remember, don’t give into his control.

Buzz buzz buzz... Buzz buzz buzz.

Fuck!

You clamor over the bed to reach for your phone, sprawling out in despair. His name is flashing across your screen, you try to use all of your willpower to not answer. But you cave, sliding to answer.

“What?!” You snap into the phone.

“Come outside,” He commands.

“You know Jake,” You try not to sound choked up, “I’m really not in the mood.”

“Just come outside.” His voice sounds sincere, “Please?”

Your heart drops upon hearing his tone. Maybe he’s going to apologize. Maybe he’s going to make it alright.

“Fine.” You reply through grated teeth.

You don’t even bother to dress yourself. Some might consider this look cozy fashion. Grey sweats, band T-shirt, messy hair. You’re practically dressed for a night out! Anger really brings out a moody sarcastic version of you.

You begrudgingly head out into the hallway, each step forceful trying to extinguish the anger. You push past the glass doors and head down the steps into the parking lot. You walk over to him, head hanging low, trying to avoid his eyes. You take your last step in his direction, stopping and planting yourself a few feet away from him. You cross your arms, trying to physically exude your uncomfortable feelings. You look up at Jake.

He’s matching you, standing with his arms crossed. Waiting for you. He seems disappointed in your attitude and probably also your attire.

“Get in the car.” He points to the open passenger-side door.

“Why?” You grill.

He walks over to the driver’s side and opens his door to get in.

“C’mon,” He presses, “Just get in the car.”

You drop your arms and give in to Jake. You resent how easily you cave into him, especially after everything that’s happened. Everything you’ve been mulling over.

The last call finally happens around one. For the most part, the bar is emptying, the music has stopped and only the hushed voices of dates & friends remain. Jake hasn’t checked in on you since you kind of told him to back off. You felt bad for being mean to him when he was trying to be nice to you, but you didn’t want anything else to come out accidentally.

You start to wipe down the counters and collect the empty glasses. Jake finishes closing out tabs and trying to rush people out.

Chris walks over to Jake and whispers something to him. Jake is visibly disappointed in what Chris is telling him. You listen closely, trying not to be obvious.

“Not tonight Chris.” Jake pleads.

“C’mon bud,” Chris begs, “Last time. It’s an emergency.”

“Fine. Fine.” Jake points his finger to Chris, “Last time I’m saving your ass.”

Chris passes over the keys to the bar and Jake snatches them from his hand; shoving them in his pocket and walks over to you.

“I gotta close up. Can you stay?” He asks.

I guess staying would provide the perfect opportunity for alone time with Jake. “Yeah,” you respond.

The car ride has been completely silent. You didn’t dare to break the tension. You didn’t have anything left to say to him unless he had something to say to you.

You catch a glance of yourself in the sideview mirror. Yikes. You don’t look so good. Your eyes are red and puffy, your hair is clearly unbrushed, and you look miserable. Fair, considering how you’ve spent the last few days, but still not your usual polished self. You turn to look at Jake. His hair is doing that stupid perfect windswept thing again. Fuck. You look away and watch the road.

You have no idea where he’s taking you and you’re starting to get concerned about that… The usual houses & buildings on each side have started to stagger, each mile becoming more remote.

You walk back to the office to put the cash register drawers in the safe. Chris left it open for you so he wouldn’t have to give out the passcode. You drop them in the safe, and each box clamors down into the metal box. You push the door shut and lock the electronic safe.

You walk back out into the hallway, trying to prepare yourself for your next move. You know the bar is empty now, the tasks are done. Jake is finishing returning the stools underneath the bar. Instead of immediately pouncing at him, you walk over to the bar and take two clean rocks glasses out. You pull a bourbon off the shelf and pour each of you a drink. He looks at you, confused for a moment.

“Jake… Please sit,” You ask. The tones of disappointment are hard to shake now that the right time has come.

You put down his drink and pass it towards him across the bar. He sits down on the stool and accepts the glass from you.

“What?-” He begins to ask.

“Jake.” You cut him off, “Mariella said something to me.”

The words are out. The anxiety is consuming you. The rage, the confusion, the insecurities, the frustration, all of it taking you entirely. Your arms are shaking. Your legs feel wobbly and unsure if they can hold you. A pit drops in your stomach. It feels like you’re the first car on a rollercoaster, heading straight down, closing your eyes, hoping you don’t fly off the tracks. You try your best to maintain eye contact with Jake, analyzing every facial muscle, and trying to read him.

He takes a sip of the bourbon, holding it in his mouth a moment, before taking one big gulp. “What did she say?”

He’s too calm for your liking. He doesn’t even seem to be bothered at the thought of Mariella talking to you. Are you overreacting? You don’t like the way this situation is making you feel.

“She said,” You take a deep breath, trying to not sound shaky or upset, “Well, she said you were at her house last night.”

You wash down the words with a swig of alcohol, trying to mellow yourself out.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be-” Jake reaches for your glass, and you snap your hand back, clutching the drink to your chest.

“Jake.” You scold. Reminding him he should be responding to your statement, not trying to baby you.

He sighs and covers his mouth, rubbing his face. His expression gives away signs of guilt. He looks down at the counter, taps a few fingers, and looks back up to you, “Yes. I was at her house last night.”

Fuck.

A flurry of raw emotion floods you. You grip the edges of the counter, holding on for dear life. You bite your lip to try and keep it from trembling. Your eyes are welling up and you feel stupid standing like an idiot in front of him. You were an idiot to think that he was yours. You were an idiot to think that someone like him could want just you. You were an idiot to think that he wasn’t trying to seduce any other coworkers. You were an idiot for not getting to him sooner. And you were an idiot for letting him have you.

“After you saw me?” You croak. Your voice is unfortunately shaking, unable to prevent the upset tone from presenting itself.

“Yes.” His answers are cold, stripped of any warmth.

Shit. You idiot. You’re so stupid. Of course, he went to her after you. That’s why he rushed out in a panic, scared to disappoint her. You choke down the remainder of your bourbon.

“Why?”

“I had to.” He states.

“What the fuck does that mean?” Your answers are starting to be harsher, the alcohol pushing you into a mean-spirited tone. You’re frustrated and angry that he’s not comforting you, that he’s only doing the bare minimum.

“Hey,” He snaps. “Nothing happened.”

“Oh really?” You snap back, “You want me to believe after seeing how she reacted, and how quick you were to rush out last night that nothing happened?...” Jake sits there for a moment, taking in your punches. Not fighting back, not saying anything, “I believe it was you who once said nothing doesn’t mean nothing, Jake.”

Jake exhales, trying to keep his cool exterior, which is pissing you off even more, “If I say nothing happened, I mean it.”

You grab your face in your hands. Trying to hold yourself together a little longer. The echoes of his words and Mariellas echo in your head. You feel ashamed, you feel alone. You want him to reach across the bar and tell you everything is all right and that you’re his, and you don’t have to worry about her. That he wants you to be his, that he needs it. That no one else in the world has compared to you, that he’s been waiting for the right time to tell you.

But now this complicates everything. Your head is spinning. Gauging whether to trust him or to push him away. Your insecurities flood through you, reminding you that he wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t want the drama. He didn’t want the insecurity: he wanted easy, he wanted the chase, he wanted the fun. You couldn’t be easy when you knew all you could think about was him. And here you were now, thinking about him with someone else.

The road ends in a small cul-de-sac by a nature trail. He shuts the car off and walks over to your door to open it. You sit further back into the seat, scared of the situation. Scared of his silence.

“C’mon.” He reaches his hand out to you.

You hesitate for a moment, meeting his eyes, showing your distaste. You grab his arm and let him lift you out of the seat.

“What is going on?” Jake finally breaks your silence.

You pull your head away from your dripping hands. You wipe them on the front of your jeans.

“Jake I can’t do this.” You look dead into his eyes.

“What are you talking about?” He asks.

This feminine rage urges through you. You’ve been in his control for too long. You’ve let him call the shots, you’ve waited for him to make you his prey. You waited for him to text you first. You waited for him to make the first moves. You let him tell you what he wanted, and he let you forget what you needed.

“Jake I don’t believe you!” You snap. Every inch of your heart is fracturing. You think about all the conversations you’ve had at the bar, every night you’ve worked together in harmony. Every moment where you’ve been close to him. Every moment you’ve been his. Only to be shot back down to one of his. “I have so many feelings about you, too many. I am jealous. I am upset that you didn’t stay the night still. I thought we were starting, I thought everything that I had hoped for was finally coming true. I have been waiting months for you to notice me. Every Saturday hoping you’d look at me a little longer than the last. I’ve lived the chase that you want so badly. I lived it every weekend, trying to play at every angle. I’ve been waiting for you, and you don’t even seem like you want me!”

Jake reaches to grab your arm, “Hey, why don’t you-”

“No! No Jake. I don’t want to calm down. I’m frustrated. I’m confused. I’m confused especially as to why you went to see Mariella last night. I’m confused as to why one of my friends is mad at me now. I’m confused as to why the boy I like was so worried about disappointing her and had to rush away from me to go see her. Something had to happen, and if it didn’t last night, it had before. And I am so hoping I’m not right. Because that would mean, you went behind her back to see me, and she went behind my back knowing I wanted you.”

You take a deep breath. Everything is on the table. Your poker face is gone. Your cool, chill, fun side is gone. You are upset. You’ve revealed yourself too early on. The liquid courage has taken its hold on you, becoming a truth serum. You feel so stupid for it all.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Jake scoffs. He takes a swig from the bourbon.

“That’s it?” You say through tears, “That’s all you can say to that?”

“What do you want me to say? You want me to be perfect?” He leans into you, “I am not going to be who you want me to be, ever.”

His tone is serious, and cold, and makes you want to crawl up and lay on the floor. You wipe the tears from your eyes, and walk around the bar to him, standing at his eye level. You put your finger on his chest, pinning him, “I don’t need you to be perfect, I just wanted you. And you fucking ruin it every time. No matter how well you ‘take care of me’ you only come around when you get something from it.”

“Don’t forget who started those games,” He pulls your finger off of his chest, “You think I didn’t see the way you looked at me? You’re telling me you weren’t in it for the sex either? You seemed to also really enjoy those moments.”

His digs hurt. He makes you feel small in this moment. You know he’s right. But that doesn’t excuse how hurt you still are. You do want him. You did need him. Sexually. The tension that has been fabricated in your chest was imploding. You take your hand back from Jake and stare at him for a moment. Both of you are full of rage… And lust.

He grabs your waist firmly and pulls you into him. Your hair hangs over the edge of his face; you’re so close… You look down in his lap to see how restricted he is against his jeans.

“Look at me.” He instructs.

You lift your eyes to meet his. An insatiable look of malice and desire brews behind the brown. An intensity that you haven’t seen has grown inside of him. Every time he’s played this dominant role, you’ve known that he wasn’t actually angry or upset with you, but this time… This time it was different. You loved it. You loved how you could actually see something behind his eyes, see the passion; he felt something because of what you said. This moment of deep, intense passion is almost enough to make you forgive him, but you still aren’t ready to let go.

“Jake,” You whine.

He pulls you further into him, taking his hand to the back of your head, and pulling you into his lips; your faces mashing together. The anger is like an aphrodisiac, making his taste insatiable. He stands, kicking the stool back behind him. It clatters to the floor, sending echoes through the bar. He shifts his arm around from your head to your neck and holds it tightly between his grip. You pull away from him, trying to choke at the air. You reach up and grab out to his stomach, trying to paw at him.

“You’re not going to do this to me,” He says through grated teeth. He relieves his hand from your neck and pushes you over the counter, your gut wedged into the counter.

“Jake!” You exclaim.

He brushes himself across your jeans, letting you know he’s taking control. He takes his hands and runs them across your thighs, up your legs, and across your stomach. He runs his fingers towards the button on your jeans, quick to undo it along with the zipper.

“Not my name,” He barks to you.

You feel burdened by the weight of the situation, but you can’t deny feeling his touch is softening the blow. He reaches down the front of your pants, his hands just barely meeting your warming clit. He uses his force to pull you back towards him. Allowing you to better feel his cock pressed against your ass.

“Sir!” You yell.

He backs himself away from you, and a quick pained smack raps across your ass. Tears start forming in your eyes. You close them, trying to hide the glossiness.

“This is what my slut gets when she talks like that to me.”

“Please!” You yell, through gasps.

“Color.”

You know you can take it, and you know you want to take it. Feeling him want you is the only thing holding you. “Green!” You cry.

Another quick hand marks your ass. You hold onto the counter for dear life.

“Do you like feeling this way?” He asks, “Do you like being punished?”

You want to scream ‘no’. You don’t like making him angry, you want him to be happy with you. But secretly you both know that his dark side is more enticing. It's addicting. Having him act this way is the only way you know he wants you. He’s right you won’t get a soft Jake, you won’t get the perfect boyfriend. But that’s not what you want right now. You want this frustration to be taken from you; taken from him too. Most importantly you know having him this way is the reason you’re starting to get wet. “Yes!” You squeal. You prepare yourself for another hit, but nothing comes.

You start to lift yourself back up, easing your gut away from the rounded counter. Before you can even get inches off the surface, a hand comes down on your head, pressing your face into the cold wooden bar. The smell of cleanser is burning your nose. You feel everything in that moment. The counter that’s pressing into you, the stickiness of it attaching to the side of your face, the strong hand holding you down, and your body collapsing over his will. Jake assumes his mounting position behind you again, leaning into your ear.

“When will you ever learn?” He asks.

“Never sir,” You spit back between pressed lips.

Jake scoffs and releases his hand from your head, moving it down to the small of your back. He takes his hand and yanks your pants down to your ankles. Your ass is bare and red, presenting itself to him.

He takes his free hand to bring it back to your front, dancing his fingers over your tender clit. You can feel the warmth, the wetness, growing. Your brain is telling you that this is what you need, “This,” He says, applying pressure, reaching further down your pussy, “Is mine.”

“Sir-”

“No.” He barks back, “Color.”

“Green…” You whine. You know you want this. You want him. You need his touch, need to feel secure in this moment. The thoughts of him you’ve been having are consuming you, you want your jealousy to be fucked out of you entirely.

You hear the jingle of his belt as he takes off his own pants. You dare not move or open your eyes to see. He’s groaning softly, you can hear him start to take himself into his hand. You listen to him lubricate himself, the wet sloshing sounds filling your ears, hearing each pump of his cock in his hands. He presses himself against you again, meeting the threshold of your needy heat. He takes his hands and rubs them over your hips, making large slow movements over your body. He’s teasing you entirely.

He knows what he wants to do to you, but he has to make it as painfully slow as possible. He rolls his hand over your hips and begins directing towards your cunt. Each second that passes is getting slower, and slower until he slips his middle and ring finger inside of you.

You gasp, not expecting his fingers to breach you so soon. He takes his other hand to grab your face, his fingers sprawled out on either side of your jaw. “See?” He asks. He slides his fingers out from you, and you open your eyes, “You want this…” He lifts his fingers to show you the dripping wet digits, “You’re already wet for this.”

He’s right, you are. You knew it all night, every glance at him made you want him more. When he saved you from that asshole you wanted him right then. You had been fighting your need for him to touch you. Each moment that he wasn’t touching you, you wanted him more.

“I know sir,” You reply.

He takes the fingers and puts them in your mouth. You take them in, suckling up to the knuckles. His rough fingers linger in your mouth for a moment, making sure that you take everything in. He slides them out of your mouth and proceeds to move them back between your shaking legs. He doesn’t insert them, but rather teases your clit, touching just lightly enough to drive you mad.

“This is what you get,” He snaps.

Without warning his cock breaches you, and he is by no means gentle with you. Pushing himself in, the hilt of his shaft meeting your body. He grunts aggressively feeling you envelop him completely. A sharp breath escapes you, feeling completely unprepared for his size. He’s stronger, rougher than he had been with you before. A new energy has taken him.

He grabs hard onto your hips, taking a hold you know will leave marks worse than before. He’s using your body as leverage to rock himself in and out of you. Each stroke comes at you harder, pushing your body further into the counter. He’s fucking you into oblivion.

“Please!” You moan.

He starts to pick up his motion, pounding you harder against him. Your groans are loud, echoing through the empty bar. Your unprepared pussy is aching, feeling yourself stretch over him, trying to adapt to his size. With minimal warm-up, he’s testing your body's limits. Your knuckles are red and tight squeezing on the edges of the counter. Your breath is sustained to limited gasps, unable to take in too much with the counter being wedged underneath you. Bouncing forward, face gripping to the bar, knowing there would be no way to make yourself more comfortable.

Jake reaches up and grabs a chunk of your hair, pulling it back from your scalp. You’re arched completely, stomach tightened against the edge of the bar. You adjust your hands to try and hold yourself from completely cutting your stomach off. He reaches his other hand under your stomach, finding a new way to leverage himself further in you.

“Fuck!” You gasp.

“Color!” He demands.

“Green!” Your whole body is in blissful agony. Not feeling any pain, but pure raw pleasure. He’s swiveling his hips, moving his cock inside of you. Each stroke forcefully passes over your g-spot, sending signals of complete dopamine to your brain.

His soft deep grunts are signaling he’s close, and you are too. The pounding is becoming overstimulating; needing a release. You moan with each pump, letting him know you're on the brink of boiling over. He releases your hair and scoops you up by your neck, not grabbing it but holding it upwards to maintain his positioning.

Through ragged breaths, he still tries to control you, “You don’t cum… until I do.”

“Please, sir!” You protest. You can feel the heat and building happening within you. Your legs grow weaker, shaking against his body. You squeeze onto anything your hands can reach, his arm, the counter… You almost can’t hang on. You tighten yourself and try to hold back any orgasm. The night has been needing a release like this, a moment of selfish pleasure. You wanted him to use you like this, to remind you that he still wanted you.

“Fuck!” He wails. In a few last pumps, he spills into you, and you let yourself go. Completely. A loud pleasured moan escapes from your lips. Your body convulses at the final feeling. A warm hot burn caressing you, sending tingles through your muscles. Your body collapses in his arms as the two of you mix together.

He places you on the counter gently, careful to not let your head completely smack against the surface. He slowly pulls out of you, both of you gasping at the over-stimulating sensation. You watch him from the corner of your eye, trying to regain your breath.

He carefully tucks himself back into his jeans and falls back onto the stool. You pry yourself from the counter and slowly pull your jeans back on. The feeling of denim pressing against your aching pussy doesn’t feel great, but you’d rather not be the only one still showing off.

The release you had been wishing for finally came, but you didn’t feel the sour memory of dishonesty leave with the pleasure. The feelings of euphoria start to pass. Washing away from you like a tide being pulled in. The satisfaction swooshes away from you, leaving behind the mess that it had tried to cover.

The clarity of the situation clouds back over you, still wondering about the unanswered questions. Feeling him take you was exactly what you wanted, but it still didn’t give you everything you needed. He did want your body, but it wasn’t clear whether he wanted you. He didn’t tell you the full truth or really answer anything. All he did was attempt to distract you so you’d shut up and forget the whole thing.

The lust has quickly left your body and mistrust begins to consume you again. You try to engage with him after this moment, hoping that maybe the sex will have loosened him up. You walk over to him; he’s nursing a few sips of the remaining bourbon, trying to calm himself. His breathing is deep, exhausted. You reach out to him, and he grabs your hand to pull you towards him, wedging your legs between his.

You reach out to move the hair out of his face, lightly brushing your fingers across his forehead, moving the airborne pieces back to their rightful place. A ritual of sorts for you two. You pat down his head, matting his hair back into shape. Trying to find the courage to speak again.

“Jake…” You coo, “What was going on with you and Mariella?”

He pulls his head away from your hand and looks at you with a disgusted expression.

“Nothing.” He replies, still in his dominant form. “You have to get over this.”

He had you where he wanted you. But you also had him cornered in a lie. You know if he can’t even tell you what happened, then he was hiding behind an excuse. The rage is starting to fill you again. Any progress that was made from your earlier fulfillment was gone, the envy was in full effect. You deserved the truth. Considering how much of yourself you’ve given to him; your body, your control, your thoughts… All of it belonged to him, and he couldn’t even amuse you with the truth.

You pull away from his legs, scoffing, brewing with irritation. You wrap your hands around your face, trying to clasp onto the last bits of sanity that remained

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You throw your hands in the air towards him, “You can’t even answer that question? After I just did all of that for you?”

“For me?” He scoffs, “You were the one getting worked up so I would do that to you!”

“No Jake, I wasn’t getting worked up so you would fuck me!”

Jake stands to assert himself again, “Sure seemed like it…”

“No, that’s not what that was. I didn’t want this to be the outcome, but after the fact, I was hoping that one little moment of intimacy would maybe compel you to tell me the fucking truth.”

“I don’t even know what else to tell you.” He sits back down on the stool, dismissing your worries, voiding his emotions.

“Fuck this.” Tears stream down your eyes. “Fuck you, Jake! You lead me on, you make me feel important, and you can’t even do me the justice of telling me the fucking truth! I’m just an easy fuck for you huh? One of your little sluts you can toy and play with!” The anger is crescendoing, “Fuck you for making me feel this way!”

You swivel and turn to leave the bar. The tears stream over your eyes and your breath becomes ragged. Each step away from him feels like it takes forever. It feels like you’re walking away from the most important thing that’s happened to you. You’re walking away from the passion, from the beauty, from the sincerity. In just a few days Jake had made you feel like no other man had, he meant more to you than he probably even realized. He couldn’t even see how much of an impact he’s made on you, and judging by his reaction, maybe you’ve done nothing to him. Each step is a soft goodbye from a future with Jake, but it's also a goodbye to pure trouble.

A loud shattering sound pops up behind you. You snap your neck to see the cause. Jake had smashed his drink; the amber liquid mixing in with the shards on the bar floor. Jake doesn't linger to see the mess he made, instead already heading out to the front door. The trail of glass stays put behind him.

His anger pains you. His upset pains you even more. His reaction means that there was more to say, but you wouldn’t listen and he wouldn’t tell you.

You run out the back door into the cold fall night. The breeze frosting the wet edges of your eyes. You feel so stupid, so dramatic. The whole world is imploding on your heart.

He pulls you through the trail, practically tugging your wrist the whole way through. At this point, you’d wished that you put on better shoes, or maybe brought bug spray. Each step brings a crunch of fresh fallen leaves underneath your feet, clinging onto your fuzzy slippers.

“Jake-”

“Wait,” He says, pulling you harder through the brush.

The trees get scarce, opening up to more sky. Before long, a field appears in front of you. The grass is tall, crisp, and dying, brushing past the legs of your sweats. The wind is blowing a soft chill breeze; the same autumn air that woke you on that Thursday morning and the same air that touched you Saturday night.

He yanks you through, creating a path through the green. The ground is soft beneath your slippers; the damp dirt creates a light brown halo around the edges of your soles. Still being pulled by your wrist you try your best to keep up with his large strides through the grass. It feels like you are being waded through a pool of brush, slowly drowning through the field. He grabs at you harder and pulls you nearly off of your feet.

“Jake!” You protest, yanking your arm back from his grip.

He turns to look at you. You grab your wrist and massage it, trying to ease the light red marks on your wrist. He looks bashful for a moment, seeing the dull pain he caused. He takes a deep breath and paces closer to you.

“Yell.” He commands.

You look up from your wrists a shoot him a confused look.

“What?!”

“What are you upset about?”

“Jake,” You challenge, “I don’t want to do this right now, take me home.”

“I’m not taking you home yet. I asked what you’re upset about.”

You sigh and throw your hands down. You feel like a child whose parents just asked them to tell them about their feelings. This whole situation feels childish. “Jake I’m upset because I feel like I’m not the only one you're sleeping with and that makes me jealous.”

“Okay, and?”

You growl. Seeing him so calm again presents flashbacks to Saturday night. Tossing your stomach around like a punching bag. A welling of tears starts to present behind your eyes, but you try to breathe through it, “And!” You try to hold back the choking, but it's becoming visibly more noticeable, “And I’m mad about that because if something did happen, then you weren’t honest with me, and my friend wasn’t honest with me.”

He crosses his arms for a moment, watching you. It makes you feel uneasy when he does this, you feel insane; like he’s judging you for having real emotions. He gestures out into the field, “You’re mad at me, so yell.”

“Jake, I’m done yelling.” You admit defeat. “Can I go home now?”

“No.”

“Jake.”

“If you’re done, then is it my turn to yell?” He asks.

You fear for what he has to say. He could very easily make you look like an overdramatic woman, putting thoughts into your head, and making it all up. In some ways maybe you were, but you always knew when your gut was right and something was going on. If that’s really why he brought you here, then you definitely made the right decision to get out.

You try to soften your tone and prevent any backlash from him, “Jake…”

He takes in a deep breath and turns away from you to scream into the distance. His anger trailing with the wind, being carried away in a gust. It's a long and painful yell. Deep, full of frustration, and tension. He trails off, breaking his voice. The long note extinguishes with a sweep of the calling air.

He clears his throat and turns to you.

“It's your turn now.”

“No!” You exclaim.

You stand clenching your fists. You want to yell. You really do. You’re so angry about everything too. Angry for letting your lust get in the way of a real conversation. Angry that Mariella is somehow holding one over you. Angry that Jake couldn’t admit anything. Angry for telling yourself to stay away. Angry that you feel alone. Angry…

You rotate away from Jake and let out a gut-wrenching wail. Saturday night bubbles through you.

Friday night surges through.

“Yes,” He answers. He beams at you, letting you soak in his happiness, “Be good for me until then, okay?” He pulls you in for one last kiss. When he breaks away, he looks at you another moment before rubbing your cheek and turning away.

Watching him leave is always depressing. This night confirms your feelings for Jake are far past just sexual. The promise of seeing him tomorrow is the only thing keeping you together.

Thursday morning’s pain seeps out last.

“Jake, stop!” you yell to him, scared he might actually leave. His hand is on the knob but he's not turning it. “Why didn’t you stay?” You finally asked it.

Your anger for being alone is releasing itself. Your anger at Jake is releasing. He’s brought you here, he came for you.

You let the cry echo through the field. The wind taking your sorrows away, cleaning your spirit with a bitter touch. You drop to your knees; just barely catching yourself with your hands. Jake walks over to you and puts his hand on your shoulder. He uses you as a crutch to lower himself next to you.

“This is where I come when my bandmates piss me off,” He explains. You turn to look at him. Your head is clear, but your eyes are glossing over. “This is where I came Saturday night.”

You rest your hand on his knee, “I just wanted you to tell me the truth,” You cry.

“I know,” He turns to meet your eyes, “You were right. It wasn’t nothing.” You pull your hand from his lap and turn further towards him to engage in his honesty. “Mariella and I did sleep together… Once….” He seems ashamed to admit the truth, “It was after my first week at the bar before I met you.”

“Oh.” You’re disappointed to hear the truth finally come out. You hoped deep down that something really never happened. You hoped that Jake hadn’t given into Mariella’s vixen-like nature. Jake looks down, embarrassed.

“She wouldn’t leave me alone after that. She kept calling me and texting me. I played along for a little, trying to prevent things from being awkward... But then I met you,” He reaches for your hand, “And I knew I wasn’t ready for anything so I didn’t know what to do.” He passes his fingers over your hand. It's undeniable that he’s not used to being this vulnerable. His hands are warm and shaking slightly, “So I waited, and tried to keep Mariella quiet.”

He finally looks back up to you, an awkward and unsettled look flashing across his face. “Then the band really started to play more, and I knew the bar had their live music on Wednesdays… and I knew you always went. I asked Chris to let us play since he owed me anyway. He told me we could have that Wednesday and he let us take the time.

“When the night finally came, I hoped that you would still show up. I selfishly thought that maybe you only came in on Wednesdays to hang out with me, but I was proven wrong.” You laugh, knowing that he was far from the truth on that, “When I saw you at the bar, ugh. I finally had to take you home that night. I could see the way you were looking at me and I just knew I had to do something about it. I’m not the kind of guy who likes waiting.”

“For someone who doesn’t like waiting, you sure seem to drag a lot of unwanted stuff out,” You blurt.

He sits there for a moment gritting his teeth through an embarrassed expression. “Fair point… You really knocked me off my game. As soon as I figured out you had a thing for me, I got all weird.”

You blush, hearing him talk about you like this is new and different; the kind of Jake you can trust. You play with him a little to lighten the mood, “How could you possibly figure out that I liked you?”

“It was quite obvious. Do you realize how bad of a staring problem you have?” He jokes.

You gawk at him, stunned by the truth, and push his arm. “Shut up!” You feel the color rising in your cheeks.

He laughs and his usual Jake smirk splays across his face. It felt good to see him smile like that again.

“I just knew that night, things would be different. I didn’t want to stay because I wasn’t sure if I was ready for it all at once- I’m still not sure if I am. But I felt even more guilty laying in your bed that night because I knew Mariella still wanted something from me too. I didn’t want to give you too much before closing that off completely. I didn’t want her to get any ideas. She already knew we went home together that night and was pissed.”

“She should be fucking jealous,” You joke, nudging him.

He laughs, and smiles smugly, “She was, trust me…” He looks up to the sky, “I told her I would talk to her Friday night,” He looks back at you, “Before you got all horny and texted me.”

“Oh my god!” You playfully push him again.

He laughs again, squeezing your hand harder, “Trust me if I didn’t have to go tell her off, I would’ve been there with you all night… I saw that puzzle in your kitchen and it was killing me to not finish it.”

You smile at him. Thinking about a domesticated form of Jake makes your heart warm. A possibility. “That puzzle still isn’t done.”

“Perfect.” He pulls you into his lap. Holding you softly, resting his arms over the tops of your thighs, “But before we do that puzzle, I have to tell you the rest of my story, okay?”

“Okay.”

He holds the side of your face to turn it to his. “I told her that I wanted you. Okay? She’s jealous that I chose you… Did you hear that? I chose you, okay?”

Your heart is finally lifting out of the hole. The dirt that you once sat in was growing fields of flowers, healing you. He’s lifting you out of the hole, stretching out his hand to grab you, closing the gap. “Okay…”

“I’m not saying I’m ready to be your perfect happy sweet boyfriend or whatever, okay? But there is no one else, and I’m sorry if you thought that.”

I’m sorry. The words you had been craving. He was owning up. It felt like a massive bandage across your heart. He might not be able to give you everything you needed, but this was becoming a fairytale. Sitting in this field with him was serene, healing, natural…

It was your turn to apologize next.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you. I should have trusted you.” You melt into his shoulder.

“I shouldn’t have been such an asshole… Oh, and don’t worry, I’ll get you back for the yelling.”

The sun is starting to set around you. This moment is pure bliss. It's soul-cleansing. He’s brought you to a space of his own, cleared his mind with you, cleared his conscience. It felt good to forgive him.

“Do you want to come over to my place?” He asks, rubbing your shoulder.

➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-➹-

Taglist!: (I love and appreciate all of you for wanting to be on this)

@jakekiszkasbuttsweat @ohgodthefeeling-gvf @gretavansara @sanguinebats @awkwardlyamazing2000

#jake kiszka smut #jake greta van fleet #jake kiskza x reader #jake kiszka #greta van smut #greta van fleet #greta van fleet smut #gvf smut #gvf fic #jake kiszka fanfic #gvf fanfiction

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sirowsky-stories · 1 year ago

Text

Collision

Description: A bad evening turns into a horrendous night when an accident threatens to rob Pero of the one friend he really has. But not everything is as it seems, and over the course of just one day, his life is turned upside down.

Warnings: Pero Tovar x OFC, no reader insert, Pero's pov, car-crash, hospital scenes, accidental pregnancy, cursing, angst, reference to smut, friends to lovers, hurt/comfort, secret identity, AU fic. Rating: Mature/Explicit 18+ONLY Word Count: 6400 Series Masterlist

Author's Note: I can't leave this man alone. I have no idea what this might turn into, it was just an idea for the Pedrostories 1k Celebration and I ran with it. So let me know if you want to read more about these guys. And thank you to the wonderful people behind @pedrostories ! You do amazing things for this fandom <3

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

He doesn’t hate her. That’s as much as he can be sure of when it starts. She’s interesting, different from most other women he’s met, especially in how she never asks him for anything. She shows up when she needs him physically, just like he does with her, and that’s as far as it goes. And in that sense, she’s perfect. She takes what she needs and allows him to do the same, and it works. They work.

Until the day it all goes to Shitville.

“Please, just listen to me!” she yells, trying to be heard over his endless growling and spitting, but he is as far from a listening mood as he’s ever been.

“Get the fuck out of my house!” he yells back, unable to even be around her in that moment.

He actually tries to walk away from her even though he’s in his own home. But she doesn’t let him, following him through the hall towards his bedroom, where he stops before crossing the threshold, whirling towards her to try and get rid of her.

“I’m not doing this, Niki!”

“No, you already did!” she fires back. “It’s not like I can make a fucking baby on my own!”

“And why should I believe that its mine? Hm?” he challenges, and sees her eyes shift from anger to something colder.

He’s about to cross a line and he knows it. He knows that she doesn’t give herself to anyone else, she’s not trusting enough for that. It had taken two years before she’d even let Tovar anywhere near her body. But he doesn’t want this. Just the thought scares him worse than anything ever has. Badly enough that he can’t even have a conversation about it.

“We’re not together, you could’ve been with a hundred guys for all I know!” he presses, fully aware that he’s way out of line, but too riled up to stop himself.

Niki, meanwhile, is too stunned to speak. She just stands there, staring up at him in disbelief, no doubt trying to understand why he’s being so cruel when this isn’t her fault.

“Get the fuck out,” he repeats, low and menacing, making her shiver and step back.

She’s always known that he has a bad side, she’s seen it more times than most people around him. But she’s never seen it aimed at her before. The one reason why she had eventually decided to trust him with her pleasure, is precisely that he’s always allowed her to see those parts of him. That he’s honest, even about the things he finds ugly in himself. And that’s why she also believes him now.

He can see the moment in which that trust crumbles to pieces. Five years of progress, undone by something that is still, no matter how much he wants to deny it, not her fault. She grants him his wish, and leaves without another word, while tears break the dam of her lower eyelids, spilling down her cheeks in softly sparkling streams. And he wants to wipe them away, to wipe this whole fucking mess away, but he can’t.

-=¤=-

The ringing wakes him in the small hours of the night, tearing him out of a hazy dream filled with strange lights and ominous shadows, no doubt brought on by the bottle of whisky he’d all but gulped down in his efforts to silence the guilt and allow him to rest. It’s an unknown number. He never answers unknown numbers, so he mutes the call and tries to go back to sleep.

But it rings again. And again.

“I’m trying to sleep, stop fucking calling!” he snarls instead of a greeting, when he finally answers to try and shut the caller up so he can get some sleep.

“Sir, I’m calling from the County Hospital, I need to know if I’m speaking with Pero Tovar?” the male voice on the other end replies, and he sobers up slightly.

Why would anyone from a hospital be calling him? The last time he’d gotten hurt had been over a year ago, and there wouldn’t be any follow up to that this long after. Especially not in the middle of the night.

“Yes, this is him,” he says, considerably less confrontational.

“Mr. Tovar, my name is Frank and I’m a registered nurse at the County ER. We have a patient here named Nikita Morse and yours is the only name listed as her emergency contact in the ICE information on her phone,” the man answers, and something cold and terrible shoots through Pero’s blood over the two seconds that it takes for him to absorb what he’s heard.

“Is… Is she-…” he tries, needing to know if she’s alive, but he can’t get the word out. “What happened?” he asks instead.

“A car accident. As I understand it, Ms. Morse wasn’t responsible, but I’m afraid that it was a severe impact, sir,” the nurse explains, and when Pero still doesn’t reply, he continues. “You should know that she’s alive, but her condition is critical. You might wanna get down here, sir.”

“Right…” he answers in a daze, and then hangs up the phone.

He has never once imagined that she might get hurt. It hasn’t crossed his mind, because he’s never thought of her like that. Like someone he should care about in that way or to that extent. He’s never thought that he does. Niki is a friend, sure, but a fuck-friend more than anything else. She isn’t someone that he hangs out with socially in the classic sense.

They don’t have dinners or go to the movies or pubs or anywhere together. They meet up, have sex, and then part ways. Usually without even talking much and never staying the night. It’s simple and that’s why it works. Because there aren’t any feelings involved. Or so he thought.

He sits up on the side of the bed, holding his own head for a minute to try and stop the throbbing in his temples. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the alcohol or the shock, he just knows that it fucking hurts and he wants it to stop. He doesn’t want to care. Caring is so complicated. But she’s hurt, once again to no fault of her own, and he can’t just leave her there alone.

She doesn’t have anyone, and neither does he. She doesn’t know how to trust people, and he doesn’t want to. They’re both each other’s exception. That’s why they work.

He gets dressed and splashes cold water on his face. Not to sober up, the call took care of that, but to make sure that this isn’t a dream. He wishes that it was, so he’s disappointed when the water doesn’t jolt him awake. Even with the keys rattling in his hand, he almost forgets to lock the door. The drive passes in a blur while his thoughts erratically jump between memories and imagined scenarios, his fears creating haunting images before his eyes.

Parking is free outside the emergency room, but he wouldn’t have remembered to feed a meter regardless. He gives his name at the front desk and is shown to a smaller waiting room further into the building, reserved for friends and family of patients in intensive care. It’s empty when he walks in. No other patients are as bad as Niki tonight.

It takes thirty minutes before the door opens and a woman enters, closing it behind her.

“Mr. Tovar?” she asks, and he nods, feeling his throat go dry at the blank expression on her face. “My name is Penelope Jackson and I’m one of the doctors who worked on Ms. Morse when she was first brought in.”

The room is small enough that it only fits eight chairs. Three along the far wall, two on each side and one beside the door. He’s sitting on the first seat along the left-hand side wall, and she takes a seat in the single chair by the door, putting her at a ninety-degree angle to him.

“I’m gonna be frank with you, sir. The accident was bad, and her injuries are severe. She’s already been in surgery for three hours,” she begins, and he feels himself restlessly looking for something to busy his hands with. “But she’s fighting. The surgeon who’s working on her right now says that she’s remarkably stabile, considering her injuries, so she clearly wants to live, and that’s half the battle.”

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling or thinking, let alone how to express any of it.

“I’m sorry that it took us so long to call you. She had no ID on her when she arrived, and it took the police a while to find her purse and phone. They got thrown out of the car by the force of the impact.”

An image of contorted metal and a broken body in a driver’s seat unbiddenly flashes before his eyes, and he closes them against the disturbing picture.

“May I ask how you know her, Mr. Tovar?” Penelope inquires softly, but he doesn’t know how to respond.

The memories of how they met replace the disturbing image in his mind. The in-house mechanic who had come to fix his forklift when it had broken down in the middle of his shift at the warehouse. The way their short conversation hadn’t felt uncomfortable even once. The rare smile that her careful attempt at a joke had put on his lips. She’d told him later that she’d never felt so instantly secure around another person before that day.

“We work together,” he finally says, rubbing his face against his palms to try and scrub the mental pictures from his view.

Happy memories don’t seem to fit into this scenario. Doctor Jackson doesn’t look surprised to hear that his relationship with her patient isn’t closer than that. Obviously, it is, but he can’t find the words to talk about that with a stranger. However tolerant she might be, he doesn’t want this woman to judge them, and anyway, their relationship, however unusual or strange, is their own business.

“Do you know if she has any allergies or pre-existing medical conditions?” the doctor asks then, and he answers without looking up at her.

“Isn’t that in her records?”

“She doesn’t have any,” Penelope replies, and he snaps his head up to meet her eyes.

“What are you talking about? She broke her collarbone eight years ago. She fell off a horse and broke her left arm and four ribs down her left side a year after that. Of course, she has records, those things didn’t heal of their own.”

“We did notice those scars, among others, but her treatment must’ve been at a private medical facility, because we can’t find any records of her anywhere in the country.”

No… that makes no sense. To his knowledge, Niki isn’t and never has been anywhere near wealthy enough to afford private care. But the doctor has no reason to lie about it. There’s no way for him to figure this out right here and now, though, so he refocuses on her question. Although, he only knows of one medical issue that’s relevant to the current situation.

“Did you notice that she’s pregnant?” he asks quietly, as if just saying it out loud might make it more real somehow.

It feels like it does.

“Yes. A woman of fertile age being brought in without records or next of kin, we’re gonna try and learn as much as we can about before we send her down to surgery. Pregnancy is one of the first things we check in that situation. She’s about six weeks along. Is the child yours?”

He can’t say it out loud, so he merely nods again. But he knows that it’s true. No matter what he’d said to her last night, he damned well knows.

“For the time being, the fetus is alive, but I’m sorry to say that there are no guarantees. If she makes it through this, the healing is gonna take time and a lot of energy, and her body might not be able to do both,” the doctor says, and she sounds genuinely sad now.

Pero doesn’t know how he feels about this. He can’t tell if he’s sad or angry or worried. It’s just too much. He wants Niki to survive. But beyond that…

“We’ll let you know as soon as anything changes, okay?” Jackson offers, and again, he nods, unable to do anything but exist for the time being.

Unfortunately, as she steps out, the police walk in, and he instantly wants to tell them to fuck off so that he can have one god damned minute to try and think. His brain is a beehive, and the queen isn’t letting him think for himself. It’s just loud and incomprehensible and he wants to scream, if only to drown it out for a single second. Instead, he sighs deeply and runs both palms over the sides of his neck, before leaning back and letting his hands come to rest in his lap.

“Mr. Tovar?” the younger male officer asks while he and his partner, a middle-aged woman, take a seat opposite him.

“Yeah.”

“I’m detective Burns and this is my partner, detective Winson. We’ve been assigned to Ms. Morse’s case, and we’d like to ask you a few questions, if that’s alright?”

What a stupid question. What is he supposed to say? No? But they’re waiting for an answer, so the question apparently wasn’t just for show.

“Okay.”

“How long have you known her?” the man starts, taking out a notepad in the meantime.

“A little over five years. She’s a truck-mechanic at the warehouse where I work.”

“Do you know if she has any family?”

“She hasn’t mentioned anyone.”

“What about friends?”

“So far as I know, just me,” Pero shrugs, but both the detectives seem to find that answer interesting.

“You’ve known her for five years, but you have no idea what other people might be in her life at all?” the woman chips in, and he drops his gaze to the floor.

“We’re not… close. Not like that,” he admits, for the first time feeling ashamed of the fact that he really doesn’t know the one person in his life that he calls a friend.

“Like what, then?” the man presses, and Tovar nervously scratches at his own palms.

“We don’t talk much, we just… hook up.”

He doesn’t want to see their judgement, but he glances up anyway, to make sure that they understand what he’s saying. Unexpectedly, he’s met by indifference from them both, which actually sets him at ease.

“I see. So, you wouldn’t have noticed any suspicious activities around her?” detective Burns asks, thereby shifting Pero’s entire perspective on the events which have put him in this room tonight.

“Suspicious activities?” he asks, wanting to know if they’re referring to Niki doing something questionable, or someone else acting dubiously towards her.

“Any faces that kept popping up around her, cars that seemed to show up wherever she did… that kind of stuff.”

“You think someone was following her?” he wonders, and the thought makes him feel sick.

But it also makes him think back on what the nurse on the phone had said.

“Wait… the accident wasn’t her fault, right? Did someone hit her on purpose, is that what this is about? Is someone trying to kill Niki?” he demands, feeling anger begin to take hold of his senses.

Anger is less crippling than care and much easier than pain, so he clings to it, hoping that it’ll give him a place to put all the shit that he doesn’t know what to do with. And more than that, if there really is a human being who is responsible for this, that gives him someone to blame. Someone to hurt. But the policemen remain guarded.

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, sir,” detective Winson takes over. “Do you know anything about her past? Her hometown, school, sports or social activities that she took part in? Her interests or hobbies?”

“No. All I know is that she likes horses and dogs. And Chinese food.”

And me. He doesn’t say it, but he feels certain that Niki likes him. He doesn’t know how much she cares about him, maybe not at all, but he thinks so. He thinks that that’s why she sticks to their unspoken arrangement without fail. Because he’s all she’s got, which means that he’s probably the only one she really cares about. Enough to make sure that she’ll never lose him.

How horrible it must’ve been, then. To come to his house with the news of the baby, knowing that it would likely tear everything apart. Sitting there with the police, and his only friend on an operating table somewhere beneath his feet, he suddenly wonders what would’ve happened if he hadn’t thrown her out. If he’d had the courage to talk to her.

Would she have been safe right now?

“Alright, I’m gonna level with you here, Mr. Tovar, because you seem like the kinda guy that might go off and do something stupid with the wrong sort of idea in your head,” Winson continues, bringing him back to the moment.

He doesn’t like her tone, though. There’s something unsettling about it. He can’t tell what exactly, but it feels like this woman might be a problem waiting to happen. He hopes that he’s imagining it.

“Obviously, we haven’t had time to really investigate much yet, but the first step of any case is to learn more about the people involved. And since the other driver fled the scene, Ms. Morse is the only person that we have available to us, so that’s where we’ve focused our efforts so far. However, our initial look at her has already created quite a few question marks,” she explains, and the unsettling feeling in his gut intensifies.

“About what?” he asks, finding himself getting almost desperate to learn more about Niki, the one thing he has never wanted before today.

“Well, for starters, her personal file indicates that she’s attended public school in New York, with stellar grades and commendations from her teachers, before being accepted to MIT, where she studied mechanical engineering and graduated with honors. Quite a good start to life, wouldn’t you say?”

“Sure,” he shrugs, because while he knows that MIT is considered a prestigious school, academia has never interested or impressed him.

“Most people would agree. So, why then did she completely disappear after that?” the detective wonders, clearly not expecting him to have an answer as she carries on. “From the day she graduated, more than fifteen years ago, right up until she was hired by her current employer nearly six years ago, there’s no record of her at all. She’d never leased an apartment or bought a house, never had a membership card to anything, never bought a car, never traveled abroad because she’d never had a passport made. Then, six years ago, she pops back up here. She buys a car, rents an apartment and gets hired by your employer, all in the same day.”

Shit. Those are all pretty good examples of “suspicious activities”.

“Okay… What does that mean?” he asks, playing dumb, because he’s already got a few guesses of his own.

But he wants to know as much about where their heads are at as he can, and in which direction that they might be about to take this investigation.

“We don’t know yet. It’s been five hours since the crash and all we do know at this point, is that your friend’s past has a big hole in it. Which also means that we can’t be certain about anything concerning the accident.”

“So, what? You think that she could’ve done this to herself?”

“No, another car obviously hit her. But since this was a hit-and-run, we don’t know what happened or why. And until I know what’s going on with Ms. Morse, I’m not ruling anything out.”

-=¤=-

It takes another two hours of surgery before she’s taken off the table and brought to the ICU, where he’s allowed to see her for a few minutes. She looks… wrong. Her eyelids are too heavy, her body too limp. The color of her skin is off. He’s never seen her sleeping, but it looks more like she’s already dead rather than asleep. He’s been informed that her spleen, stomach and left lung has suffered damage, and that they’ve had to repair a tear in the wall of her heart. It all sounds so bad.

Her right arm is in a cast and there’s a thick bandage on her right thigh, where a large gash has been torn through the skin by either metal or plastic broken off from the center console of the car. Her face is covered in both smaller and larger cuts, some of whom have needed stiches, others that are just taped or glued. She has a concussion, but miraculously, her brain hasn’t swelled. Not yet anyway. They say that she shouldn’t be alive, but she is.

He doesn’t know what to say as he stands there beside her while nurses make sure that she’s properly connected to all the machines around her and that the pillows which support her injured arm and leg, won’t cause her any discomfort. She’s all he has, and yet he can’t find the words to tell her that. To ask her to keep fighting just so that he doesn’t have to lose her.

So much of her is broken and cut up that he doesn’t dare to touch her either, afraid that he might hurt her even with something as simple as a brush of his fingertips. He just stands there, staring at her as if he could wake her up by sheer willpower.

“Her left hand is undamaged,” one of the nurses says, in a voice which is so genuinely warm and caring that it almost makes him cry.

He’s not even sure why. Perhaps just from the knowledge that truly kind people still exist. Or maybe it’s just plain and simple gratitude. But he doesn’t cry, nor does he take Niki’s left hand. He turns and then walks out of the ICU and out of the hospital, back to his car. Once behind the wheel, he just sits there for a minute, breathing hard against the internal distress which plagues him.

He doesn’t know how to handle this. He shouldn’t leave. But he does.

The accident took place somewhere on her route home from visiting him, so he traces it, looking for the scene, not even sure why he wants to see it. He couldn’t have missed it if he’d tried. The rescue vehicles have left, but the police are still there, and the entire scene is cordoned off while the CSI team works. It looks like a bomb went off.

There’s debris everywhere. And not just shattered glass and pieces of the body of the car. Engine parts, entire sections of the exhaust system, things from the boot of her SUV have been thrown as much as a hundred feet from the actual point of impact. The car itself is unrecognizable, standing against a broken lamppost on the wrong side of the road. They’d had to cut the roof off to get to her, but the entire frame of the car is curved in the middle, where the other vehicle ran straight into it.

The side airbags saved her life, but if the point of contact between the two cars had been just one foot further towards the front of Niki’s car, her body would’ve taken the entire force of the impact. She could never have survived that. Which had undoubtedly been the intent. Now that he sees it, Pero is convinced that this crash happened on purpose. There’s no redlight, which means no cameras, and the speed limit of the road wouldn’t have enabled a crash this severe.

He can see how it had happened. Niki is a responsible driver; she obeys the law and is always focused on the task of driving. She had right of way and even if she hadn’t slowed, she would still have checked both directions as she came into the intersection. The other car would’ve had to be coming at her so fast in between the buildings to the left, that even if she had seen it, she wouldn’t have had time to swerve or even react.

But why would someone want a simple mechanic dead?

Clearly, Pero doesn’t know her, he’s never made much effort to, so it’s possible that those nine years in which no one seems to know where she was or what she was doing, she could’ve lived a different life. Perhaps one which made her some enemies. He doesn’t know her, but now he needs to. He needs to understand this. Because whatever happens next, the events of this night have changed things.

He doesn’t have any other friends, but he knows some people. People who can help him dig up some information. So, he leaves the crash-site and heads across town. It’s not even 5 am yet, but the man he needs to see is already up, he’s sure of it. The guy rarely sleeps more than four hours a night, courtesy of PTSD from his time in Afghanistan. And sure enough, the door opens just seconds after he knocks, and a pair of wide awake, crisp blue eyes seek him out.

“Tovar… Long time no see.”

“Hey, Will,” he nods, just as the man takes in the state of him.

“The fuck happened to you?”

“Shit. Shit happened,” he deadpans, and then sighs heavily and rubs his forehead for a moment. “I need you to help me find something.”

The man deliberates for a few beats, hearing that. There’s water under the bridge between them, lots of it, but he knows Pero well enough to know that he only ever asks for help when something is seriously wrong.

“Yeah, alright,” he finally decides, letting go of the door and turning to head back into his house, knowing that his guest will follow.

They walk into the kitchen where his host prepares coffee for them both, before they take a seat at the table. Will might be a war veteran, but he’s better off than most. After his service, he started up a private company which he can manage from home, and which keeps him in good financial order. The house isn’t particularly fancy, but if one looks around, there are items in there which seem too pricy for someone like him to afford.

Such as a top brand coffee maker. The type that can use those little capsules for each cup, or grind beans to the drinker’s preference. Further into the house, there’s a computer system which would make NASA envious, where he does all of his work, primarily consisting of background checks, which anyone can hire him to do, entirely legally. But his skillset is much more extensive than that.

“So, who am I looking at?” he asks once they’re settled.

“Her name is Nikita Morse. She works at OffSup too, but she’s a mechanic,” Pero explains, hoping that there won’t be too many follow-up questions.

“And why am I looking at her?”

“Because I think someone’s trying to kill her, and it seems to have something to with a nine-year period when the police can’t find any records of her.”

“Okay. But why am I looking at her?” Will repeats, obviously referring to why his guest has taken an interest in this person at all.

He doesn’t want to talk to anyone about Niki, and least of all someone who might ridicule him for it, but the man won’t help him unless he answers his questions.

“She’s a friend,” is all he says, hoping it’ll be enough.

“You don’t have friends.”

“She’s the exception.”

William thinks on that for a moment, studying his guest closely over the rim of his coffee cup while he takes another sip. He knows that Tovar deliberately avoids making friends with people, and he knows why. So, he has every reason not to believe him.

“You fucking her?” the man asks, and he damned near throws his coffee at him.

He doesn’t need to know that. He’s only asking as a way to gauge his guest’s honesty on the subject, which might determine whether or not he agrees to look into it.

“Yes,” Pero begrudgingly admits through tight jaws, daring the man to try and pry any further, but he wisely decides not to.

“So, what’s happened to bring you to my door?”

“There was an accident and now the police are looking into her life, and I got the feeling that they want to find something incriminating about her. But that might just be how my fucked-up brain interpreted a strained situation… I don’t know,” he offers, hoping that by being a bit more open, Will might feel somewhat more cooperative.

“You think they’re looking for a scapegoat? For an accident?”

“It wasn’t an accident. Like I said, there’s stuff in her past that doesn’t add up and I need to know what the hell it is before the cops find out, or I’ll have no chance to protect her.”

“You actually care about this woman?” his host asks, but with contempt more than incredulity, which makes Pero decide that the conversation is over.

“Please, just look into it,” he says, before standing and heading for the door, leaving his empty cup on the table.

On his way back to his house for a shower and some breakfast, and more coffee so that he’ll be able to think rather than just stay awake, it occurs to him that she might not be safe at the hospital either. Whoever it was that had hit her car, they must’ve left thinking or at least hoping that she’d died, so once they learn that she’s still alive, there’s every chance that they might try to silence her again.

The thought worries him. But so long as she’s in the ICU she should be safe. There’s too much staff there all the time for any unfamiliar face to slip past. The nurses all know each other and the entire support-staff by name, they have eyes on the patients constantly and because of the very limited timeframes in which loved ones are allowed to visit, they keep track of everyone who comes and goes.

But his hair is still wet when he returns to the ward, with a thermos mug in his hand since he’d opted to eat in the car on the way instead and has yet to finish the giant espresso that he’d made for himself. He registers with the nurse at the front desk of the ICU. The nametag on his chest says “Frank”.

“Sorry about before,” Pero apologizes, to which the nurse looks puzzled, so he adds: “I screamed at you on the phone.”

“Oh, that’s alright. Most people dislike being called in the middle of the night. But thank you,” Frank replies with practiced ease, no doubt used to verbal abuse on the job. “Nikita’s doing better, so if you like, you can stay with her for a bit.”

He’s surprised to hear that. It’s only been a couple of hours since she came out of surgery, after all. But it’s good news. And he’s in dire need of good news.

“Thanks,” he says and then walks over to the third slot where her specialized bed is parked in the middle of an array of machinery, and a blue sheet is all that separates her from the other slots.

There are four in total, but only one of the others is in use for the time being. Which means that the ward is pretty quiet that morning. The staff is working on computers, writing in charts and quietly talking amongst themselves. As he sits there, watching Niki fight for every breath, he listens closely to everything around him, trying to learn the noise of the hospital so that he’ll know if something changes.

But soon enough, looking at her takes hold of his entire focus. She’s so fragile. Breathing on her own but otherwise motionless, in that way that only dead things are motionless. Stationary. Static. It makes him want to shake her. To provoke some form of a reaction, even just a flutter of her eyelids. But he knows that he can’t.

He closes his eyes against the uncanny stillness, preferring even the darkness to the visible evidence of her torment. But it isn’t darkness that meets him when the image before him falls away. Instead, the memory of their first time together pops up in his mind. She had asked him if she could come over for a drink that night, but he’d known as soon as she’d spoken what she’d really meant by that. The words might have concealed her true motives, but her face and body had not.

She’d walked into his house that evening with a hunger in her eyes. He’d offered her a beer and after just one swig, she’d stepped closer to him, eyeing his lips and licking her own. The kiss had been chaste. Brief and tentative, like a person about to take a bath, putting their fingers in the water first, to check the temperature. But they’d both wanted more, and they’d both asked for it, with everything except words.

Her hands had been demanding on his hips, craving friction, and he’d given it to her. She’d been so brave that night, letting him explore her skin, learn her desires and soft spots, her cravings and pleasures. And in turn, he’d shown her his. In just a couple of hours, they’d learned more about each other than they had in the two years leading up to it.

He has never failed to make her come. She looks so beautiful when she climaxes that he would never settle for less than getting to see it at least once each time. She never fails to make him feel complete. More than just satisfied, he feels proud and grateful when she reaches for him. When she tells him how much she loves what he does to her, even when he does his damnedest to tease and frustrate her. Even when he’s in a mood and needs to take before he can give.

Those are the only times that he feels ashamed. The only times he worries that she might not let him touch her again. He’s rough when he gets like that, but he never wants to hurt her, or make her scream. He’s never told her that, but she still knows it. She knows what he feels better than he does himself, but she never tries to teach him how to better understand himself. If that was something he wanted, she assumes that he’d ask for it.

He opens his eyes again, leaving behind the soft shimmer of the sweat on her skin after she’d come undone for him that first time, within his mind’s eye where nothing can ever destroy it. He returns to the ICU. Her skin is too dry here, in the air-condition.

“Good morning, Mr. Tovar,” a familiar voice says to his right, and he looks up to find Doctor Jackson coming to a stop beside him. “I see you’ve been through a shower. Or did you just stick your head in the sprinklers outside?”

His hair is still not dry. He runs a hand through it to try and get some more air into it.

“Went home for a bit,” he answers, and she hums in agreement.

“Good. Don’t forget to take care of yourself too. But anyway, I just wanted to let you know that my shift is over now, and that Doctor Leo will be replacing me for the dayshift. He’ll be coming by in a while to check on her.”

“How is she?” he asks, hoping to hear that the doc can read something out of all those monitors that he can’t, and that Niki is still improving.

“You know, throughout all of this, her heart has never faltered,” Penelope says, and there’s admiration in her voice. “Even when she was first brought in, broken and shocked and having lost so much blood, her heart drummed steady and firm. That’s what convinces me that she’s gonna make it. The machines tell me that her vital signs are good, but I don’t trust them even half as much as a person’s heart.”

She squeezes his shoulder gently, and then leaves, but her words stay with him. He likes those words. They give him peace of mind.

A little while later, a nurse he hasn’t met before, another dayshift replacement, approaches him and tells him that he has to leave for a while. He doesn’t protest. But he doesn’t step any further away than that he can still see everyone who walks into her slot. Doctors and nurses walk in and out, the sheet is pulled back and forth in between procedures and cleaning routines for her wounds, new IV bags are placed. Everything is fine.

Until he walks in. Pero knows the moment he sees him, stepping into the ward and stopping to survey the area, that he doesn’t belong. He’s too calm. Practiced sort of calm. The ICU is a place of distress, either internal or external, but both are visible in all the people who wander around in there, save for the staff.

This man isn’t here to meet a loved one, he’s here to work. But if he was part of the staff, he wouldn’t need to orient himself in the environment. He wouldn’t stop just inside the door, he’d go to his colleagues, or find the locker rooms and get changed. Tovar watches him as he locates Niki, stares at her as though she was little more than a sheet of paper, and then turns around and leaves.

She’s not safe here anymore. But how the fuck is he supposed to get her out of here in her state? Where does one even hide an intensive care patient?

-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-=¤=-

Part 2

Thank you for reading, and remember: I have no taglist anymore. Follow @sirowsky-stories and turn on notifications for updates on my writing :)

#pedrostories1k #pero tovar fanfiction #pero tovar x original female character #pero tovar x ofc #modern!au #the great wall fanfiction #the great wall au #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories

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torturedcoveydepartment · 9 months ago

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I’ve noticed you’re a fan of both Taylor Swift and tbosas, so what songs do you think radiate Lucy Gray Baird vibes?

IS THIS REALLY THE REPUTATION I HAVE ON HERE? LOVE IT. I have a burning passion for both of these!! This will by all means become a fangirling moment of mine, but that’s the thrill ain’t it? No but really. Here’s my list of songs that could have been written by Ms Lucy Gray Baird, originally from the musical genius and cat lady Taylor Alison Swift <3

Should’ve said no is definitely a song that she would’ve written as discovering that Billy Taupe went behind her back, messed up badly and became a total asshole.

“It’s strange to think the songs we used to sing. The smiles, the flowers. Everything gone // You shouldn’t be begging for forgiveness at my feet. You should’ve said no, baby and you might still have me”

Mean walks the same path. I’d like to imagine her singing it wherever she went after Coriolanus went crazy, whether that’s up north or in the afterlife. Also something after Billy Taupe’s fuckery.

“I bet you got pushed around, somebody made you cold. But the cycle ends right now cause you can’t lead me down that road and you don’t know what you don’t know // Some day I’ll be living in a big old city, and all you’re ever gonna be is mean”

Never grow up fits as something the covey would cook together about Maude Ivory and Clerk Carmine. Potentially also about Lucy Gray. Though I feel like she could have written it about her younger cousins - especially after the games, wishing they’ll never have to go through the capitol’s sick entertainment game.

“Your little eyelids flutter cause you’re dreaming. So I tuck you in, turn on your favorite nightlight. To you everything is funny, you have nothing to regret // Don’t you ever grow up, it could stay this simple”

Haunted feels like a Lucy Gray written song right after witnessing Coriolanus shooting Mayfair. Especially something she came up with after he lied to her about “his old self”. We know the covey claims Lucy Gray to be the poet in their family, so she could easily have came up with it even in the moments of doubt and fear.

“You and I walk a fragile line, I have known it all this time, but I never thought I’d live to see it break. It’s getting dark and it’s all so quiet and I can’t trust anything now. And it’s coming over you like it’s all a big mistake // Something made your eyes go cold”

Sad beautiful tragic makes me think of Lucy Gray right before the games as she gets to the point where maybe? just maybe she’s falling for Coriolanus.

“I meet you in warm conversations. We both wake in lonely beds. In different cities and time. Is taking its sweet time erasing you, and you’ve got your demons and darlin’ they all look like me. Cause we had, a beautiful magic love there. What a sad, beautiful tragic love affair”

Before the reaping a part of her still missed Billy, so Better man could possibly fit into those mixed feelings of disappointment, longing, grief and aggression.

“Sometimes in the middle of the night I can feel you again. And I just miss you and I just wish you were a better man”

I bet you think about me as she watched Coriolanus continuing torturing and kill children because of a relationship that ended on bad feet.

“I bet you think about me, in your organic shoes and your million dollar couch. I bet you think about me when they say oh my god she’s insane, she wrote a song about me”

Bad blood. Utter disappointment and anger. When Coriolanus “chased” her down the woods.

“Cause baby now we got bad blood. You know it used to be mad love. So take a look what you’ve done. Cause baby now we got bad blood. Did you have to do this? I was thinking that you could be trusted”

Look what you made me do gives me vague vibes of hate towards Coral and her pack. Trying to poison them (succeeding with one of em!! Too bad Dill died)

“I don’t like your little games. Don’t like your tilted stage // I’ve got a list of names and yours is in red underlined // I don’t trust nobody and nobody trust me. I’ll be the actress staring in your bad dreams”

MY TEARS RICOCHET. UGH MY ALL TIME FAV SONG. ISNT IT OBVIOUS? The bridge is SO Coriolanus and Lucy Gray coded after they fell apart. Lullabies stolen by death.

“And I can go anywhere I want, anywhere I want just not home. And you can aim for my heart, go for blood. But you would still miss me in your bones. And I still talk to you, when I’m screaming at the sky. And when you can’t sleep at night - you hear my stolen lullabies”

Mad woman. No one really accepted her for who she was. Not district 12. Definitely not the capitol. In the book the hanging tree got banned to perform due to its real upbringing on unfair and cruel practices.

“No one likes a mad woman, you made her like that // I’m taking my time, taking my time cause you took everything from me. Watching you climb, watching you climb over people like me”

The lakes. OBVIOUS. AGAIN. Song she wrote during their visit at the lake, her, Coriolanus and the others of the covey. Planning on running away with him to live in the wilderness, catching their own food and never looking back.

“What should be over burrowed under my skin, in heartstopping ways of hurt. I’ve come to far to watch some namedropping sleaze tell me what are my words worth. Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die - I don’t belong, and my beloved neither do you”

There is something about Cowboy like me that gives off Lucy Gray energy, especially right before the games. Her job is practically putting on a charm and performing (not to mention she’s REAL GOOD at it. Accustomed to tricking others by feigning love, probably like coryo and her as they tried to gain affection out of one other.

“I’ve got some tricks up my sleeve, takes on to know one // You’re a cowboy like me, perched in the dark, telling all the rich folks anything they wanna hear // Now you hang from my lips like the garden of babylon. With your boots beneath my bed, forever is the sweetest con”

Anti-hero, SHE’S DEFINITELY NOT ONE. But when first speaking to Coriolanus again she claims herself to be a murderer when in reality, she’s just a girl with willingness to survive. Lucy Gray is a confident and determined girl, but there’s a not a doubt her mind is playing tricks on her from time to time - especially after the games.

“It’s me. Hi! I’m the problem it’s me. At tea time everybody agrees. I stare directly at the sun but never in the mirror. It must be exhausting always rooting for the antihero. // Did you hear my covert narcissism. I disguise as altruism? Like I’m some kind of congressman. Tale as old as time”

Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve. None of her past lovers have stayed true, besides her life never treated her fairly either. Coriolanus and the capitol really did steal her childhood, even if it was hers first.

“And now that I’ve grown, I’m scared of ghosts. Memories feel like weapons // God rest my soul. I miss who I used to be, the tomb won’t close // Living for the thrill of hitting you where it hurts. Give me back my girlhood it was mine first”

Carolina from where the crawdads sings is such a covey tale song!!

Safe & Sound is pretty self explanatory, ain’t it?

#the hunger games #tbosas #hunger games the ballad of songbirds and snakes #lucy gray baird #hunger games #taylor swift #rachel zegler #where the crawdads sing #taylor’s version #swifties #swiftie #the eras tour

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reigenismyhusband · 6 months ago

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10 5 4 for the S/I asks :3

THANK UUUU these are so fun to do thank u!!!!!!!! ask game post here!

also i answered 5 here but i answered it again bc i thought of something else hehe. TY NOEE

4 – Which of the elements best represents your S/I? Which of their aspects does it resonate with? (e.g.: their personality, astrology sign, powers, etc)

OOOOOH this one is so cool, im assuming it means like..elements like fire water etc? ace is definitely more of an earth guy; hes stubborn, hes set in his ways, and he strives to be the best he can. it really relates to his powers too, hes really good at making barriers and defending himself, but when it comes to offense, he gets really scared of hurting people and doesnt like to fight back! hed much rather stand his ground or run away.

5 – Is there any symbolism within your S/I's design that usually goes unnoticed? (e.g. colors in their outfit that reflect their personalities, their favorite flower and it's meaning, etc)

i wanted to answer this again BCCC i think his favorite flowers would be forget me nots, theyre really pretty (and also my favorite irl) but i think itd be a nice symbol of how he feels forgotten in everyday life (ie at school or at home) but reigen and mob help him feel like hes got people that actually care and wont forget him :')

10 – What was the scariest moment of your S/I's life? Did it change any aspect of their being or were they just emotional for a brief period of time over it?

OH BOY. angst time! (short summary for those unfamiliar with mob psycho) so in canon there's an evil spirit that used to be a very powerful psychic that is possessing a young girl. this man's name is mogami, and tldr is he wants to hurt and kill people for reasons that happened in his life. the best psychics in the land are called to try and get him to stop possessing this girl by her dad, but none are successful. ace decides the only way to get him to stop is to send his own spirit into the girls head to psychically drive him out from the inside. while in there, he falls victim to mogami's powerful abilities; mogami traps him in an alternate dimension where he has no powers, no abilities, no friends. for six months ace is trapped in this hell, bullied and abused every day, slowly wearing him down. he has no one; he never meets reigen or mob, his parents are gone, his sister wont talk to him. he gets relentelessly bullied everyday, far more than he even does in real life. mogami's aim is to show him "how the world really works", how people are cruel and how he wants him to be hateful too. ace is able to keep his humanity and kindness even through all of this, but after six months after hes getting beat up Again, he finally snaps and fights back, killing one of his attackers. but before mogami can get ace more in his claws, (either dimple's spirit or mob's, depending on if mob is there) someone finally is able to enter the land ace has been living in and talk him back to reality, reminding him of the people who care about and love him, and hes able to overpower mogami and get out of there.

But. ace remembers those six months like they happened in reality; his time in there really changed him, and hes affected badly by it for a long time. he doesnt talk about the full extent of it for a while, but to the people around him who care, its evident hes changed by it. reigen pats him on the back a little hard once and it sends him into a panic attack, and he finally spills about all the horrible shit he went through, and reigen comforts him. he has flashbacks often, even years later. angst my beloved…

THANK YOUUUU FOR ASKING!!!!! THIS WAS SO MUCH FUNNN

#dokukoi #selfshipping fun #ask games #aces wild #TYSM AGAIN.....i love talking about ace and these give me a chance to expand his backstory n things #the angst oughhh #friend tag: noe!

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dykexenomorph · 4 months ago

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Bela Re8, Karlach Bg3, and\or Isobel Bg3 for the ask game!

not upset just wanna complete the set 👍

this got kinda long so im putting it under a readmore LMAO (character asks!!)

BELA DIMITRESCU:

HOW I FEEL ABOUT HER: HOW can i put this. she is everything to me. i think about her daily.shes my right hand arm. MAN. shes my everything. all of this but she doesn't even make the top ten in my list of favorite resi charas LMAO

WHO DO I SHIP WITH HER: well nobody. sorry for being lame it will happen again LMAO

NON ROMANTIC OTPS FOR HER: IM SORRY IM SO LAME I JUST LIKE HER FAMILY DYNAMIC. BELA HAS NO FRIENDS SHES A LOSER WHAT DO U WANT FROM ME MAN

UNPOP OPINION ABOUT HER: i dunno how to put it but i think the way i generally see/interpret her (and the other two sisters) are so blatantly different from what fanon is (or at least what it was BEFORE i gave up on the re8 tag) tht its my most unpop opinion? if tht makes sense idk its late and im tired

SMTH I WISH HAPPENED IN CANON: I SO BADLY WANT MORE CONTEXT FOR THE WAY THE DIMITRESCU'S OPERATED AND TREATED ONE ANOTHER. like YEAH they were killing maids and being generally dykeish and cruel in that castle but how were they sustaining this. what like. day to day things did they do. were the sisters close or did they just see each other as competition or what!!! im so curious about them it hurts AUGH

KARLACH CLIFFGATE:

HOW I FEEL ABOUT HER: AUGAUGATGALHGALJSFSDLAJ !!! hope this helps :D

WHO DO I SHIP WITH HER: my DURGE!!!!!!!!!!! (real answer though is probably minthara or shadowheart. i love the idea of minthara ALSO going back to avernus w karlach and wyll to help her fix her engine :3)

NON ROMANTIC OTPS FOR HER: WYLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! they have THE dynamic of all time <3

UNPOP OPINION ABOUT HER: the way people baby her is SO stupid and ridiculous. this is a woman who fought in a demon army for TEN YEARS. she saw what happened when elturel fell and did nothing because she was worried about what it'd mean for herself. YES she is a kind, giving, and heroic person NOW, but she hasn't always been (even if her reasoning is understandable). if i see one more person act like she can't understand or cope with some of the more morally questionable things the party encounters along the campaign im going to lose my mind

SMTH I WISH HAPPENED IN CANON: dunno if this counts but i wish we could do more in terms of touching her (for lack of better way to phrase it) in act 1. like let me be silly and use mage hand to high five (or whatever else) her. let me and wyll dump cold beer in her mouth like some sort of shitty frat party. idk its very silly but i want more goofy interactions w her where tav + the party try to find stupid ways around the engine issue!!!!!

ISOBEL THORM:

HOW I FEEL ABOUT HER: NOBODY LOVES HER MORE THAN I DO AND I MEAN THAT SO GENUINELY. ISOBEL THORM THEY COULD NEVER MAKE ME HATE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

WHO DO I SHIP WITH HER: im not answering this. come on now. lets get a grip. (aside from the obvious answer i also like her + dame alyin + shart. tht trio is everything to me <3)

NON ROMANTIC OTPS FOR HER: does jaheira count? they were stuck for SUCH a long time protecting last light together in the shadow curse, they had to have ended up being good friends i think?? i think about it ALL the time

UNPOP OPINION ABOUT HER: its hard to have an unpop opinion when nobody thinks about her character as anything other than an accessory for dame alyin. i will give u an unpop opinion when u can give me literally ANY non-alyin related opinion this fandom has about her LMAO

SMTH I WISH HAPPENED IN CANON: GIVE ME MORE SOLO ISOBEL INTERACTIONS PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. I WANT COMPANION ISOBEL. I WANT AN ISOBEL-CENTRIC QUEST (NO ACT 2 DOESNT COUNT LEAVE ME BE). WHY DO I ALWAYS LOVE CHARACTERS W THE LEAST AMOUNT OF CONTENT

#asks #THANK U FOR ASKING ABOUT IS/BEL I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ON HER AND NEVER GET TO TALK ABOUT HER #guy whos favorite characters are ppl with negative amounts of content: hey why does nobody ever ask me about this chara?#queue are my lucky star #(did not even remotely proof read this cuz im tired and lazy. sorry if its unreadable LOL)

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im-a-goddamn-cat · 9 months ago

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Neggie/Negan Smith x Maggie Rhee || Rated: G || Words: 696

Summary: Negan and Maggie take comfort in each other.

A/N: This is a Valentine's Day gift for my amazing girlfriend, Gaby (@daenerys-tarrgaryen & tudorregina on AO3)! :] I love you so much, sweetie! <3 I chose the prompt "touch starved" from the list that I was given.

AO3 || FF.net || ↓

......

They don't know how they ended up like this. In bed together curled up in each other's arms. They were enemies, they shouldn't be together like this. Yet here they were. Perhaps it was the fact that neither of them had been close to someone like this in a long time and were desperate for any sort of contact now. Touch starvation surely is a deadly thing it feels like. Or maybe they had finally been giving into feelings that had been buried for a while now. Nevertheless, here they were. They were laying on their sides facing each other, Negan on his right side and Maggie on her left. Their arms were draped over each other in an embrace.

Negan shifted a little to lean back and look at her face. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through her hair and she sighed in content. He admired her face and its beautiful features. He also briefly glanced down her body. Negan has always found her attractive ever since he first laid eyes on her. At first, it was just a silly lust for the widow he created but over time, it grew into true love. Getting to know her had just made him fall for her hard. He admired her fiery spirit, kind personality, and strength. It also made him feel even guiltier about the sins he committed. He hates that he hurt the woman he loves now so badly and he wishes that he could take it back, even if it meant she'd still be married to someone else. Another part of him also wished that she loved him back but he knew that she never would considering the trauma he put her through.… But then again, he never thought he'd get to be close to her like this either. Either way, he was overjoyed that she was allowing him to be like this with her.

Maggie was also admiring him in her own way. She looked over his face, taking in all his features, which she reluctantly admits to herself does look good. She may have also snuck a peak down his body as well but she would deny it. Maggie moved one of her hands to gently wrap around his neck and she rolled her thumb over the scar on his throat, the symbol of the beginning of his change, and Negan hummed in approval. Over time, Maggie has gained some sort of odd attraction towards Negan. She has tried to rationalize it by telling herself that it's just because she's been without someone in that way for a long time and that her brain is just focusing on him because of her obsession with him, but deep down, she knows it's because she is actually slowly falling for him. Getting to know him more and seeing the way that he has changed and continued to be a better man than he was has been building something inside her. She feels guilty for having an attraction to her husband's killer but she hasn't been able to stop it.

They slowly shifted again and moved their arms back around each other. Maggie leaned in and gave Negan a quick kiss, which caught him off guard but made him very happy, before she scooted closer into him and snuggled her face into his neck. Negan shifted to lean closer into her as well. He moved his head to gently place a kiss on the top of her head before laying his head back down. They pressed themselves as close to each other as they could physically get, soaking in the comfort from each other. Neither of them were ready to admit their feelings vocally but they were okay with showing it physically like this for now. They couldn’t get enough of each other, the feeling of contact with someone after so long and with someone they felt they were falling in love with was addicting. Nestled together, they took solace in each other’s presence. For the first time in a while, they felt at peace.

They don't know how they ended up like this. But neither of them would change a thing.

......

A/N: Thank you for reading! <3

#my fics #twd #twddc #neggie #negan x maggie #maggie x negan #negan #negan smith #maggie rhee #maggie greene #the walking dead #the walking dead: dead city #the walking dead dead city #dead city #twd fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fic

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ruvviks · 1 year ago

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hate, pain, and midnight for matvey. i do want to know about the old man

oc asks!

HATE: What does your OC hate? Why? How do they act towards the object of their hatred?

this one is very interesting because matvey hates unfairness first and foremost. from his perspective, arasaka fired him and his wife nadya because of something related to vitali, their son, that they had NOTHING to do with and it angered him immensely which honestly on its own is understandable. problem however is that nadya automatically put the blame on vitali- and with matvey's undying loyalty to his wife he ended up plotting revenge as she asked of him against vitali, despite the fact all of it was entirely out of vitali's control

matvey's hypocrisy is part of why the whole dobrynin family is so fucking dysfunctional. nadya has been causing most of the issues by being insane about everything and everyone but matvey always sided with her, viewing things from her perspective as if to keep up appearances like what they used to have to do to their own parents to be allowed to be together. except those parents are no longer there so he's performing for no one and with that being incredibly unfair toward everyone around him while that's the EXACT thing he himself hates which is what's making him side with nadya (because nadya is always yelling about how life is so unfair to her, and what's matvey to do other than believe her?)

some other more regular human things that he hates would be 1) being filmed in public, 2) ketchup and 3) the smell of gasoline

PAIN: What's the worst pain your OC has ever felt? Do they have a high pain tolerance?

despite being the broker and all that, matvey hasn't actually seen a lot of actual combat like vitali has for example. he is a boxer however and has done plenty of matches in the past, so the worst he's ever had would be a couple of broken bones. he's never been stabbed or shot before (which is quite the accomplishment in night city especially as a banker and later a high-ranked executive in arasaka)

he has a pretty decent pain tolerance because of his boxing history but also it's been a while. he's nearing his 60s. so viktor punching him right on the fucking nose in the broker fic would've definitely caused some tears to well up in the eyes that's for sure LMAO

MIDNIGHT: What keeps your OC up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

matvey has pretty bad insomnia and could easily stay awake for the whole night if he wants. anything could keep him up and plenty of things have kept him up in his days- whether it's stress at work, at home, worries about meetings or deals he has to make or whatever. after he got fired it was mostly the "what now?" that kept him up at night; not necessarily worrying about money since they still had plenty, but nadya was expecting him to get revenge and how was he gonna do that? he figured it out eventually. bunch of highly unnecessary theatrics. but that took a lot of planning and a lot of sleepless nights

nowadays he would have a lot of nightmares. it takes a while for him to actually understand the gravity of his crimes and how badly he spiraled and all that but the visual of vitali bleeding out in his arms is something he will never get out of his head and it continues to haunt him in his nightmares, even though vitali is still very much alive

#asks #secondsundering #ask:matvey #oc asks #THANK YOU. I AM OBSESSED WITH THIS GUY HE'S SO INSANE #i didn't proofread any of this so i hope it makes sense but basically. if matvey and nadya had just gotten divorced #then none of the broker fic would've happened. amen #they do get a divorce by the way. because of like. the everything. and also because of nadya cheating on him with ravager #so now it's time for old man yaoi with matvey and viktor and you can thank me later for that xx

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bluerosesonata · 1 year ago

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Enya (Tav OC)/Astarion- to be named, to be known

[author notes: Takes place before the invasion of Moonrise. Contains vague Spoilers for Act 2 and Astarion’s storyline.

I still have not finished the game (currently mid act 3. yes I’m in the crypt and suffering) so be kind and don’t tell me Jack shit.]

[AO3 link ]

Given everything that was going on in his life, Astarion reflected, this whole situation was a bit absurd. Here he was with a mindflayer parasite eating holes in his brain, monster hunters on his trail, a demonic contract carved into his back, working with a team of the weirdest people he had ever met to kill a necromancer that refused to die— and yet somehow, four simple words had him out in the woods, pacing, feeling the most anxious he had in weeks.

“Can we talk later?”

It was clear Enya had meant ‘alone, in private ’— and the gentle cadence of her low voice implied ‘about Us.’

Us.

A few nights ago, Enya had used that word to ask him about— well, whatever was going on between the two of them.

It was an apt, but aggravatingly simple way to describe it. Enya and Astarion. Astarion and Enya. An elf and a Tiefling. A man and a woman. Us.

If he was a normal man, maybe that’s all it would be. Just another word your lover(?) used to talk about the two of you. But he wasn’t a normal man, and the word had unexpectedly made him…ache. That he…liked it.

And that worried him.

It certainly didn’t help that just a few days ago, the whole thing with the drow lead him to tell her how he wasn’t…what people wanted him to be. How he didn’t…well, he didn’t hate sex. That would be an oversimplification of things. But it had become something he just…Did. A wretched routine for a miserable little puppet. And that he was still not quite used to being his own person.

Astarion fully expected her to be upset. Annoyed, even. But in response, Enya just said that she…cared about him. That she never wanted him to do anything he didn’t want to. She quite literally embraced him— not as pretense, not as foreplay— but held him, in a way he hadn’t been touched in…god knows how long.

It was all… too perfect.

She was too perfect.

That was what really put his teeth on edge about all of this. Because there was no way she was actually perfect. Enya was a very good liar. Astarion had seen her get away with feeding people some of the most bald-faced bullshit he’d ever heard, and had them asking for seconds. On its own, he considered this a positive trait - it made her a powerful ally, and had gotten them out of a lot of scrapes. But Enya could also have an irritatingly tender heart.

So it wasn’t impossible she’d just been paying him lip service. That she’d shown him hope and gentleness and kindness all in preparation to cruelly, completely shatter him, just like— he stopped himself, rubbing his temples.

No. That wasn’t fair.

This…wasn’t like that. She wasn’t like him. He was getting himself worked up for no reason.

No matter what happened, he told himself, he would survive this.

He always had.

From about 20-odd meters away, in the shade of a copse of trees, a shadow watched Astarion pacing, her indigo skin blending gently into the blues and greens of the wooded twilight. She sighed to herself, her pronged tail flicking in irritation. You’ve really mucked this up, haven’t you?

The very fact she could just stand here and not be noticed by him was a testament to how badly she’d messed up. He was usually quick to notice traps, and he could almost always tell when they were being watched. But now…

Why didn’t you just say something normal? Something like, ‘I want to spend some alone time with you,’ or literally anything else, she scolded herself.

Well, actually, she’d specifically decided not to say something like that because it sounded like wanting to have sex, which would be more than a little gauche right now. For all her so-called eloquence, she couldn’t find a better way to put this besides “talking later.” She absentmindedly ran a taloned finger over the silver rings set into the cusp of her ear, and bit her lip. No time like the present, I suppose. She stepped out into the evening light, and called out to him.

A bit later, they sat side by side, on a fallen log nestled into the hillside, where they had a lovely view of the setting sun. It could have been romantic, even— if the two of them weren’t buzzing with anxiety. Their respective parasites, resonating with one another’s distress, only made them even more attuned to the already obvious tension.

For a few minutes, nothing was said. They just sat there, not looking at one another— not even using the tadpoles to delve deeper, for fear of what they would see— as the sun crept lower and lower in the sky. At the same time, both broke the silence.

“So…”

“Sooo….”

The tension couldn’t sustain itself. They both chuckled and grinned sheepishly at each other, sharp canines for sharp canines.

“You’re wearing your hair loose,” Astarion observed. Enya nodded, giving a weak smile as she tucked a long strand of purplish-red hair behind her ear. Typically, her long hair was neatly rolled up, braided, and pinned into a configuration almost reminiscent of folded wings. Today, it hung wavy and loose, tumbling over her bare shoulders, framing her collarbone, partly obscuring the centipede tattoos on her cheek and shoulder.

In truth, this small change made Astarion feel even more nervous. It felt…significant. Almost like he was being tested, somehow.

What about? He had no clue. But it made him feel wary, like the two of them were dualists circling one another for an opening, or animals sizing each other up for a fight.

On top of that, Enya’s hair being loose made her long, slender neck even more appealing, and it was taking a lot of self control for him to not glance at it. He forced himself to look into her eyes— her lovely, blue-orange eyes, with sclera black as pitch— but he saw something there that made him look away.

There was affection, yes, but under that…

Guilt.

Ah. So, this is it, then.

“Can I…hold your hand?”

He offered it limply, numbly. Possibly for the last time. Sure. Why not.

Careful to be gentle with her talons, Enya held his hands in hers, gently rubbing her thumbs all over in small circles, almost like she was trying to return circulation to his pale hands.

She loved his hands. They felt somewhat incongruous with the speed and nimbleness they moved. They were not particularly slender, nor were not particularly soft or rough (unlike her fingers, callused from plucking lyre strings) but they were still strong and quick with a bow. His nails were short, unvarnished— but he clearly worked to keep them clean and buffed, which she found very charming and dandyish of him.

They were so… different from other hands she’d held in her life. Pale, of course. Always moving, always being used in conversation. Not cold, like you might expect for someone who was dead, but pleasantly cool. She liked that, since Tieflings always ran a little warmer. (Or so she’d been told.)

“So… I’m sorry for the way I called you out here.” He didn’t respond. “I just thought, given how much I know about you, you deserve to know more about me.” After all, we might not get another chance, but she left that thought unvoiced.

He blinked.

“I- erm, you…what?”

Enya grimaced.

Oh dear. I’ve broken him.

“Well, only if you want to. You don’t need to—“

He sat up straight, drawing his hands back from hers, and the atmosphere shifted rapidly. Enya watched as he opened this mouth slightly, then shut it, his face flashing through several emotions— confusion, relief, joy, irritation— before settling on indignation, brow furrowed. His hands were still pulled up and back, fingers curled, as if someone had told him to surrender with his hands in the air, and then called him something particularly offensive.

“Darling, do you have any idea what I’ve been through today because of your little theatrics? I—“ he shut his mouth promptly, possibly realizing he was about to admit he had been emotionally compromised. Instead of admitting this, he gave a little huff of a laugh, crossed his arms, and looked away, pretending to be angrier than he actually was. “Well, out with it, then. For your sake, I hope it’s interesting.”

She couldn’t help but smile, and a tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, a direct contrast to the irritated, dismissive little wave he then gave for her to continue. Enya paused, trying to find the right way to begin.

“It’s funny. Bards typically have a story or a poem for everything and every occasion. But here I am telling my own, and I’m suddenly at a loss for words.”

“The beginning is a traditional place to start,” Astarion replied glibly. Seeing her brow furrow, he softened his tone and added, “…If that is important to you, that is.”

“No, no, you’re perfectly right,” Enya conceded. “The problem is,” she said, trying to pick her words carefully, “I…am not entirely ready to discuss some aspects of it, if that’s all right with you.” Seeing his slight frown, she added, “I’m not keeping it secret, okay, it’s just…” she made a vague, hopeless gesture. “The timing isn’t quite right.”

It was unfair of her, she knew. It was unfair to know the dark rooms of his past, to see the pain that was there, then ask that he not open certain doors inside of her. He looked pensive, then sighed.

“Could you at least promise me that whatever it is isn’t someone or something that’s going to try and kill us? Because I am quite over this camp having those come to light on a weekly basis.”

“No. In that regard, I don’t think it will be a problem.”

Her bitter smile must have said more than she thought, because his face softened.

“It’s all right, darling,” he smiled, “What’s romance without a little mystery, hmm?”

She considered it.

“Divorce, usually.” He lit up at that.

“Ohhh, now that would be novel. I’ve never been divorced.”

“Have you been married, though?”

“Now now,” he chuckled, “A gentlemen never tells.” She rolled her eyes in response, which made him laugh.

“So.”

“Yes.”

“Astarion, I….” Enya stopped, sighed. Fidgeted a bit. “My name isn’t actually Enya.” A single raised eyebrow.

“It’s not a criminal thing,” she assured him quickly, “and I have gone by Enya for a while now. It was a nickname I picked out for myself when I started working in Baldur’s Gate,” she explained with a sigh. “But I haven’t spoken my given name out loud to anyone in over a decade, and…” she trailed off. Maybe this was stupid. Why did this matter, really?

“Well,” he said, breaking through her thoughts, “I’d love to hear it, darling. Or we can just write this off as a waste of an evening. Your choice.” She pointedly ignored his little jab.

“My name- the name my parents gave me- was Lízellenya. Lízellenya Merlo.” He repeated it, softly, sounding it out, and despite herself, she felt a blush creep across her face. He asked her how she spelled it, then said it again, softer. It was strangely lovely when he said it, she thought.

“It’s a lot of syllables,” he said at last, making a face. “I can see why you changed it.” She burst out laughing.

“You always know just what to say,” she sighed, wiping away a tear. “Honestly, even as a kid, I didn’t like it very much.“

“I can only imagine. And Merlo? Like the wine?” She smiled.

“No, like a blackbird. Mehr-lo.” His brow furrowed.

“How the hell is that like a blackbird?” Enya shrugged.

“I dunno. It’s just what my dad said once.”

The two of them quietly watched the stars slowly fill the night sky.

“You know,” he said slowly, unsure of himself, “There are a lot of things I don’t know about you. Nor you about I. Perhaps we could change that. We could make a little game of it — a question for a question.”

“That’s…uncharacteristic of you,” Enya replied, suspicious. “What happened to all that stuff about mystery?” He smiled, sharp teeth gleaming in the twilight.

“Call it a…passing fancy. If you’re not interested, though—“

“No, no. It sounds…fun, actually. Maybe. As long as we make a few rules.”

“Such as…?”

“If either of us gets a question we don’t want to answer, we can pass. No digging. Just move on. Okay?” He nodded.

“Quite reasonable of you. I agree.”

She turned toward him.

“All right, Astarion. You go first.”

“Hm, well…let’s start with something simple. A little dry, maybe, but important to know. How old are you?”

“Astarion, really…” Enya chuckled.

“Ah, older than thirty, then.” Another fit of giggling. “Oh, please, that’s the only reason younger women ever get flustered about their age. I’m over 200, darling, I really don’t care. Just answer the question, please.”

“Fine, fine— I’m forty-two. Forty-three in a few months.”

“I see,” he replied crisply, “now, a follow-up question, because that means nothing to me— how long do Tieflings live, exactly?“

“Mmm, that depends— with or without an illithid parasite in their brains?” He gave her a withering look. “Okay, okay, sorry. A bit longer than humans, I think. 20 years longer, maybe 30 more. It’s not even a drop in the bucket compared to—“ she gestured to all of him, “you know. But the oldest I’ve ever met was 80.”

He was quiet a moment, taking that in.

“That’s…unfortunate,” he said eventually.

“Please don’t start acting like I’m on death’s door.”

“We are, though. All of us. Plus you’re always having us stick our necks out for some sad sack. One of these times it’s going to stick.” Enya grimaced.

“I regret agreeing to this.”

“Oh, come now. You haven’t even asked me a question yet.”

“All right,” she sighed, “What’s your favorite color?” He made that same little huff of a laugh again.

“That’s your question? Really? Anything at all, and you ask-“ he caught her gaze. “ugh, fine.” He shifted his sitting position, and sighed. “Seeing as I’m not five years old, I don’t have a favorite color.” he gave Enya a look clearly intended to be piercing, “But lately, I’ve found myself quite fond of blue.”

Enya simply stared at him, arms crossed expectantly, and raised an eyebrow.

“What, nothing? That was good! You have to admit that was clever!”

One of the things that Enya had learned about Astarion is that most of the time, if you just stared at him in silence for a bit, he would either fold like a house of cards, or work himself into a lather. Sometimes both.

“UGH, fine, goddamnit…” he muttered with a distinctive whine in his voice, “I- I don’t know! I know it’s not red. God knows I’ve had enough of red. Black? Maybe?”

“Black’s not a color.”

“The hell it isn’t!”

“It’s a neutral.”

“Oh, For fuck’s sake...” he grumbled, “well, what’s your favorite color then? Hmm?”

“Is that your next question?”

“Sure! Fine! Since it’s clearly of the utmost import that one has a favorite color.”

“Green,” she replied without a moment of hesitation, “Emerald green. But I like seafoam green and turquoise as well.”

“God. You’re insane.” Enya gave him a smug smile.

“I have been told that is a part of my girlish charm.” She crossed her arms. “My turn again, then. What’s your last name?” He cringed.

“Pass.”

“Okay. Fair. Won’t press on it.” A small, dissatisfied sigh. “Then…have you had many lovers in your life?” He gave a hiss-like exhale, his lips pressing together into a flat line. Enya realized quite suddenly she had crudely, stupidly stepped into something quite sensitive.

“Shit, Astarion, I didn’t mean—“

“Yes,” he answered, interrupting her. His eyes looked hollow and flat. “I have.” When his eyes flicked to meet hers, the intense look in them made her feel like the game had…changed. “Many. Very, very many. Does that hurt your feelings? Does that…bother you?”

He had gone very still, in a way that reminded Enya of a creature on the hunt— or was it was like an alerted deer freezing stock-still, bracing itself to flee…?

Either way, she thought, I should tread carefully.

“No, it doesn’t bother me. Is that your question for me?”

“No. I’ll ask the same of you. How many lovers have you had before me?”

That’s not really the same question, she wanted to protest, but the look in his eyes and his unnatural stillness made her think better.

“That’s…difficult to answer,” she replied slowly. The sweat was starting to bead on her neck. “Do you just mean, sexually, or…relationships?” He gave her a flat, charming smile.

“Whichever you think is more important.”

She didn’t need to roll high on investigation to know that was a trap, and they both knew it. The real question was, would she tell him? She shut her eyes and exhaled, knowing that she had gone still now, too.

“Three formal relationships. But…like you? Just the one.”

“Man or woman? Or neither?”

“Woman.”

“How long?”

“Around three years.”

“What was her name?”

Exhale.

“Pass.”

They both relaxed at the same time. Whatever had its claws in them seemed to dissolve, like someone’s concentration had broken during a spell. They sat in that quiet relief for a moment, both troubled by their own thoughts. When he met her eyes again, the look he gave her would be bordering on apologetic, if it didn’t look so pained.

“What do you mean by…’like me’?” His voice was soft. Not accusatory. Just…lost. Confused.

There was no point in lying to him. She turned back to the horizon.

“Our relationship was…intense.” Life changing. Inevitable. “She didn’t know what she wanted from me.” Until she did. “And she had her demons. It didn’t end well.” She met his eyes, silently begging him to let it go. “But that’s where the similarities end. Back then I was young, and I was stupid. That’s all.”

He wasn’t happy about it, and he knew she could tell. He wanted to ask more.

He wanted to ask, ‘what am I, to you?’

He wanted to ask, ‘am I just another episode in a long line of tragedies?’

And most of all, he wanted to ask her, ‘what are the odds that the two of us will end any differently?’

But instead of pressing, he gave her a tight smile.

“You’re still young, my dear. And judging by your plans to have us fight an immortal necromancer on his own turf, you’re still incredibly stupid.” She felt a smile tug at her lips.

“Hey. That makes you stupid for following me.” The moon had risen by now, full and bright, washing the two of them in silver.

“Astarion.” He turned to her.

She wanted to ask, ‘If we are cured tomorrow, will I ever see you again?’

She wanted to ask, ‘When I tell you everything, will you resent me for it?’

But more than anything, she wanted to ask, ‘Since we could die tomorrow, would you hold me tonight?’

Instead, she just asked, “is it okay if i kiss you goodnight?” He smiled, and she smiled back. Under the moonlight, fangs met fangs, and talons gently intwined with pale fingers.

For now, they both thought, this would do.

#im about to post SO much self indulgent fic here bro.#bg3 #bluerose-ocs #bluerose gate 3 #bluerose txt #bg3 OC x canon #tav oc #Lízellenya #Lízellenya/Astarion #bluerose writing #bg3 fic

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anongalactic · 1 year ago

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Follow up to this previous rant, I've seen some interpretations throughout the years that come reeeeeally close to the point I'm making here but miss one key part.

This is mainly a big ol rant about Over Heaven specifically so spoilers ahead! You've been warned!!

(I also want to preface this by saying that I am not here to say this canon, or to debate canonicity of spin-offs or whatever! This is my personal analysis and my personal interpretation of a character and a book. I am not stating this as fact. If you're gonna reply with just "___ isn't canon" then you're wasting your time.)

If you're looking at Dio and Jonathan's relationship through JUST the "Dio's one-sided freakazoid obsession" angle, you're missing half the story. It dehumanizes his motivations. He absolutely is a freak and obsessed, but there is unfortunately even more going on under the surface. And I'd say its even worse! I wish it stopped at just that!

Dio's humanity is his ultimate vice, his greatest "flaw" in all his plans. He wants so badly to be something more than man, a being untouched by the human emotions he hates so much-- his anger, his sadness, and ultimately his ability to care for other people. Because throughout the beginning of Phantom Blood and the years of off-screen time of him and Jonathan's young life, he is still human. The great irony of him "rejecting his humanity" is that what ultimately gets him defeated, both temporarily and later permanently in Part 3, is his emotions.

This is delved upon really really well in Over Heaven, as we get to see the events of Dio's childhood and the full events of Phantom Blood through his perspective. An in-depth look at everything he was thinking and feeling.

The biggest part of this is how by the end, Dio realizes he never hated Jonathan at all. We saw already how at the end of the final fight in PB, Dio was shocked that Jonathan had actually died. He had started to think of him as someone so untouchable, that the two of them were the embodiments of the never ending fight of good vs evil. Dio has this realization in Over Heaven that not only does he regret Jonathan's death, but that he misses him.

Analyzing the entire novel would take an essay im not here to write, but I can talk about one of the final scenes. The biggest overarching theme of the book is Dio grappling with what "heaven" truly is. It started as the more biblic interpretation, an attempt of his Mother's to instill good values in him as a child, "be good and you will go to heaven."

Then you read as it morphs into a more twisted idea, a vague concept that is just as confusing and wrong as Dio's entire mental state. It becomes a physical, tangible thing Dio wants to covet.

And as the book furthur shows the sharp decline of Dio's mental stability, you're left unsure what he's even trying to accomplish, and Dio seems just as unsure as the reader is.

There's the entry that takes place on the day of the final fight in Stardust Crusaders, where Dio has begrudgingly rationalized that he might not win. He writes about a hypothetical scenario in which, somehow, he was able to simply surrender, where the Crusaders forgive him.

Which evolves into the idea of living alongside the current Joestar family, and eventually a question:

What would really, truly make him happy?

Then a dawning realization-- he knows what heaven really is. Heaven is what set of factors, what details, what idealistic life he would want to lead if he was given the opportunity. What does he think of?

Having a family with Jonathan. That is what Heaven is to Dio.

The wording here makes it incredibly clear that he doesn't mean simply "being part of the Joestar family." its "building up the Joestar family." -> "together." -> "with Jonathan" specifically.

And when he says "I've thought of it." it implies he's debated this before! He's thought about this specific scenario before this moment and is only now accepting it! Only here; as he grapples with the meaning and possible futility of everything he's done in his long long life up until this very moment, does he realize that the one thing that would really, truly make him happy is this:

Having a family, a concept he detested his entire life. He blamed his mother's death on her foolish wish to have a family, that his father is proof that no Brando should ever have children, that he would be no better than his father. A concept that he spits in the face of by sleeping around and getting women pregnant with children he will never meet nor care about.

And he wants to have one with Jonathan. With him so specifically and explicitly. The man he tried so hard to hate, a man he came to idolize and see as beyond human, as an ever living embodiment of goodness and pureness. Dio forcefully fused their bodies together to make them into a horrific physical representation of the battle of good vs. evil.

We watch as he talks to "Jonathan" in those "shadow dio" scenes during part 3, how he says even more insane shit throughout the entire book that would be incredibly long to outline in just one post.

An entire entry where he stops referring to anyone by name except for Jonathan, because he deems everyone else unworthy of even being acknowledged.

Another where he goes over even the most mundane of details in their childhood that he thinks must be divine proof of their connection.

Entries where he ends his ranting abruptly because he got "too emotional." There's an entire rant he goes on about being skewered by the goddess of love statue during the mansion fire that I could write an entire seperate post about.

All this to mean: Not only does Dio not hate Jonathan, not in the slightest, but it's not even just a weird psychosexual obsessive thing (which most certainly is still a part of it).

In one rare moment of clarity in his nearly 200 page descent to madness, Dio realized the one thing in life that would make him happy is to start a goddamn family with the man.

That's love. That's an incredibly fucked up way to get there, but if that's not a painful, messy, lifelong denial of love then I don't know what is. It's an incredibly twisted and confused idea of love, but that's so perfectly in line with Dio's entire character.

Dio isn't just some heartless pure evil monster-- thats what he wants to be, but in reality he is so incredibly, unbearably human. To love is to be human.

Jonathan saw Dio as his brother and nothing but that, cared for him as strictly platonically as any other member of the joestar family; however Dio did not reciprocate that at ALL. It's an uncomfortable topic to broach, but if he is not the textbook example of "anime villain with a weird homoerotic obsession with the protagonist" I don't know who is. He didn't spout all that shit about intertwining their souls and literally stealing Jonathan's entire body or whateva for people to not acknowledge this.

These concepts can coexist.

Yes this is weird and immoral. Dio is weird and bad for thinking that way, he is a villain and he does weird evil things.

Acknowledging it doesn't make you weird or wrong, it just means you have eyes and can see. it doesn't mean you condone it or support it, it just means you understand nuance in media. in ANY media, not just jojo or anime in general or anything.

#This is my Just Trust Me Bro moment #I feel like im the only person ever who has read this book no one talks about it pls #ive been going insane over it for over a year now and have read it multiple times #over heaven #jjba #dio brando #jonathan joestar #tw for pseudo incest themes #character analysis #book analysis #anon yells about stuff #over heaven spoilers #jjba spoilers

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mason-ajar · 2 years ago

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soz for being mad dead! doodle dump except we are scraping the bottom of the barrel for content!

my friend crocheted me one of those cat beanies and it made me think of him immediately

shudaina au where daina is some ghost in shus new apartment!! never posted this cus there was supposed to be a short comic along with this but it never got finished lol

doodle i did on my ate’s ipad 🫶

the skrunklies! sorry to quon kimidori but this drawing will never get finished

frames from an animatic i made a while back that will never see the light of day :-)

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mishasminions · 4 years ago

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Here’s why the Supernatural Series Finale Sucked

(AND IT REALLY ISN’T JUST BECAUSE CAS/MISHA WASN’T IN IT)

First of all, I’d like to state, that this perspective is coming from someone who has watched, invested in, and dissected this show for 15 years. I’ve tried to rationalize and justify every single decision each of the main characters made throughout the years, and I’ve always tried to make sense of each of their story arcs from a “bigger picture” standpoint as each season progressed.

Anyway, before I can properly explain why the finale sucked, let me quickly take you through 15 seasons by segregating them into 3 eras, because you can’t really comprehend what Supernatural is about and what it’s become without going through how it tried to expand its universe.

SEASONS 1-5: THE KRIPKE ERA

Now, we all know that Kripke was always set in wrapping up Sam and Dean’s story in 5 seasons, and he did just that.

So, in this era, Supernatural is about two brothers who set out on a journey to fulfill “the family business”. They hunt mythical monsters that terrorize the world, while battling the monsters within themselves. Their ultimate “big bad” is an apocalypse.

Towards the end of this era, we find out that Sam and Dean are actually a parallel to Biblical characters who are brothers turned rivals. And that Sam and Dean’s destiny is to go up against each other.

However, as a dynamic, they have always been about making their own choices, choosing free will, and having a brotherly bond that can power through against any obstacle at any given day.

So, this era is neatly wrapped up with its finale. The characters grow, and get justified endings.

Dean, a man who thinks of himself as two things: 1. Sam’s older brother and protector; and 2. Daddy’s blunt little instrument.

He’s spent his whole life believing that that was his only purpose, and he knew that the only ending he’ll get would either be a bloody death fulfilling his duty to the family business; or laying his life on the line to save his brother.

Dean gets the ending he thought was never possible for him, something he thought he could never deserve. After years of living and dying for his family, he gets a shot at having an apple pie life--to settle down with a nice girl, raise a kid in a house with a white picket fence. With Sam gone, Dean’s responsibility now is to himself.

Sam, on the other hand, never wanted any part of it, because he wasn’t groomed the way Dean was, and because thanks to Dean, Sam wasn’t traumatized or forced into growing up too quickly the way Dean was.

So Sam aspires for a normal life, and works the cases with Dean so he can maybe get some semblance of it, when everything they set out to kill are laid to rest.

Ultimately, Sam performs a selfless act for his brother, who has given up everything for him, and for their cause--to save the world.

The journey is this: Dean sacrifices everything to save Sam, and Sam sacrifices himself so Dean could live.

Apart from being Dean’s “savior” and guardian angel, Castiel’s role in this era is to serve as a mirror to Dean’s journey. Castiel goes from being heaven’s foot soldier, following “God’s orders”; to an angel who learns to choose and feel for the first time in his existence.

After they realize that they’re both daddy’s blunt instruments, Dean starts choosing his own path for himself, and convinces Castiel to join him. Castiel stops following heaven, and starts following Dean.

In the end, with his newfound understanding of the world thanks to Dean, Castiel goes back to heaven to reform it.

We’ve resolved the biblical arc, and the character journeys.

SEASONS 6-10: THE SPIN-OFF ERA

So this is where the show realizes how vast its universe can be, so it tries to expand it by tapping into uncharted lands and experimenting with it.

They take on heaven, reform hell, explore purgatory, have the angels fall, turn Dean into a demon, and kill Death.

Dean and Sam recognize their codependency, and try to rise above it.

They go back and forth between which brother will risk it all for the greater good every other season.

Dean and Cas strengthen their relationship by recognizing the impact they have on each other’s lives.

Cas structures his life and decisions around Dean (Seasons 6-7), and Dean learns to trust and fight for Cas (Seasons 8-9).

Sam and Cas bond (mostly over Dean) because of their shared rationales in decision-making.

Dean, Sam, and even Cas also forge relationships with the people they work with. The concept of “found family” is introduced here.

This era was heavy on the plot while establishing, reinforcing, and solidifying relationships and dynamics.

At this point, it wasn’t just about the brothers anymore.

If Supernatural had ended in Season 10, the logical finale would’ve been Team Free Will, along with the family that they’ve found, going up against the latest big bad (Death or whoever). Maybe they lose them along the way, maybe they all make it out alive, or maybe they go down swinging, but at least the show recognizes and supports the message they keep saying, “Family don’t end with blood”

SEASONS 11-15: THE REWRITE ERA

This is where the show runs out of ideas and decides to invalidate the seasons that came before it.

From bringing Mary back (basically rendering their whole journey pointless because they’ve literally started hunting because of her death), to changing the stipulations in being Michael and Lucifer’s vessels (another character struggle rendered useless), to God himself breaking the fourth wall by saying that the Winchesters get away with everything because “they’re the main characters in his story and everything they’ve been through was just part of a badly written narrative”.

But what we’re getting from this era is that Sam and Dean, along with Cas (who has also deviated from the story) ARE trying to escape a badly written narrative.

That’s the “big bad” in this era. The writer.

At this point, the characters have picked up so many strays (including those from alternate universes), and have settled into their roles in their “found family”. Dean, Sam, and Cas all become surrogate dads and uncles.

They’ve also graduated from the whole “we’re on different sides” and “going behind each other’s backs” drama. And they just want the whole family together.

They’ve all resigned themselves to the cause, but they’re also tired. Dean allows himself to contemplate about wanting more out of life or at least getting a vacation. Sam, on the other hand, realizes his capabilities as an effective leader. Castiel learns to love another being that isn’t Dean (spoiler: it’s Jack).

However, they also realize that they’ve just been puppets on a string all this time.

So what they want now, is to write their own story, and make their own choices knowing that God/the writer isn’t the one fueling their narrative.

So here’s why the finale sucks:

Andrew Dabb, the current showrunner, said that there would be two finales.

15x19 - The finale to wrap up Season 15, and 15x20 - The finale to wrap up the series by “resolving the characters’ journey”

In 15x19 the boys find a way to de-power God/the writer. For the first time in their whole lives, they are free from the story. Their lives are completely theirs now. They can make their own decisions. There are no more “big bads” to fight

And here’s what happens in 15x20:

Immediately after being freed from their story arc, Dean and Sam go back to hunting the monster of the week.

Dean eats pie, gets nailed (literally), makes a 10-minute speech to Sam because he knows he’s dying, then he goes to heaven.

Dean is greeted by Bobby, his surrogate Dad who he hasn’t seen (fully alive) since Season 7. Bobby’s expository dialogue comprises of him explaining that he got out of heaven’s jail, that John and Mary are next door, and that Jack and Cas fixed the dynamics of heaven off-screen.

The first thing Dean decides to do is go for a long drive in his Impala (as if he hasn’t done enough of that already).

Meanwhile, Sam decides to stop hunting after Dean dies, he gets the apple pie life he hadn’t wanted since Season 8 (while Dean was in Purgatory), and names his kid “Dean” for effect. He grows old and dies.

Dean drove around in heaven for so long that Sam catches up to him.

They hug. The end.

Great, right?

After 15 years of struggling to battle their own respective destinies, going up against big bads and even bigger bads, then finally being able to take charge of their own stories, Dean and Sam regress to hunting the monster of the week, and get killed off by a nail and old age. Okay.

Sam gets to retire and have a family, sure, but they still focus on him and the kid he named after his dead brother. Still just “Sam and Dean” through and through. Nothing to do with found family. Just lineage. Just blood. And it ends there.

See, the problem here is that this ending would’ve been passable in The Kripke Era. But we’re 10 years down the road since, and while Sam and Dean are the original main characters, the show isn’t just about them and their codependent relationship anymore.

So you see, even if you take out the whole “Castiel deserves to be in the finale because he’s also a main character with an unfinished story arc” argument, the finale still does no justice to the series it tried to “wrap up”.

But anyway, now I’ll make the case for the problem with Castiel not being in the finale:

In 15x18, we get a 5-minute rushed confession from Castiel to Dean. The context of which are as follows:

1. Earlier in the episode, Dean had wounded Death with her scythe. We later find out that this wound is fatal.

2. Their friends start to “blip out” in a Thanos-like snap, and Dean thinks that Death is causing it, so Dean seeks her out, and Cas goes with him.

3. Dean and Cas anger Death, apparently for no reason because she didn’t even do the thing they thought she did. She chases them to try to kill them

4. Dean and Cas lock themselves in a room. Dean starts a pity party.

5. As Dean goes through hating himself out loud, Cas decides to inform Dean of the deal he made with The Empty. He then proceeds to explain the stipulation of the deal (that he would get taken once he experiences a moment of true happiness), then discusses his newfound happiness philosophy. Dean is getting whiplash.

6. Cas goes on to imply that the one thing that he wanted that he knew he couldn’t have is Dean Winchester reciprocating his romantic feelings for him. (Don’t even try to fight me on this because Cas already has Dean’s platonic love, and he knows that Dean thinks of him as a brother, so if he really meant this in a “familial” way, then why would he think that he couldn’t have the thing that would make him happy?) So Cas’ realization is that telling Dean about his feelings is enough to make him happy.

7. Cas tells Dean all the reasons why he loves him (thereby combating Dean’s self-deprecation tirade), and all the reasons why he’s worthy of his love. Meanwhile, Dean is still winded from the fact that Cas is about to sacrifice himself for him again.

8. Dean never gets to process anything, because Cas is shoving him out of the way, as he and Death (who busts through the door) get taken by The Empty.

After this episode, Dean never speaks of it. Misha Collins supposes that Dean doesn’t reciprocate. Jensen Ackles says that Dean didn’t really get to process it because it was too much, too fast, and that Dean, still dense as ever, thinks that Cas, a celestial being, doesn’t interpret human feelings the same way.

So what was the point of this confession?

Politics and sensitivities of a 2005 network television aside, what does this do for the story?

Cas proclaims his romantic feelings to Dean, but Dean never acknowledges it, doesn’t even give it a passing thought afterwards. So Cas’ big declaration goes unheard.

Cas cashes in on his Empty deal to kill Death (who was dying anyway), in order to save Dean who dies two episodes after.

Dean makes no effort to save Cas (despite being really broken up about his previous deaths, or even spending a whole year in Purgatory looking for him), even after they’ve beaten God, not even asking Jack (who has all the power in the universe) to bring him back (when Jack has already done it before, with less mojo).

Dean moves on to fight the monster of the week. Somewhere off-screen, Jack rescues Cas from The Empty, but Cas uncharacteristically doesn’t even bother to go to Dean? (Every single time he comes back, Dean’s always the first person he goes to)

And Cas, who apparently helped craft and reform the new heaven, isn’t the one who welcomes Dean and explains the new dynamics of it?

Sure, Jan.

Supernatural, you’ve created a finale that only your casual viewers and people who dipped out after Season 5 can appreciate.

Just goes to show how much you actually valued the people who actually invested in your story and characters, and consistently helped keep your show on the air.

[RT this on Twitter]

#SUPERNATURAL #DESTIEL #15X20 #I KNOW I SAID THAT MY LAST LONG POST WAS MY LAST ON EVER BUT I REALLY DIDN'T THINK THE FINALE WOULD BE WORSE THAN I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE #INSIGHTFUL INSIGHTS #UNTAGGED #PERSONAL

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