#never hated a man so badly before and its been 3 days

[mysticmoosenger]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 𝕗****𝕕 𝕦𝕡 ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

𝐫𝐢𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭, 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐜𝐤, 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐫 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭…

synopsis: deciding to ask choso to switch roles!

themes: sub!choso, dom!reader, orgasm denial, edging, nicknames, begging, reader is evil, choso is just a little guy

characters: choso <3 love my boy and hate gege

a/n: hi very happy to be back, excited to write more. everything i’ve written previously is deleted from my page bc i want to start fresh haha. college is destroying my hopes and dreams rn. also, i didnt proofread this like at all and its 4am, so just like, ignore my fuck ups please ily

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・.

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choso! ur a super freak!

He wont show it, but he is already cumming at the thought of it. He is 110% a switch, but has been taking the dominant role since you seemed so sweet and eager to let him use you to do whatever he pleased.

“baby, I dont know how you feel about it and maybe it’s weird for me to say but… do you mind if I take the lead a little?”

That caught him off guard. Like totally off guard. As he was taking off your shirt his hands froze and his assault on your neck paused, He blinked a few times and asked to make sure thats really what he heard, “…you mean like, you want to be dominant?”

You shyly nod and continue to run your hands through the hair at the nape of his neck, his signature buns starting to unravel, somehow making him even hotter. God, you wanted to eat him alive.

After a few more seconds of processing, he quietly responds, “…yes love”

You feel him slowly kiss the marks he left you on your collarbone, his hands now gently reaching to remove your shirt. As he goes to lift it over your head, he moves back to allow you some space to wriggle the tight material past your shoulders. You catch a glimpse of his face right as he backs up, his face a bright red and his eyes looking glossy, he looks perfectly pitiful. Wow… you never realized how badly you have wanted to do this.

You manage to free yourself from your constricting top, taking off your bra as well. Choso watches you, his eyes following your every move, scanning your body. It’s obvious how down bad this poor boy is for you. You had never expected him to be this eager about switching roles.

The upper half of your clothing now gone, the red LED lights around the border of Choso’s room making your skin look flawless and irresistible. You swear you can see the poor boy drooling over you, waiting for you to order him around, use him, and make him a sobbing mess. He’s sitting in front of you on the bed, his hands tentatively resting on your thighs, staring at you with those sleepy dark eyes. He still had a bit of eyeliner on from earlier in the day, now starting to smudge and give him adorable tear stains. “okay cho… please strip for me baby”, you coo, wanting to mark up that broad muscular chest of his.

He slips his black compression tee over his head in one fluid motion, exposing his perfect abs and those sexy tattoos trailing down them leading to his hips. He stops and begins to run his hands from your waist to your tits, awaiting more instruction, already beet red and breathing fast. His heart is beating so fast that it starts to make him dizzy with lust. “I said strip cho. everything. be a good boy for me okay?”

You have never seen your man this worked up in the entirety of your relationship before. He moves at what seems like lightening speed, tearing off his pants, looking at you for approval as you nod for him to take off his boxers too. His dick springs out with possibly the hardest and angriest boner you’ve ever seen. You motion with your head for him to lay down, crawling on top of him and hovering your clothed pussy over his dripping dick. His eyes begging you to fuck him, he begins to snake his hands around your hips, trying to get you to at least touch him. “no cho, hands up by the headboard.” you say, pulling his wrists together and pinning them above his head. “if you move them I’m not letting you cum today.”

Choso nods immediately, knowing that he’d rather die than not be allowed to finish tonight. You make eye contact and slowly dip down to meet his lips with yours, your hand sliding down his arm from his wrists, gently caressing his muscular tattooed biceps. “you belong to me, got it cho?” you purr against his lips. He lets out an erotic whimper in response, which honestly takes both of you by surprise. You pause and let it replay in your head a few times before saying, “I’m totally breaking you tonight. how did I never know you had such a cute little submissive side?”

You move your hand to gently squeeze his throat and rejoin his lips, tongue grazing gently along his lips, his occasionally meeting yours. And while Choso has a submissive side, he’s still freaky. As you move to pull away, he nips at your bottom lip, making you moan in response, “god I love you.”

You begin to move down his body, leaving little nips and kisses on the way to his beautiful abs. You glance up at his flustered face as you start to fill the gaps between his tattoos with little hickies to mark your territory. “no one else is allowed to see you like this, alright cho? mmmm fuck, no one..” you moan against his skin. You love the idea of your love bites being shown off in his weekly gym pictures.

Choso is squirming, overwhelmed at the sensation of you kissing by his v-line. “..mmm pl-please y/n… ohmygo-d yes pleaseee…” he rambles, his eyes squeezing shut and his eyeliner now officially all over his cheeks, complimenting the long tattoo over the center of his nose. His hair has almost completely fallen out of his buns, now tangled and fanned out around his face. He really does look angelic. And pitiful. You just want to ruin him.

“please what baby? please stop? its too much and i should stop?” you tease as you reduce your love bites to feathered kisses, barely touching his skin. “n-nooo please no i w-want mmore~ please baby y/n p-pleas- oh my go- god fuck!” he begs, his mouth agape and his hips writhing to try to get any pressure remotely to his dick.

You decide that since he has been so good (and you just want to make him a whimpering mess) he deserves a little treat. Your lips ghost down his thigh and to his balls, placing a gentle kiss to them. You quickly suck on your fingers to give them some lube while making sure Choso has a good view, and begin to stroke his shaft. With the way Choso is moaning, you speed up your movements, twirling your fingers over his angry, dripping tip and the end of every motion. Your other arm wraps around one of his thighs, doing your best to pin him in place. His hand slid down sneakily to rest atop your head, lacing his fingers through your hair. Your tongue found a sweet spot towards the base of his balls, eliciting a loud “FUCK oh my- fuck y-yes y/n there!” You continue stroking him and swirling your tongue against his sensitive spots until he is shaking, his hips desperately attempting to buck upwards. Right as he is about to finish, you remove your hands and sit back, away from his cock.

You smile, taking in the gorgeous sight before you. Choso is breathing in loud pants, whimpering and shaking from the abrupt stop of the stimulation. His eyes are teary, his makeup smeared, and his lips are glossy from your kisses. Trailing down, there is a line of love bites leading to his tattoos. His lower abdomen is drenched in slick precum. “baby please p-please keep going~” he begs in between pants.

You giggle slightly sadistically and gently run your fingertips around his v-line and base of his dick. Moving your head up, you give him a sloppy kiss, again inciting cute whimpers from his throat. “cho love, you remember what I said earlier about your hands? Dont think I didnt notice baby…”

Choso lets out a loud moan in protest, begging you for a second chance.

Luckily for him…. the clock just hit midnight.

ending a/n: thank u for reading!! please send in requests my asks are open! or just talk to me!! love u guys and im so excited to be back! :)

[vieoeil-riae]

the taste of you on my lips

steb/gn!reader

warnings: blow job, paramedic!steb, light ptsd mentions, steb has a hemipenis + cock frills, come swallowing, submissive!steb, post canon, selectively mute!steb, 18+ MDNI, 3k words

synopsis: Being a paramedic is tiring; you think he deserves a reward. (you eat him out then suck him off <3)

read on ao3 | ao3 profile | ao3 collection | masterlist

You’d barely seen a lick of Steb since his career change. It wasn’t unexpected, you’d talked for a long time about what it would mean — him becoming a fully fledged paramedic — but words were nothing like the reality you were waking up to.

It was for the best, so you couldn’t say you minded it too badly, it certainly beat watching him freeze up for moments at a time as he put his old enforcer uniform on in the mornings. The fight against Noxus had done a number on him; not surprising, you knew what he’d lost, two of his few friends as well as a significant amount of faith in himself. You didn’t miss the subtle fight in his expression, like he was cutting through the memories of a similar uniform, bloodsoaked and pressed to the floor by a cooling body.

You couldn’t say you minded the new uniform either, Steb certainly cut a stunning figure dolled up in paramedic cargos and a thick, deep blue button-up. Boring, yes, but he made the practicality of the look pop. You’d tell him how nice his shoulders looked most days, hands sliding lazily around his pretty waist — fingers ghosting his belt buckle but never giving it more than a playful tug.

Neat, he looked neat and you were loving it. You’d mess him up if he wasn’t coming home already bedraggled most days. 

Steb would walk in, usually long after dark, with his hair falling out of its slick style and an exhausted look in his eyes. He told you it was satisfying, to be able to help people without thinking about how he could be hurting more people than he was helping; tired, sore hands waved, speaking of how he’d always had an interest in medicine, that it was a good feeling to learn and practice it more.

You’d smile at him, unbuttoning his shirt to get it away from his neck and the gentle dorsal fin that decorated the back of it, slipping below his collar, when he slumped next to you on the couch. It was hot to see him so dishevelled, the slight but still noticeable loving smile he’d shoot back at you, but at the same time it pained you to see him so run ragged, you didn’t want to completely exhaust him but you’d been sorely missing him.

There was only so much the drag of your pillows could replace, even when all your sheets smelled of Steb. The clinging scent of his soap only made you salivate more, dragging frustrated whines from you when fabric failed to live up to skin.

You didn’t want to tire him out more, but you wanted your hands on him, you wanted your skin on his with more motion than just late night cockwarming, it was getting desperate. You missed the way his body reacted to you, the gorgeous arch of his back and the way his head would tip back in a silent moan — the sweetest reward you could ever earn. You ached for more, to see it, to have it again.

It was a craving that made itself apparent in your dreams, leaving you sweaty and needing when you woke up with him in time for his early shift. You closed your eyes as you calmed down, arm slung over your face like you weren’t sure you could trust yourself if you saw his bare body as he got dressed — you’d hate to make him late. 

You missed the way Steb wanted you too.

It felt like he was struggling to swim, he wasn’t in possession of the highest libido ever but even a man who isn’t hungry will start to feel a tug in his gut when he’s around pure temptation for so long. The lack of action was starting to rattle his skull, you were so close but so far out of the reach of his aching arms, and he found no release of his own.

Steb found a new side to you, not much different than anything he’d seen before, but through his blurring vision you looked like an angel when you unwinded next to him. So soft, his, for the taking if he wanted. The way he found himself barely able to function through the fog of a hard day’s work was torture when he could be pulling pleasure from you. As nice as the warmth that gathered in the line between your bodies was, it was searing him with a lewder kind of heat. 

Thank god you finally snapped under the weight of your desire, falling onto the couch with him for a few long moments before the itch to smother him in lusting touches got too intense to bear.

You swung your leg over Steb’s narrow hips, sliding into his lap with delicious ease. His hands cradled your hips, your weight not unfamiliar on top of him. It sparked a fire in his groin, even though there wasn’t anything that suggested sex explicitly, and he swallowed as his fingers dug into the flesh beneath them — even while quietly wanting, he was polite enough to consider that maybe that wasn’t what you were intending.

That train of thought was thrown out quickly as you whispered how much you missed him against his lips, arching into his slouched body with a roll of your hips. There was an enticing smile, sultry to the point of almost being smug, that stretched across your lips when he shuddered at your fingertips ghosting the sensitive tips of his ears.

The burn was low, but it soaked into all his muscles as you kissed him deeply, pushing his head back far enough for his neck to rest comfortably against the back of the couch. Your tongue in his mouth felt like heaven, satisfying in ways he hadn’t realised were missing the feeling as you licked your way past bitten-soft lips.

You moaned against his tongue, the sound tasted sweet and it nearly made him tremble, tiredness exchanged for raw exhilaration as he felt his cock jump. The roll of your hips as you grinded against him made him purr on the inside, happy to get you off, happy to be the one dragging pretty noises from your throat.

Your fingers slid over his shirt, reaching for the rest of his buttons and nearly tearing them off, fingertips meeting the skin beneath  — featherlight and warm. 

Pulling back with the slick feeling of your tongue slipping against his, from his lips, you let your hands skim down his sides, halfway under his uniform shirt. You watched his chest heave as one of your hands brushed the curve of his spine, the other planted firmly on his stomach and delighting in the feeling of the muscles underneath it tensing and stretching as he subtly arched at your touch.

“You’ve been so busy,” you murmured, a seductive lilt in your tone as your fingers made tingling trails towards the belt of his cargos, “so good, let me take care of you…”

You trailed off, going from staring at the frosty blue of Steb’s eyes, fogged over with heat that soaked through the rest of his body like a hot bath, to burning a path all the way down to his crotch; pressed to yours where you could feel his cock, not quite out, but swelling inside enough for you to feel the twitch against your pelvis. You ached to touch him, want pooling deep in your gut, and you swallowed; licking your lips at the thought of having him in your mouth, having your tongue in him.

Steb hands groped your hips, grinding against the curve of your ass until you knocked his hands off with a loving giggle.

“Let me take care of you. You don’t have to do anything, you just have to take it.” You whispered, gentle smile turning sharper with the promise of making him feel good and the high of making him writhe under you that never got old. How hard the image of Steb coming down your throat, built up of obscene memories, hit you almost surprised you — the shiver racing up your spine felt like several hundred volts at least.

You waited until he nodded, cheeks painted with a thick blush, before you let hushed praises tumble from your lips as you slid off his lap onto the floor.

The press of your knees against the living room carpet felt more apparent than ever as you let your hands drag down Steb’s body, watching his eyes flicker, conflicted with the want to watch you and your hands as they made a show of playing with the buckle of his belt at once.

There was a move to shuck his shirt off, but you stopped that quickly; your hand caught his wrist in a flash, pulling his hand towards your head instead, and you shot him a sly smile as you drawled him, “leave it, it looks good on you.”

The frills decorating his cheekbones pulsed in surprise, blush travelling to his ears that flicked at your boldness as well as the thought of how much sweat would end up soaking into the back of his uniform. It shouldn’t have sent another blistering wave down his sides, but there it was, making him squirm — frills standing on end at the thought.

Your hands stopped at his zipper, and he became distinctly aware of how laboured his breathing had gotten. So pent up, but so sluggish he hadn’t even noticed how badly he was affected by you, your hands, and the way you eyed him like he was the most mouthwatering cut of meat you’d ever seen. It was so different to how you usually took him in, staring like you were drunk on the sight of him, captivated — right now, you looked hungry, like you wanted to play with your food.

“You’ve had a long day.” You uttered, staring almost unblinkingly into Steb’s eyes — bordering on predatory. Your breath warmed the skin of his stomach, dangerously gentle, dangerously close to his waistband, and he nearly shivered. “Can I taste it?”

A silent whine caught in the back of Steb’s throat, eyes blowing wide as his cock stirred lazily in his gut — neediness rising all the way to his chest, burning consumingly hot and knocking any thoughts of being too tired away with ease. He didn’t even recognise when he’d started nodding so vigorously, chest starting to judder with each slow heave.

Satisfied, smug, starving, you descended to trail kisses along his navel, spreading his legs wider apart to claim the space — chest nearly flush with the crotch of his uniform cargos as your hands and lips brushed up and then down his quickly heating, mostly clothed body like the wash of a wave on the shore. 

Your hands made quick work of his fly, glancing up only to get an eyeful of the desperate, blushing mess forming above you. It stroked the smouldering coals of your ego, watching him start to fall apart so easily — he wanted you, your mouth on him. You didn’t watch your hands slide his cargos down his smooth, supple thighs, too caught up in the arch and rise of his body; achingly graceful despite the obvious desire that quickened the sight. 

You nearly licked your lips at the thin string of slick that clung to Steb’s underwear as you pulled them down too, he was so eager — god you wished he’d told you sooner. You’d have been more than happy to please, always.

You tugged him forward by the hips once he’d settled again, forcing him to lay back as best he could against the back of the couch, with the slit hiding his cock — wet, swollen and parting — scant centimetres from your face. The heady scent of his sex was mouthwatering, you almost felt literally hungry as your tongue darted out.

The tip of it ran along the slit so gently, feeling the slight pulse of Steb’s soft flesh under your tongue so distinctly. Not enough, he nearly bucked against the feeling — so sensitive. You couldn’t help but smile, self-satisfied with how you could tease him so deliciously easy.

A fuller lick of your tongue had his head tipping back with a gasp, thighs twitching around your jaw, hands jerking to grip the arm of the couch. It encouraged you to take another, then another, slowly, tenderly working him up on your tongue before you dipped your tongue inside his folds. You chased the lowering tip of his cock in the slick, internal sheath it resided in, your eyes fluttering shut with the roll of Steb’s hips at the intrusion — bodily tang coating your tongue thickly, you moaned quietly against him.

The flick of your tongue over his cockhead set a loud groan loose, falling to your ears so beautifully, and you gave his slit a parting kiss as you pulled away. He whined at the loss, foggy eyes glistening as they gazed at the sheen of slick decorating your chin and the sight of your mouth still open and panting as you reached for the hem of his open shirt.

“You don’t want the neighbours to hear, do you? It’s pretty late, you know?” You coaxed, almost condescending as you balled the fabric in your fist and reached up to shove it between his teeth. Spit soaked it obscenely quickly, a muffled whine caught in the somewhat coarse threads. You hummed approvingly, “good.”

The same teeth bit down hard at the feeling of your soft tongue returning to lavishing him with your tongue, borderline making out with his wet slit — luring out his cock with a thick blush stuck on both of your cheeks at the growing feeling of it, the push against your tongue as it stiffened on its way out. You lapped at it wetly, saliva melting into the slick that coated it, then hollowed your cheeks around the throbbing flesh in a way that had Steb scrambling to grip at any of the plush couch he could reach.

The slow but desperate cant of his hips pressed his cock further into your mouth, like the simmer of pleasure in his gut — your mouth felt so good. Hot, almost too hot, and never letting up on the way your soft cheeks brushed against the frills pulsing down the sides of his erection, chased by the savouring tease of your tongue. The way you worked him up was purposeful, dragging the build up to his orgasm out like a nice glass of wine, like you were more focused on worshipping him than getting him off until a breathy whine from his throat made your pace stutter.

Your eyes, glinting in the low light, pupils blown so wide he could mistake you for being drunk, stared up at him — utterly fixated. It, and the begging look he could feel on his face, seemed to spur you on, and he watched as you swallowed down his wholly emerged cock until the overwhelmingly lewd feeling of his tip pressing against the back of your throat tipped his head back in a silent groan.

Quicker, like you were running out of patience, too hungry to tease, you bobbed your head and ignored the sting of tears in your eyes — the lightheadedness making the feeling of Steb’s cock so satisfying, fulfilling a need you hadn’t realised was so neglected. The tensing of his thighs under your fingers, nails pressed lightly into the skin for leverage sparking pretty sensations just underneath, was like the sweetest reward.

His heaving and panting grew more laboured, interrupted by caught breaths and quiet moans as you sucked him off, pulling the coil in his gut tighter, pushing tiredness to the very edge of his consciousness along with his worries. The buck of his hips was earnest, knuckles turning white against the fabric it clutched — trying not to grip you by the hair, he didn’t trust his hands, too jittery with the way it felt like his blood was electric. The way his abdomen tensed was almost unbelievable compared to the unravelling feeling from just a minute ago.

You perked at the sound of Steb growing louder, latching onto every every note and giving him more; you tongue laving at his frills until he writhed under your palms, twitching in your mouth as the burning feeling consumed him entirely. The way his mouth hung open, eyebrows knitted together, was addictive — so pretty, obscene and perverted in absolute contrast to his usual self. There was a sense of pride when it came to tugging reactions like that out of him.

His writhing stuttered, hips jerking as he came hard, much harder than he thought he would but the thought was lost to the electric, boneless, feeling that cleared sense from his head that fell back against the couch.

You gagged on the come gushing down your throat, swallowing around his cock in a way that made him twitch violently — stomach muscles convulsing in front of your blurry eyes. You kept Steb in your mouth until you saw him start to come down from his high, pulling away — he jerked in oversensitivity, thighs almost clamping around your head.

Teasingly, because you knew he preferred to be neat, you showed him your tongue as you leaned back — thin strings of saliva keeping you connected to the flushed head of his cock. You wiped them away with a grin at the way he blushed impossibly brighter, and laughed a little hoarsely when he turned his face away from you, ears pointed bashfully downwards. 

As spent as he was, you could see some of the tension slip from your shoulders which made your heart twinge; he was doing so well, working through so much, changing — you thought he deserved the world.

You heaved yourself from your knees onto the couch, slumping into Steb’s side as you caught your breath, closing your eyes in contentment.

“Stay like this for a while, then shower?” You hummed, posing a little plan that stated what was somewhat obvious, and Steb leaned into the feeling of your voice — blissed out sleepiness soaking into his muscles. You snorted, “then bed.”

He smiled and nodded, which you felt as his warm cheek brushed the side of your head. He tilted his head slightly, nose brushing against the space just above your ear, and murmured a contented little ‘thank you’ against your skin that you couldn’t help but lose yourself in. A tiny kiss was pressed to the shell of your ear, a little ‘I love you’.

A/N: here's the self indulgent fic, my excuse to write about sucking off a healthcare worker, sorry it took a moment but heyyyy glitter divider!! shiny sparkly!!!

banner cr: @/cafekitsune

[possumteeths]

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!

Tags:

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.

[tokiwarcube]

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.

[danikamariewrites]

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

[sirowsky-stories]

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 :)

[torturedcoveydepartment]

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?

[reigenismyhusband]

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

[scentremini]

caravan. maeko weekly drabbles, pt. 1

character focus; maeko miyagi (oc) genre; original work, drabble, sci-fi/futuristic, slice-of-life, coming of age?? summary; maeko encounters a 3 feet interruption while working. wc; 1,014 ──────────────────────────── ✧. ┊    

a/n: i'm challenging myself to do pointless weekly drabbles within 1 hour each. this one didn't really include background context or introductions in order to keep me motivated on the main part while writing, but i'll try doing better on this next time. these are to further develop my oc's daily life and my writing skills. also regard most of these as abandoned and unfinished.. provide any advice or feedback you want!

“Move!” Maeko yelled as she zoomed in between a crowd, leaving behind a fiery trail of offended and incredulous looks. But she didn’t have time for joyriding today. She’d wasted practically half of her morning, barely making it outside with her sluggish movement.

Like a mountain, her pointless anger surged with the memories of yesterday. She’d been overly lazy and avoided work, due to her returning symptoms of her condition. There was an error within her complex prosthetic that she couldn’t find time to repair yet, and now she was suffering the consequences. Now, she had to work double because of her reckless procrastination.

Out of instinct, she pushed her left leg firmly against the ground for a full stop. She almost knocked into an old, stout man, who was sure to swear her head off in front of all these people. Why were the streets and sidewalks so full today of all days? Could the universe be against her this badly? She bit her tongue inside her mouth to restrain herself from yelling. Too much attention never did her reputation good.

Too much attention was the same reason she felt a familiar shudder of irritation when hearing a timid voice ask, “Um, are you M-Maeko?”

She’d only just poured out the contents of her toolbelt and satchel onto the hard ground, which were mechanical tools, metal, papers, and pens. She was sat in her usual corner of the concrete park, loaded with scraping noises of skater teens being rowdy. Before her pen could touch the paper for a light sketch, she heard the young voice and whipped her head up to see.

It was only a child, but it was always difficult for Maeko not to appear angry, even if she wasn’t.

“Yeah, that’s me.” She muttered, avoiding the open, kind, golden pools poured into the boy’s eyes. “What d’you need?” So much for hating children.

At the faint acknowledgment, the boy scrambled to straighten his posture, and fumble with his hands behind his back. Despite his demeanor, he kept his eyes on hers. no matter how scary she looked to a mere seven-year-old. “W-Well, my brother said you-you fix things.” He mumbled a bit stupidly.

Maeko raised an eyebrow and looked between her heap of tools and the trembling boy. ”Mhm?”

”No, no, I mean—I know you fix things obviously,” he scrambled to repair his first impression, “I’m not stupid! I just wanted to ask a favor!”

Maeko slowly nodded and waited for him to continue.

“Do you fix t-toys?” His question was barely comprehensible; Maeko strained her ears to understand.

”Toys?” She repeated for confirmation, but the boy took it as sarcasm. He slouched slightly, looking adjacent to a lightbulb taken out of its place.

Now, he was speaking to the ground, as if it would comfort him. “Sorry if I’m wasting your time. I know a toy caravan ain’t important.”

“Nah, I was making sure I heard you right.” She reassured him, standing up and dusting off her torn jeans. “I swear, you’re quieter than a fish.” She teased, smiling just a little when she noticed a bit of red seep into the boy’s pale face.

He awkwardly scratched the back of his head. ”Sorry. Again.”

This was a chance at a new customer, so it was fine if she postponed her current packed work for him. “What’s your name, caravan?” She called with her back turned, grabbing her skateboard and gathering her tools.

The pale boy shuffled his feet. “My brother says I shouldn't tell people that.”

Maeko’s eyes narrowed. The boy went rigid at her threatening gaze, squaring his shoulders.

“Reasonable.” She said plainly, re-attaching her satchel and toolbelt.

He released himself, his body falling into a softer demeanor.

“Let’s get goin’ then.” She bent down, nodding over at him to gesture for him to get on her back. “Do you know the directions to this brother of yours?”

He didn’t move, and stared at her skateboard as if it had grown two legs.

A harsh fog of air escaped her lips, accompanying her eye roll. ”If you’re not gettin’ on, your caravan stays broken.”

The boy shut his eyes hard and leaped. He clawed onto Maeko’s back so hard that she almost tripped over her feet. ”Alright, alright, steady!” She called, flailing her arms for balance.

She jerked out her left foot to boost them forward, and her wheels immediately scraped against the stern ground. “Slow down! Slower!” The boy shrieked. Now he was flailing his arms, tugging at her arms, hair, and face, searching for a stable surface. And to their luck, they were approaching a downward curve in the street.

”Kid, let go!” Maeko shouted, tipping dangerously over to her right. “I need to see! Use my neck, get off me!” She barked. The rickety wheels inched over the curve. Just within a blink, they were soaring down the arc. ”CARAVAN, LET GO!” Maeko shrieked with rising anger. She was getting close to throwing this kid off her. The boy was wailing with solid terror, and threw his clawing hands up in the air, accepting fate.

”I’m gonna DIE!”

”You’re NOT GOING TO DIE! STAY STILL!”

With incredulous confidence, Maeko hunkered close to the flashing ground, and jerked the kid’s arms down. They were still rocketing at an alarming speed, but now the kid’s cries died away. He glued his arms around her shoulders, latching his eyes closed. His tears glided in the chilly breeze, but now Maeko could focus without his noise.

This would usually be a part of her ride Maeko would love. The fleeing noise, the insulting wind against her ears, the colors flying across her sight. Of course, this time she had a six-year-old on her back with the same intrepidity of a bunny.

When they finally stabilized to steady ground, she turned to tap him. “See? Easy. And bonus, you’re alive.”

His face reddened, and he buried himself back into her shoulders. “Thanks.”

”Honestly, we should’ve just taken Flash Transport.

”I think I like this better.”

So much for hating children.

©scentremini.

[dykexenomorph]

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

[mulderscullyqpr]

Contact

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

[ruvviks]

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

[bluerosesonata]

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.

[sushiwriterhere]

okay here i am. hyperventilating as i just binged the first two parts and then this was magically here??

first i'd just like to acknowledge that fake dating combined with 'we've actually been secretly very into each other this whole time oops' has to be one of my favorite tropes and the way you execute it is absolute perfection. truly.

second. this man is criminally underrated and he is so beautiful. i am eagerly awaiting the next part because...

(my apologies for the meme)

four coffee mugs, two couch cushions, nine folded flight suits, six F/A-18 manuals, a carefully balanced Halo, and it’d been one of the coffee mugs falling to the floor and shattering that’d done the trick - it really is the little details that make a scene and just, ugh, the way you paint this picture is so amazing. like you could just say he was a heavy sleeper but the image in my head of all this stuff stacked on top of him really drives it home

“God, I hate that I know this,” Javy mumbled to himself, from the door, before he sighed dramatically. “It’s Staubach.” - something about this is just so domestic and precious :,)

“Just like,” he started, his tongue ghosting over his thumb, “waking up in your house, that smells like cinnamon because you made cinnamon rolls after you met my mom yesterday, before we made out and, you know, cuddled to sleep…I don’t know, it just sounds fake. Like, too good.” - excuse me while i...... if a man, if anyone, ever said this to me i think i'd genuinely pass away. the way you make javy a total and absolute dreamboat is so <3

So you leaned forward on the counter and kissed him, pressed your lips to his and licked the frosting off his tongue. And maybe you got what he was saying, because it wasn’t fair, it was too good, now that you knew how Javy tasted like first thing in the morning. 

You hummed in response, and at the vibrations, Javy’s hand tightened on the back of your neck, and you knew you were playing with fire, but you wanted to hear more of it. - yknow the way that your heart races a little bit at the little details that fic writers provide... YEAH.

“’m trying to be a good person, here,” he said into your shoulder, and you patted his chest lightly, consolingly. - the way this is simultaneously so so sweet and also very hot. lmao.

It wasn’t even entirely lascivious, it was just nice to know you were wanted, that there was physical proof of it. - someone gets it. because truly? feeling desired by someone you desire? top 2 feelings of all time and baby its not number 2 by a long shot

You whimpered again at the curses falling past Javy’s lips, after all his restraint and chivalry. - hearing a man fall apart after he's attempted to maintain composure....... amazing fantastic incredible showstopping

Bet you don’t know you could have anything if you asked like that, looking like this. - i need you, and anyone who's had the bravery to read this far, to know that this line is my favorite from this entire fic. potentially this series. its so !!! perfectly illustrates how badly javy is into this whole thing, feels like something he'd say without even realizing the implications but means wholeheartedly.. need in my life !

Come for me like you’re going to tonight, after I’ve fed you and fucked you, after we’ve spent all day imagining my dick so deep in that pussy, after I get to taste those moans off your lips, come on, honey–” - how is this simultaneously so chivalrous and so filthy... wined and dined babeyyyyyyyyy

When Javy laughed again, it was musical, light and sweet. And when you looked over at him again, he wore the softest smile on his face, a million kind things in his eyes as he looked at you. - yeah this is just the absolute best way to wrap up this kind of scene like 🤌🏽🤌🏽🤌🏽

sana your writing truly never fails to amaze i love it so so much thank you for sharing and here's hoping more people see just how wonderful javy is!!!!!!!!!

your love is the love i need || chapter 3/4

pairing: javy machado x femme reader (no y/n), callsign Cross

summary: Mrs. Machado is on a plane home, so there's no need to keep pretending...but it's awful tempting when you wake up in bed with someone you've been in love with for months.

warnings: 18+, minors please DNI – the smut starts here, folks. it's not PiV not yet but come back for ch5, but there's mutual masturbation, swearing like you'd not believe, and questionable sanitary decisions who am i

length: 3.8k

A/N: *appears after four months with 1.8k words of smut* thank you to everyone who reached out to check on this fic, who asked for updates, and who encouraged my lunacy. so excited to continue to tell their story!

chapter one / chapter two

Monday Morning

You woke up slowly, the sun shining through your blinds, and your arms wrapped around a sleeping Javy Machado. 

You lay still for a second, cataloging the moment. 

You’d both shifted in your sleep; Javy had rolled over and you’d followed him, your chest against his back and your nose pressed into the nape of his neck. You didn’t think of yourself as a big spoon, and you’d bet anything that Javy wouldn’t publicly admit to being the little spoon, but it felt so comfortable this way, to be wrapped around him, holding him.  

You knew he was a heavy sleeper, from the time he’d fallen asleep in one of the common rooms, and Bob and Fanboy had started stacking things on top of him, to see how long it’d take him to wake up (four coffee mugs, two couch cushions, nine folded flight suits, six F/A-18 manuals, a carefully balanced Halo, and it’d been one of the coffee mugs falling to the floor and shattering that’d done the trick).

But you still held your breath when you pulled away from him, hoping he wouldn’t wake. When he didn’t stir, you propped yourself up on your elbow, looking down at him. 

He really was just so beautiful. 

Curled on his side, he looked sweeter than normal, but sleep had done nothing to diminish his handsomeness. He nuzzled deeper into one of your silk pillowcases, an endearing gesture that had you wishing you didn’t have drills in a couple hours. He still didn’t wake, but he did mumble something when the bed shifted, and you kept your steps light as you walked out of the room. 

No need to wake him until it was necessary. 

You ran through an abbreviated morning routine in the bathroom, before padding though the house to look for some tea. The sun shone in a slender patch through the morning shadows in your small kitchen, and you hefted yourself onto the countertop into that sliver of light, humming contentedly as you felt the warm rays over your skin. The kettle was within arms reach, as were the cinnamon rolls and your ipad, and you opened the sticky pastries as you flipped through your apps until you found the New York Crossword puzzle.

You were a couple bites into your second cinnamon roll when you heard the floors creaking in the hallway, getting louder. 

“What’s an eight letter word for Roger the Dodger?” you asked, not looking up. 

“God, I hate that I know this,” Javy mumbled to himself, from the door, before he sighed dramatically. “It’s Staubach.”

You typed the name in, your eyes widening when it completed the row. “Didn’t know you were a football guy.”

“I’m not,” he still sounded somewhat chagrined, “Jake idolizes the man more than Cyclone.”

You looked up at him, prepared to make some quick quip, but as you took in the sight of Javy standing in your doorway, eyes still sleepy, body still lax, you genuinely forgot words. 

He looked like a dream. 

The tshirt he’d slept in was wrinkled, and he rested a shoulder against the doorframe, slouching slightly. He looked comfortable, he looked like it was normal for him to be in a tshirt and boxers in your kitchen, first thing in the morning, fresh-faced and almost-smiling at you. 

 After everything in the last two days, after spending the night with the man, you knew you had nothing to feel bashful over, but it was still a lot to process—the reality of Javy being here, like this. 

“Hi,” you said, stupidly. 

“Hey,” he said, and his lips spread in a smile. The sun on your skin seemed cooler, like it was a lesser force than the light of his smile, and you shifted in your seat, brushing at your mouth with the back of your hand, hoping you didn’t have frosting all over your face.

“Want one?” you offered, gesturing to the pyrex of cinnamon rolls. 

“Sure,” Javy shrugged, pushing away from the door. 

You didn’t think you could look at him, barefoot in your kitchen and walking slowly towards you, without combusting, so you nudged the cinnamon rolls closer to him, and looked back at the crossword. 

In your peripherals, you saw Javy pull a roll out of the dish, and start unwinding it with his fingers. His shoulder was practically leaned against yours, and he seemed content with the silence, so you went back to your crossword. You could feel his attention on the screen, but you didn’t mind, and the sun felt nice against your skin as it crept higher in the sky. 

“Hmph,” Javy went to say something before he remembered his mouth was full of frosting, chewing aggressively for a second or two until he was clear. “This isn’t fair.”

You looked up at him, raising an eyebrow. “What isn’t?”

Javy frowned down at the last bit of cinnamon roll in his hands, before popping it into his mouth with a shrug. “Too good of a morning,” he said, like that made any sense at all.

When you didn’t react to that, Javy looked up at you, like he was waiting. He also was licking frosting off his fingers, like that was casual, and you shook your head, letting him know you needed more context. 

“Just like,” he started, his tongue ghosting over his thumb, “waking up in your house, that smells like cinnamon because you made cinnamon rolls after you met my mom yesterday, before we made out and, you know, cuddled to sleep…I don’t know, it just sounds fake. Like, too good.”

You pressed your lips together, but you knew it wouldn’t hide your smile. 

“Now what?” Javy asked, and you shook your head. 

How did you say hey you’re too pretty to be real and also say things like that and also look like THIS with pillow marks on his face or wasn’t standing barefoot in your kitchen with frosting on his fingers?

So you leaned forward on the counter and kissed him, pressed your lips to his and licked the frosting off his tongue. And maybe you got what he was saying, because it wasn’t fair, it was too good, now that you knew how Javy tasted like first thing in the morning. 

Javy pulled a long breath in through his nose, his shoulders rising as he pushed away from where he’d been leaning on the counter to stand in front of you. One of his hands ghosted over your knees, now digging into his stomach, and you parted them, so he could stand closer to you. It was kind of like that first night on your stoop, where the steps had given you extra height you didn’t have normally, but this time Javy was physically between your legs, and you decided that was nice too. His other hand was on the back of your neck, his thumb stroking up your jaw as he cradled your head with the rest of his hand.

“Why isn’t the weekend longer?” Javy mumbled between kisses, his words lingering between your lips. The momentary separation caused by his words gave you an excuse to kiss the corner of his mouth, then down his jawline.

“It should definitely be longer,” you whispered back, your tongue teasing down his neck, and Javy leaned more heavily into you. You peppered his neck with light kisses, knowing the last thing either of you needed was to leave him with marks, but too enchanted by the way his breathing quickened to stop. 

“Fuck,” Javy gritted, the words punched out of him when your lips grazed over his pulse point in his throat. God, you liked the sound of that, his surprise and his desire, his gorgeous voice gone rough. You hummed in response, and at the vibrations, Javy’s hand tightened on the back of your neck, and you knew you were playing with fire, but you wanted to hear more of it.

“And if the weekend were longer,” you asked, pressing your lips to the place where his pulse was racing, not at all surprised that your own voice sounded breathless, “what would we do about it?”

Javy laughed, something darker than a chuckle, and he pulled back to capture your mouth with his again. There was something urgent in this kiss, hungrier than before, and you felt yourself pulling closer to the edge of the counter, closer to him. 

You felt warm all over, felt heat pooling low in your stomach, felt your body reacting faster than it had any right to. You didn’t know if Javy could taste your desperation on your kiss, but you pressed closer to him, and he made a low sound in his throat, like he approved. 

But then he pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. His thumb stroked up your neck, his other hand still settled on your knee, and he pulled in a deep breath through his nose. 

“You’re not playing fair,” he said, but he sounded more awed than upset.

You blinked your eyes open, your skin heating when you realized he was watching you already. 

“We’ve an hour before we have to be on base,” you whispered, not an excuse, but an offer. Your skin still felt so hot, and you could feel your pulse pounding in your fingertips, in your core.  

Javy groaned, his eyes fluttering shut and you felt him shake his head from the way his forehead moved against yours. 

“Baby, you know an hour’s not enough for what I want to do with you.”

You shivered, either from the deep timbre of his voice, the serious meaning his words held, or the sweet way he’d said ‘with’ instead of ‘to’.

“Well now you’re not being fair,” you muttered, and you could hear something like a pout on your voice, but it wasn’t your fault. Not when Javy was giving you ideas for over-an-hour activities for the two of you.

He laughed again, warmer this time, and pulled you to him again. This kiss was chaste, comfortable, the kind of easy like you knew there was a next time. And as much as you wanted to sink into it, you knew he was right. 

“Let me take you to dinner,” he said, and the implicit “first” wasn’t lost on either of you. “Better, I can make you dinner.”

Your eyes narrowed, and you were dangerously close to asking him to pinch you, to make sure you were still awake.

“You can make me dinner, Coyote,” you accepted, keeping your voice light, since he was apparently determined to be a gentleman this morning. 

Of course, using his callsign had Javy’s head dropping to your shoulder, and another half-hearted groan escaping out of him. 

“’m trying to be a good person, here,” he said into your shoulder, and you patted his chest lightly, consolingly.

“One of us has to be,” you muttered, and he huffed into your sweatshirt. “Alright, let me down.”

He stilled, almost imperceptibly, but you got the feeling he’d gone from nuzzling into your sweatshirt to hiding in it. 

“Give me a sec,” he mumbled, shifting his hips slightly. The motion drew your eyes downward between the two of you and—ah. 

You shouldn’t be surprised. 

Javy was tall, it was early in the morning, boxers were thin material...but the sight of his impressive erection brought back the heat of your make out session, and then it was your turn to shift on the counter. It wasn’t even entirely lascivious, it was just nice to know you were wanted, that there was physical proof of it. 

“Sorry,” Javy’s voice was still muffled in your sweatshirt, as he mistook your arousal for discomfort. “I’ve just been thinking about this for so long.”

He trailed off, and you thought quickly about the time left in the morning, how you both needed to be focused at work today, and if there was a way to compromise–take the edge off, so to speak, without leading further down distraction. And you thought of how he’d barely touched you this morning, but his voice and the way he moved were dizzying enough, and your hand that’d been on his chest wound up to rest along the side of his face. He turned into your hand, a small gesture that made your heart flutter, and your decision solidified. 

“Do me a favor?” you asked quietly, and you felt when Javy nodded. “Sit at the table?”

Javy lifted up from your shoulder, confused, but when you smiled at him, he moved to do as you asked. 

You didn’t close your legs, still spread from where he’d stood between them, but you covered the cinnamon rolls and pushed your ipad away from you. You watched him cross the small width of your kitchen, settling into the chair facing you. His legs were somewhat spread still, and you knew you could do this.

“What have you thought of,” you asked, nervousness and anticipation mixing in your voice, “when you thought of this?”

For a moment, Javy was still, confused, and then his eyes fell to where your hand was running along the hem of your pajama shorts. He let out his breath slowly, and then his chin lifted as he sat back in the chair. He pushed his shoulders back as he settled, preening, his feet flat on the floor, and his eyes watched you intently. 

“You want me to talk you through it?” he asked, his voice somehow even deeper, and it was like you could feel it washing over you. 

You nodded, not trusting your voice to come out steady, and were rewarded by a gorgeous, slow smile spreading across the face of the man at your kitchen table. 

“Yeah, I can do that, honey,” he said, his voice soft enough to make you hold your breath, desperate to catch every word. He looked at you for a long moment, his gaze heavy, like he was committing this sight to memory, and you got the feeling it wasn’t going to be as simple as him telling you his fantasies. 

Namely because he was going to be the one giving directions.

“Pet yourself,” Javy said, voice steady and deep, “over your shorts.”

You couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped you when you did as he asked, your hand sliding between your legs. The contact was muted through the cotton, but your body still reacted to it, or maybe just to the fact that it was Javy who’d asked. 

You stroked your hand between your legs, feeling your arousal building, feeling the slide of your hand shift as your body warmed to your touch. 

“That’s it,” Javy breathed. “Press down, just like that…fuck, honey.”

He broke off, and you looked up at him, to find him pressing a hand over himself. Your legs twitched, and you felt your fingers grow wet, as your arousal soaked through the thin material of your shorts. 

“You’re wet for me, already,” Javy said, his voice awed. “I can see it from here, baby, damn. Damn, I wish those were my fingers between your pretty thighs.”

You whimpered again at the curses falling past Javy’s lips, after all his restraint and chivalry. He sounded so good, he sounded like he had it as bad for you as you did for him. 

“This isn’t what I thought about,” he said, his voice low, answering your question. “Because when I thought about it, I’d be right there, between your legs. It would be me feeling you soak through your panties. I could touch you, smell you, taste you, whatever I wanted, and you’d be looking at me–fuck, just like that, honey.”

His words were heady, and you could see the way he meant them. His eyes were intense and you looked away, your touch now feeling more like a tease than a beginning. 

“Need more, Jay,” you managed, your voice shaking. “Please.”

“Anything, honey,” Javy said immediately, “anything. Bet you don’t know you could have anything if you asked like that, looking like this. I always imagined–okay, slide your hand into your panties, now, you can touch yourself.”

As you drew your hand back up to your waist, Javy kept pressing down on his dick through his boxers. It looked uncomfortable, but he was so focused on you, that you didn’t push him, not yet. 

At the first brush of your fingers over your clit, you sighed in relief, and Javy groaned. 

“You sound so pretty, baby, fuck. Just like I imagined, so sweet. Does that feel good? Your fingers on your pussy, for me?”

You nodded, feeling feverish. 

“So good, Javy,” you gasped, your fingers finding a familiar rhythm. “I’m so wet, I feel—fuck, it feels so good.”

Javy’s hips jerked up, and you licked your lips, knowing what you needed. 

“Let me see you,” you asked, your voice bordering on a whine.

His head fell back as your request registered, his hips rising of their own accord again. 

“You’re gonna kill me,” he said to the ceiling, but then he shifted his hips to slide his boxers down to his knees, and pulling his hard dick out.

You moaned, a wanton sound that seemed to echo around the quiet kitchen, but fuck, look at him. Proportions were one thing, but he was so thick, and when he wrapped his big hand around himself, you shivered imagining how your hand would look in comparison. You watched a tremor work across his chest as Javy pulled his hand over himself, and your thighs spread wider of their own accord. 

“Fuck, honey, how you’re looking at me right now…” Javy’s words pulled your eyes back to his, and you knew what he meant. 

His eyes were dark, so intense, focused on you and you could feel his desire for you, palpable. His jaw clenched as he stroked himself, and you wondered absently if you could come just from the sight of him. 

Then you realized his hips were moving.

 It was subtle, just the flex in his thighs, but you could see a steady motion he was trying to disguise as he pumped into his hand, and you felt it in your core. Your own hips were shifting, then, pressing into the circling motion of your fingers in time with Javy’s movements. 

“Are you moving with me, baby?” Javy asked, his voice rough. “Fuck, it should be me; I want you on my fingers, on my thighs; God, honey, the way you move–”

You whimpered at his words, working your hand faster. 

“I want that so bad, Jay,” you managed. “You’d make me feel so good.”

“So fucking good,” Javy said, like a promise. “Can you slide a finger in, honey, feel how tight you are.”

You did as he asked, moaning as you clenched down on the intrusion, your hips still rocking. Your body adjusted, and it was good but then you looked over at Javy. His thick cock, a pearl of precum appearing at the tip of it, the hefty width of it, fucking steadily into his hand…his broad hand, wide fingers, also so thick…and the your hand felt small, felt insufficient, and you whimpered, shaking your head. 

“’s not enough,” you whined, your voice sounding pitiful, wanton, and Javy groaned across the room. That sound was the most beautiful thing you’d heard, masculine and needy and perfect, and you added another finger, like that would satisfy the ache in your core. 

“Did you add another one, honey?” Javy asked tightly. “You need my hands, don’t you, need me to make you feel full? Fuck, baby, you’d take me so well, I know it.”

You fought the irrational need to cry; you wanted that too, wanted it desperately. But you thrust your fingers into yourself, let Javy’s beautiful voice wash over you, and it could be enough. 

His chest was rising and falling quickly as his breathing got more labored, and you felt like you were coming out of your skin; you’d give anything to feel his panting breath over your skin, his chest heaving as he worked both of you higher. That hand around his leaking cock, how it would feel over your pussy, playing with your breasts, on your throat–

“You’re doing so good for me, baby,” Javy groaned, his eyes glued to where your wrist emerged from the hem of your shorts. “Those whimpers are killing me, shit, you sound so good. Can’t wait to hear how you’ll sound on my dick, when it’s so fucking deep in that pussy.”

You moaned, you felt so taught, like everything was hanging on Javy’s words, on how good you were doing for him, on how much he wanted you. Your hand was aching, and this was so much sooner than you expected, but you felt your toes curl and your thighs started to tremble as Javy’s thrusts into his hand sped up. 

“I’m so close, Jay,” you cried, your head falling back and your hips starting to lose their rhythm, and Javy groaned at whatever he saw when he looked at you. 

“Fucking beautiful, honey, you’re so gorgeous. Let me see it, please, come for me. Come for me like you’re going to tonight, after I’ve fed you and fucked you, after we’ve spent all day imagining my dick so deep in that pussy, after I get to taste those moans off your lips, come on, honey–”

Your fingers pressed deep into your cunt and the promise and pleading of Javy’s words with the steady thrust of his hips sent you over the edge. Your back arched and your orgasm screamed through you, summoned by Javy’s gorgeous voice and his thick fingers and he hadn’t even touched you but you felt him, you felt that it was for him, and you came hard, the world blurring as Javy praised you from across the room.  

“Oh, fuck, baby, that’s it. So good,” he was panting, but you could hear his pride like a caress. “You did so good. Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum, honey, you’re just so pretty like this, fuck–”

Javy cut off and you opened your eyes to see his hips still as he thrust into his palm, and then ribbons of cum spurted over the front of his tshirt. 

You clenched down on your fingers, still slowly soothing yourself, your emptiness magnified with the sight of him finding his release. God, he was so beautiful. 

His chest heaving, his strong thighs flexed, his brow tense and his eyelashes fluttering, he looked like a work of art, like something divine. His jaw loosened as he finished, his lips parting and a soft sound of satisfaction eased out of him and you felt it settle under your skin. 

The kitchen was quiet, the air thick with pleasure and relief and so much unsaid, and your eyes drifted shut, still trying to catch your breath. When Javy laughed again, it was musical, light and sweet. And when you looked over at him again, he wore the softest smile on his face, a million kind things in his eyes as he looked at you. 

“Shit, Cross,” he sighed, laughter in his voice. “How are we supposed to make it through the day, now?”

You smiled back, tired and sated, with no idea in hell.

//

taglist (folks who always humor me, folks who reblogged the last chapter, or folks who sent asks to be tagged): @laracrofted @mxgyver @callsign-fangirl @bradshawsbitch @ninaxwaffles @blowmymbackout @daggerspare-standingby @javihoney @sebsxphia @princessphilly @roosterforme @maddiemunson333 @vallyb @hearttohearteyes @bioodforbiood @gretagerwigsmuse @rae-gar-targaryen @hangmanbrainrot @beyondthesefourwalls @mandylove1000 @blckgrl-sunflower

[mason-ajar]

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 :-)

[mishasminions]

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.

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