#elect someone brand new!
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wait how does the potus twt acc work. is it wiped for each new president or do all the old ones remain
#i dont have twt and im not going on tht hellhole to check but im like curious. i think they should have to keep all the old posts#mb just make a littl new mod announcement when someone new is elected LMAO#and if anyone corrects me abt those posts being tweets... i know that. post is the generic term theyre still posts.#having a special little brand name doesnt change that. ritz r still crackers bay bee#has there even been enough presidents on an official twt acc for this to even have a pattern? i know obama has a twt acc now but did the#potus twt exist back when he was prez? or has it just been fuckface and shitold with it#idk. idaf either rlly to be honest
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"𝙄 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙝𝙞𝙢 𝙩𝙤 𝙨𝙚𝙚 𝙬𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙄'𝙢 𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙤 𝙙𝙤 𝙩𝙤 𝙮𝙤𝙪." | dark!jackson rippner x reader
(I'm sorry but also no I'm not because wes craven knew exactly what he was doing when he put that line in the movie... he fucking knew...)
𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮 | after following you for weeks as part of his job, jackson got a few ideas in his head about making you his, but finding out you had a boyfriend meant he needed to change his approach.
𝙬𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙘𝙤𝙪𝙣𝙩 | just under 9k (wow what the actual fuck)
𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 | DARK NONCON SMUT (18+ only, don't keep reading if you're not physically or emotionally mature enough to manage your own content consumption please and thank you), knife kink, stalking, forced exhibitionism, forced infidelity, humiliation, vaginal and anal sex (whoops), pain kink/painal, ass to pussy (god this fic is disgusting lmao), hair pulling, brief breeding kink/forced breeding, some angst but really it's just filth
once again, this is a dark character being dark and I don't wanna hear y'all acting brand new about it so no hate please. that said, if you do enjoy this (which I very much hope you do) please consider reblogging to support my work :) comments are especially appreciated and literally make me so so happy!!
Following you was just part of the job— and Jackson did not like his job mixing with his personal life.
The problem was, he hadn’t had much of a personal life lately. No time for it; one or two hook-ups, women he met in bars, but that’s it. And believe it or not, he wanted more than that. Nobody would accuse Jackson of being sentimental— not really an attitude you can have when you organize illegal weapons sales and political assassinations— but he wasn’t made of stone. He wanted to be able to share at least part of his life with someone… or, you know, have a nice set of legs waiting for him at home that he could get between every night. Either, or both, would do.
It was an unfortunate coincidence that his realization that he wanted a girlfriend, or at the very least a plaything of his own, came right around the same time that he started to follow you. He was only doing it to pick up on your habits, figure out a way to get to you so he could blackmail you into being his inside man for his next job. It was supposed to be pretty simple: you were a museum events coordinator in charge of an upcoming lecture series which would feature a speech from a Bolivian presidential candidate who was unfortunately unfriendly to cartels. The American government not only endorsed him, but had him under incredibly tight security. This speaking event was going to be a rare chance to get to him in a public space without metal detectors, and Jackson was being compensated generously to ensure your museum would let a few extra attendees in the back.
But see, the Bolivian presidential election was the last thing on Jackson’s mind as he watched you through your window. His eyes drifted all over you, mesmerized by the way you prepared yourself for your day— styling your hair in the mirror, smoothing the wrinkles in your white button-up, pulling those stockings up your thighs…
He caught himself biting his lip and shook it off, straightening up in the driver’s seat of his car; he knew he should probably leave then, beat you to your work and then wander into the museum to feign interest in a few artifacts before striking up a conversation. But he loitered a bit longer, letting himself imagine how quickly he could rip off those clothes you were so thoughtfully dressing yourself with.
Eventually, he managed to pull his attention away from you and start the car, sighing as he tried to remember his plan of attack for ‘accidentally’ meeting you later today.
~
The museum might’ve been interesting, if he wasn’t so distracted by you. He was loitering, hands in his pockets, pretending to look at the paintings and artifacts as he waited for you to be near enough to strike up an innocuous conversation with. Early in the day, he saw you give a tour to a couple considering the museum for a wedding location, but kept his distance— it could be a while before you were available and he didn't want you to notice him yet, or he'd have to justify having been in the museum all day by himself.
For the first time since he’d started this job, Jackson felt slightly nervous to speak to you. It was always a big step, going from following someone to actually approaching them, but usually it didn’t give him any specific emotional reaction. Sure, he might feel a certain amount of pressure to do this correctly lest he blow the whole thing by tipping off his target, but he never was worried something would go wrong. This time, though, he felt his heart picking up every time he glanced at you from across the museum, closer to you than he’d ever been. His palms were even a bit clammy when he saw you walk by and realized this was the moment he needed to strike. God, did he really have a crush? How pathetic… but he couldn’t worry about that now, he was about to lose his chance as you brushed by him quickly.
"Miss?" he got your attention, gently touching your shoulder through your shirt as you passed by; you seemed a little startled by the physicality, yes, but not exactly offended.
"Oh, um— can I help you?" you said. He’d heard you speak before, on the wiretap and all, but it was a little different in person like this— and directed at him.
"I was gonna ask you about this sculpture, if you didn't mind," he explained with a gentle smile.
"Oh, well, one of our dosants would love to talk to you about our collection—" you began, starting to look for the closest staff member designated to help him, but he interrupted.
"So, you don't know anything about the stuff here?"
Your attention moved back to him and you smiled to hide your obvious defensiveness. "No, I do," you assured, "I actually am uniquely equipped to tell you about this sculpture: I studied Incan art specifically during my master's program."
He gave his best 'quietly impressed' face and nodded; he knew he could get you with that, you had kind of a know-it-all thing going on, which he happened to find annoyingly attractive. "Alright, then tell me about it," he challenged.
"Well," you sighed, crossing your arms as you looked at the piece, "we got this one a few years ago, it's actually a ceremonial vessel— there’s the llama head and the bird on this side here, those were both animals with a lot of cultural significance…”
As you pointed out elements of the vessel, he leaned in ostensibly to look at where you were gesturing— but it was all an excuse to get close to you, warm you up to him.
“They would’ve used this to pour essentially a form of beer on the ground,” you continued, “in hopes of increasing the strength of the crops and fertility."
"Fascinating," he smiled at you, and you didn’t back away when he stood closer. Like fish in a barrel. "How old is it?"
"It's estimated to be about four or five hundred years old,” you explained.
"Wow," he nodded, looking at the stone carving behind the glass again. "It's interesting to me that humans have always made art— and always been superstitious. Though I have to be honest, if I was living before the invention of birth control I don't think I'd be praying for fertility."
You smirked a little, and he hoped he hadn't gone too far— but it was fun to look at you and know what you must be thinking about. He could only hope that you were thinking about it with him in mind.
“Jackson, by the way,” he introduced himself, “my name’s Jackson. It feels unfair that you’ve gotta wear the nametag and I get to be anonymous.”
You laughed a little, glancing down at the silver nametag on your blazer and then back up at him. “Fair enough; welcome to our museum, Jackson.”
“So, wait,” he tilted his head, “forgive the late reaction here, but— if you’ve got a master’s degree of that caliber, how’d you end up as an event planner?”
“Well, believe it or not, the position does require historical knowledge,” you explained. “I started in curation, though— just moved to events because I was too cooped up in the back offices… I like meeting new people.”
Although Jackson would never consider himself particularly empathetic, he did think he had a decent sense of people— specifically, when they were lying. And that felt like a lie— a white lie, maybe, but still. A lie you were telling yourself most of all, that this was what you wanted to do. And it wasn’t that he really thought you disliked your job, moreso that his two weeks of following you did not indicate you harbored a strong desire to meet new people. You were a total homebody: rejecting offers to go out for drinks or dinner from friends and coworkers, staying up late watching TV instead of hitting the town or something, shrinking into your room every night and staying there until it was time to go to work again. He’d only seen you leave your house once that first weekend, and it was to pick up groceries— that’s it. No hot date, no concerts… almost no social life at all. Either you stayed late at the museum, or you went home.
And he also found that annoyingly attractive. Jackson, after all, was a workaholic himself; he imagined he would go out and do fun things, if he had the time, but right now nothing sounded better than going home and cuddling up with a sweet girl like you, being lazy couch potatoes together, resting after a long day of espionage, cyberterrorism, actual terrorism, and whatever else his work day got him up to.
….Jesus, when did he get so goddamn sentimental?!
“It certainly seems like a unique job,” Jackson replied.
“Every day’s a little different,” you agreed.
“Sounds like my job,” he snorted, “but I don’t work with other people much— I think it would be more entertaining with other people around. Especially when they can tell me everything there is to know about Incan art.”
“Okay, I don’t know everything,” you backpedaled, not seeming to really notice the larger sentiment of his statement, “but I can certainly hold my own. I like to think we all have something we know a little too much about, and could ramble for ages about.”
“Yeah, I hope so, or we’re just weirdos,” he chuckled. “For me it’s probably cocktails. I’m not an alcoholic or anything— I actually don’t drink that much, just socially, you know— but I have this thing where I can guess anybody’s favorite drink order.”
“Oh?” you raised an eyebrow.
“Yeah,” he smirked, “but hold on, I can’t guess yours until I really get the vibes.”
“Oh,” you nodded, “yeah— vibes, sure.”
“Hmm,” he pondered, narrowing his eyes as he looked you up and down, biting his lip like he was really thinking about it.
Here was the hard part: he really hadn’t seen you go out for drinks this whole time, so he was actually going to have to guess. Of course, the fun part of this game was not actually getting it right— if anything, it worked better when he got corrected. All he really needed was to get you alone long enough to tell you who he really was, what he needed from you, and how he was going to motivate you to do it… but if he could actually seduce you first, that would be a hell of a bonus.
“I’m thinking something a little sweet, not too fruity though,” he thought aloud, “something classic— you have an old soul, I think.”
You seemed to be a little surprised by that analysis, but he figured that meant he was mostly right.
“Your cocktail of choice is, obviously, a sidecar,” he announced.
For a second, he thought he might have got it from the way you smiled, but then you started to laugh. “You were on the right track,” you admitted.
“Damn,” he snapped his fingers in playful frustration. After a pause, he realized, “you’re not gonna tell me?”
“I figured I’d give you another guess,” you explained.
“Or,” Jackson countered, “I could take you out tonight, and you could show me yourself. Your drink order, I mean.”
Alright, that was forward, but he figured he’d been doing well so far. Instead, though, you tensed up a bit, causing Jackson to knit his eyebrows together for a moment. “I would, really, but, I have plans tonight… with my boyfriend,” you said.
He swallowed behind a barely-suppressed frown. Following you for all this time and he hadn’t noticed any boyfriend; were you lying just to get him to back off? You’d seemed so flattered before. “Oh?” Jackson tried to get out in his most neutral voice. “That’s great— is he taking you somewhere nice?
“Even better,” you blinked quickly, a shy smile lifting your face. “He works here at the museum, but he’s been gone almost an entire month to pick up some artifacts from around Eastern Europe… hasn’t even been able to use a phone out there. So he’s promised to come over and give me a first look at everything he got, and apparently he’s brought something just for me, so…”
“That’s sweet,” Jackson replied, willing his nostrils not to twitch. “Nice to know he was thinking of you all the way over there. I travel a lot for my work, actually, and it’s… hard to find somebody loyal these days.”
You nodded in agreement, sighing slightly. “Yeah, it is.”
“I mean, gone for a month, no communication, no reminders of you— just out there surrounded by opportunities and nothing keeping him from them,” Jackson went on. “That’s a lot to get through without at least one drunken encounter.”
You furrowed your brow, looking at him with a sort of grimace. “I… I guess,” you mumbled in reply. “I do have a lot of work to get done so I think I’ll just let you explore,” you decided.
“What if I have more questions about the pieces?” he asked.
“Try reading the little plaque underneath it,” you suggested flatly, already turning and walking away.
Jackson watched to leave for a second before scoffing to himself. Bitch. But it didn’t make a difference anyways: one way or another, he was going to get to you— for the sake of the job, of course. Although this boyfriend character was certainly a spanner in the works of his secondary plan to get you in bed, Jackson had to admit that he was ultimately an advantage for his actual purpose with you: an attachment, something he could exploit to get what he wanted. Do what I say, or he gets hurt.
Of course, he knew he should use that to make you be his inside man for that stupid lecture series— he wasn’t going to get the second half of his payoff until the cartel had their chance to make an example out of the visiting politician. But, as a small smile crept over his face while he walked out of the museum, he realized that he could use his leverage for so much more than that.
~
The door was unlocked when you got home; beaming, you realized it meant that your boyfriend beat you here, and was likely waiting for you just around the corner.
“Babe?” you called out, shutting the door behind you and shirking your purse and blazer to set down on the wooden credenza.
And yes, he was waiting for you around the corner alright, but you gasped in shock and felt your stomach sink when you saw him. He was bound to a chair with zipties, restrained at his wrists and ankles with tape over his mouth, looking a bit roughed up and absolutely terrified.
“Oh my god!” you gasped, running to him, but he oddly seemed to pull away from you as much as he could when you tried to break one of the ties. “What the fuck, what’s— oh my god, are you—?” you rushed, not even knowing where to start and just focusing on freeing him. But he just kept letting out muffled grunts and shaking his head— like he didn’t want you to keep going. Of course, you’d been so shocked by it that you hadn’t even considered why he looked so scared, why he seemed to want you to get away from him: whoever did this was still in the house.
It seemed obvious in retrospect, but it was too late now; you screamed when someone grabbed you, but the sound was muted by a hand over your mouth. “Shh,” a voice beside your ear soothed as a blade pressed to your neck. “Nobody’s going to get hurt if you behave.”
Your boyfriend hung his head defeatedly, and you thought you heard the sound of him crying though it was hard to tell.
“You missed him quite a lot, didn’t you?” the man asked, and you wrinkled your brows together as you wondered how he could’ve known that he was gone for a while. “Left you all alone here, poor thing— probably got all worked up, lonely, needy… like three nights ago, when I saw you through your bedroom window, touching yourself."
Your face burned with humiliation— not even that he saw you doing that, really, but just knowing he'd been watching you for god-knows how long. That made you feel more violated than anything.
“Wanted to help you so bad,” he purred, “but I had to wait. I’m not waiting anymore— you’ve got me feeling pretty fucking impatient these days.”
You kept thinking about what you could do to get him away from you— his feet were just behind yours, you could stomp on his shoe and hope it hurt enough to distract him, or maybe you could wrench your elbow back into his side— but with the knife at your throat, you were afraid that he’d be faster than you if you tried anything. “Please just— don’t hurt me, please,” you begged, whimpering a little, not sure what else to say at a time like this.
“Oh, honey,” he cooed, “you sound so sweet when you’re scared.”
It was the way he said that word: sweet. It reminded you of before, something you’d done your best to forget about all day. Something a little sweet, not too fruity— that weird guy at the museum, he’d said it just like that. “Oh my god,” you breathed, “it’s— it’s you.”
“You remember my name, don’t you?” he smiled.
“Jackson,” you recalled, “you— oh my god—”
“I’m sure you’re a little relieved,” he chuckled, addressing your boyfriend with a grin as you turned your head enough to look up at his semi-familiar face. “She was so into me when we met today at the museum,” Jackson informed him proudly. “You wanted me to fuck you then, didn’t you, baby?”
“No I fucking di—” you began to deny with a sneer, but he quieted you with a finger over your mouth— of course, a finger from the hand still holding the knife, to remind you exactly why you should stop talking.
“Now, try anything, I might just have to hurt you— or, better yet, your shitstain boyfriend over there,” Jackson warned. “I’m just waiting for an excuse to break a few of his fingers. Don’t give me one.”
Swallowing, you shut your eyes for a longer moment— you couldn’t believe this was actually happening, like one of those horrific news articles you read before bed just to torture yourself. Like one of those horror movies guys think are campy and fun but give you the most awful sick feeling because that could really happen. And now it was really happening, and your first thought was somehow to wonder what you did wrong to let this happen.
“So, are you gonna be a good girl for me?” he asked, tilting his head down to look at you questioningly.
You nodded, but he wasn’t satisfied.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” you answered quickly, and he snarled with frustration.
“No, baby, say it like I said it,” he insisted, his tone a warning not to test him again.
“I’m gonna be… I’m gonna be a good girl…” you choked out.
“Whose good girl?” he taunted, and you groaned as you shut your eyes, feeling him pull you closer to him and press his face close to yours.
“Yours! Your good girl,” you spat out, breath picking up as you heard him purr against your cheek. “Jackson— please, you don’t… you don’t have to do this. Please don’t do this.”
You shivered as the knife pressed against you again and moved from your neck down to your shirt, gently slicing off the top button and exposing a little more of your chest. “Mm, but I want to,” he explained, “wanted you since I first saw you.”
You hated the realization that he likely first saw you quite some time ago, before you ever knew he existed, and that he’d been waiting for this ever since then.
“I think it turns you on, knowing I can do whatever I want to you,” he presumed, cutting off a second button from your shirt.
“Please just go,” you begged, starting to properly cry as his teeth grazed your neck. “You’re right— you can do whatever you want. I can’t stop you. Isn’t that what you wanted to prove? Just… just don’t make me—”
“Make you?” he repeated. “No, no— you wanted me. I could tell. Only thing stopping you was him.”
He pointed towards your boyfriend with the knife in his hand, who looked devastated and horrified to say the least.
“You could do better, by the way,” Jackson informed you. “You should be with somebody who can really treat you right.”
Another button fell to the floor; your bra was visible now, baby pink lace, and your nipples hardened from the cool air on your skin— that, and the way Jackson’s breath fanned across the nape of your neck.
“Are you getting wet for me, baby?” he whispered to you as his knife trailed delicately over your skin, tracing the curve of your breasts. “Think it’s time for me to finally give you what you need?”
You took a deep, but shaky, breath as you tried to put on a brave face and brace for what was to come. “My… my bedroom is upstairs,” you whispered, and Jackson laughed in a way that made your skin crawl.
“Oh, eager already,” he taunted.
“I just wanna get this over with,” you insisted.
“Sure,” he said facetiously with a mischievous smirk and a wink to match; you felt like you were gonna be sick. “But bedrooms are a little, you know… basic? That’s probably what you’re used to, real traditional stuff: missionary, in the bed, in the dark, for a few minutes on weekends only. That’s the vibe I’m getting, at least. You’re not used to being with somebody romantic— you know, spontaneous.”
He turned you around to face him, making you yelp a little as he spoke by your ear.
“Somebody who just has to have you; right here, right now,” he cooed, running his tongue along the outside of your ear before suddenly kissing roughly along your neck.
“N-no, please,” you begged, imagining the humiliation you were in store for if he really did fuck you on your living room floor in front of the man you loved. “Please, I— I said I’ll be good for you, just— take me to my room, please.”
"No, baby,” Jackson purred as he held your chin, “let’s show your little boyfriend here what you look like when a real man fucks you, huh?"
Whining, you jerked your arms forward to try to break away, but it only ensured the bruises his fingers would leave on your skin.
A second later, you were shoved to the ground, and he was on top of you wearing a wide grin. You could hear your boyfriend kicking and screaming in the corner, but your attention was more focused on Jackson starting to open his belt.
"Fuck! Get the fuck off of me!" you yelped, kicking and shoving as hard as you could and finding each one more helpless than the last. "You— you fucking piece of shit!"
He smacked you across the face only to pull it back harshly by the jaw, glaring into your eyes. "Better be careful with that dirty mouth," he warned, shoving two fingers between your lips until you gagged on them. "Don't need to wash that out with soap, do we?"
As you choked, you shook your head, hoping it would be enough of an apology to get you some air.
"How about come?" he joked, making you gag for more than one reason, and he laughed at the tears that rolled down your temples.
He took his fingers out of your mouth and reached down to his fly again, letting out a small satisfied sigh as he freed himself. You sobbed a little when you accidentally caught a glimpse of his erection in his hand; he grunted when you tried to push him off again, and responded by grabbing both your wrists and pinning them down above your head. He hummed as he stroked himself a bit, looking down at you trapped under him.
“Thought you said you were gonna be good for me,” he recalled, chuckling when you bit your shaking lip. “You sure you don’t need me to hurt Romeo over there, give you a little motivation?”
You shook your head. “No— I’m sorry, I’ll do what you say. Don’t hurt him.”
“Open your legs,” he ordered.
Hesitantly, you lifted your legs up a bit and spread them, cringing at the happy groan you heard when your skirt started to roll up your thighs.
“Don’t move your hands,” he warned before he let go of them, leaning back and looking down at you: spread out under him, his for the taking.
He snapped off the last few buttons of your shirt, humming when your torso was exposed further. His hand started at your neck and ran down to grope your chest through the lacy bra; he purred, pinching your hardened nipples until you were forced to react.
Pulling it down, he took a quick breath at the sight of your bare tits— his chest rising and falling— and he set his knife aside to knead them both with a hum. "Been thinking about these for a while…" he mumbled. You gasped when he leaned down and captured a nipple in his mouth, suckling with a wide mouth as you scrunched your nose and looked away. Still, it made your insides pulse when he swirled his tongue around, only to pop off a second later and move to the other. "Damn," he breathed, leaning back again to move his attention lower.
Starting at your knees, he rubbed your legs carefully, moving a little higher every time until he was gripping needily at your thighs; his own breathing was a little faster as he did it.
You hadn't exactly imagined how this would be, obviously, but you still were surprised at how long he was taking. Was he just trying to build up the anticipation to scare you? Or was it for his own benefit?
He was gentle for just a few seconds before suddenly flaring his nostrils and ripping your stockings open. Through the new hole in the fabric, he rubbed your panties and you bit down on your tongue to avoid crying any harder.
“Fuck,” he breathed, then laughed, as he pet your cunt through the lace— they matched your bra, of course. Your boyfriend was coming back from a long trip, you’d wanted to do something nice for him… that idea backfired completely. “All dressed up, matching and everything… you’re too good to me, babydoll.”
You were about to correct him, make sure both of them knew that this had nothing to do with Jackson, but your open mouth only let out a gasp when Jackson pulled your panties aside to touch you.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned when he slid two fingers between your lips. “So wet. Fuck. When’d you get like that, huh? Hmm, it was the knife, wasn’t it?”
He looked over at your boyfriend and gave him a terribly smug look while he slipped a finger inside your hole.
“Women like a sense of danger,” he informed the tied man flatly. “But… I think your girl likes it even more than most.”
You flexed on his finger, turning his attention back to you, and he licked his lips as he slipped another finger in until you winced.
“That’s too much for you already, baby?” he noticed. “Fuck, I might break you…”
He curled the fingers inside you, clearly trying to get you warmed up for him, and you shut your eyes tight in hopes your face wouldn’t show any reaction. There was a sense of relief when he stopped and pulled his fingers out, but it didn’t last long since the next thing he did was grab your jaw and press those fingers to your lips.
“Ever tasted yourself before?” he asked, and you tried to turn your face away but it was useless. “Come on, it’s good, I’ll show you.”
He licked his own fingers first, moaning in satisfaction as he did it.
“Fuck, it’s sweet,” he promised. “Now you try it.”
This time, when he put his fingers to your mouth, you opened it and let him push them inside. He slid them over your tongue, watching you with dark eyes.
“Suck them,” he instructed you quietly, almost a whisper, and though your cheeks burned you wrapped your lips around his fingers and hollowed your cheeks. “Mm, that’s it— see, you can be a good girl. Knew you could.”
You were panting a little, for some reason, when he took his fingers away, leaving your mouth slack and wet. He brought his hands down to his fly to finish freeing his cock, and you looked up, to the side, basically anywhere but at… that.
“Look at it,” he encouraged you, and you shook your head. “Don’t you wanna see it before I put it inside you?”
You figured you could get him to shut up if you just did it, so you went ahead and took a glance down at his erection in his hand, only for a terrified whimper to catch in your throat.
“I can tell what you’re thinking,” he grinned. “Trying to remember the last time you had a dick this big, right?”
Trying to figure out how that’s supposed to fit.
“Get on your hands and knees for me,” he demanded suddenly, sitting back enough to get you room to do it.
You hesitated, and he suddenly looked angry as he grabbed your wrist and yanked you up a bit until you yelped.
“Go on! Hands and fucking knees, did I stutter?” he ordered, louder.
You were a little sore and weak all over, and it became even more apparent when you awkwardly got up off the floor; you avoided your boyfriend’s gaze as you took the position, opting to just stare down at the rug under you instead, suddenly fascinated by every detail in hopes it could somehow distract you from this. From the feeling of him delicately pushing your skirt up over your ass and his hands all over you, from the way he pushed your knees apart with his own and settled between them, from the sick drop in your stomach as his cock’s head rubbed over your clit and lined up to your opening. Yes, it sure was a riveting pattern on this rug alright…
But, of course, Jackson wouldn’t let you get through this that easily. “Beg for it,” you heard his firm voice from behind you.
“Jackson, come on, I—” you choked, “I— just—”
“It’s okay, babydoll, go on…” he egged you on, as if shyness was the reason you were hesitating.
“Please…” you began, shutting your eyes tightly. “Please fuck me.”
You tried not to react too much when he pushed inside, but it was big, and he himself let out a husky groan at the feeling as he filled you. You managed to stay silent at first, but a little squeak came out halfway through, and it turned into a loud sigh when he was all the way inside. “Fuck,” he breathed, dropping his head back with a breathy laugh. “Fuck, it’s tight. Guess that’s what happens when nobody’s here to treat you right— and I don’t just mean because he was out of town. I can tell nobody’s given you what you need in a long time…”
Before you could wonder what could possibly make him capable of telling that, he took a tight hold of your hips and began to fuck you— slower than you expected, but not quite delicate.
Shaking, you tried to keep yourself propped up on your wobbly arms as he set his pace, and tried to keep yourself quiet while he did this. The last thing he needed was any more reasons to think you liked this.
Still, you couldn’t fight the whimper that came when he suddenly slammed himself into you, rougher than before; your thighs even quivered for a moment. “Fuck,” you choked out, under your breath, and he hummed back at you as he sped up a little.
“Not too deep, is it?” he asked, though it didn’t seem like he was actually concerned for your well-being (obviously). “Not used to anything this big, huh?”
You were afraid he was going to force you to answer that, but instead he surprised you by putting a hand between your shoulder blades and shoving you down; you gasped and grunted when your chest pressed to the floor, your face thankfully turned to the side against the rug— but unfortunately, it meant you were looking right at your boyfriend. You had to shut your eyes, too ashamed that he was seeing you like this.
“There, you like that better?” he purred as he held your hips up against his, but the new angle only forced him deeper until you were choking on nothing with every thrust. Your hands searched wildly along the floor for something to hold onto, but eventually just had to settle for gripping the rug for dear life. “Mm, fuck, s’good— you feel so fucking good, baby…”
The compliment sent an unwilling shiver up your spine, and your back arched even deeper than he’d forced it to. It was too much, it was all far too much, but your toes were curling inside your (ruined) pantyhose and you bit down on your lip without thinking about it.
“Oh, see how much she likes it?” Jackson grunted, apparently still addressing the captive boyfriend in the chair— you really wished he would just leave him out of this. “Fuck, what a pretty little whore…”
Not only could he switch from sickly-sweet to rageful in a moment, but you realized that he could somehow seem to be both at once. Still spitting out praises and insults all at one, he fucked you rougher and meaner as your moans— pain or pleasure, you couldn’t tell anymore and you didn’t want to— grew louder. He kept getting more aggressive— harder and faster, harder and faster— until you were all but screaming and you couldn’t keep your hips up anymore. Each thrust pushed you down until you were flat against the floor, but he kept fucking you and holding the back of your neck. One thrust seemed to go too deep suddenly, and you yelped as you reached back to try to grab his thigh out of instinct.
“Shh, shh, s’okay, baby,” he assured with a hiss. “Fuck.”
But he kept doing it, kept fucking you deep (if a little slower) as you whined and shook under him. “Jackson,” you heard yourself breathe, “please— I-I can’t—”
“God,” he growled, “say my name again. That’s so hot.”
You hadn’t meant it like that, but now it was too late. “N-no,” you tried to deny, but that didn’t last long as he grabbed you by the hair and forced your head up, laying over you enough to speak right against your ear.
“Say. My fucking. Name,” he spat.
“Jackson,” you choked out against the strain on your throat from having your neck cranked back like this. “Jackson, f-fuck—”
He groaned and dropped your head, propping himself up so he could fuck you faster again; his gaze moved down to where his body filled yours, where each thrust made your ass bounce under torn pantyhose…
As he slowed down for a moment, panting, you wondered if maybe it was almost over— maybe it already was, but that seemed too good to be true. He was still holding you down just as hard, anyway; he put his whole weight on your arms as he turned to look at your boyfriend tied up in the chair.
"Does she do anal?" Jackson asked him point-blank.
Your struggle renewed as you screamed angrily— but you couldn't keep it up, it fell into a helpless sob a moment later. Your boyfriend didn't give much of an answer— couldn't, really, on account of the duct tape— just kicked around against his restraints again.
Jackson shrugged as he looked down at you crying under him. "Well, you do now," he decided, pulling out and spitting into his hand.
You’d never felt so helpless, laying there on the floor while he pushed his fat tip up to your puckered hole. “Please,” you begged for mercy, but you didn’t even have the energy to lift your head from the rug and it was all muffled and pathetic.
“It’s really not that bad,” he insisted as he started to press forward, but your whole body jumped and you let out a loud whine when his head slipped inside with a sort of pop— all that pressure giving way to a sick, stinging stretch.
“Oh my god oh my god,” you whimpered, feeling goosebumps break out all over your body from the sharp pain. “I can’t— please, I really can’t—”
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m gonna go real slow,” he promised under his breath, moaning loudly as he pushed in a little deeper. Laying on the floor like this, there was really nowhere for you to go, no way to run from the feeling. “Just breathe, long slow breaths— focus on staying relaxed.”
Frustratingly, it was actually pretty good advice; it certainly didn’t make it painless, but when you shut your eyes and thought as much about breathing and as little about anything else as you could, it helped.
“See? Just relax, babydoll,” he whispered, but relaxing could only do so much as he slid the rest of the way in and you felt like your whole body might go numb. Your eyes rolled back, your insides (all of them, it seemed) flexed, your heart was pounding… you felt sick, and disgusting, and used.
He breathed heavy as he laid his weight on top of you, slipping an arm under you to wrap around your shoulders and neck.
"Fuck, that's a tight fuckin' ass," he grunted, laughing a little as he glanced at your boyfriend, slowly beginning to move again. "This one's got you spoiled, huh? How'd a loser like you get your hands on a perfect fucktoy like this?"
He bit down on the shell of your ear as he picked up his pace quickly— way too quickly— and soon he was growling each time he slammed his hips against your ass. You couldn’t even tell what noises you were making anymore…
"But you're gonna be mine now," he whispered to you. "Oh fuck, s'all gonna be mine. Gonna fill these pretty holes of yours every fuckin' day."
You dropped your head down defeatedly onto the floor, though shocks of pain were still making your fingers and toes curl while he roughly fucked your other hole.
“Yeah, fuck, you fuckin’ like it,” he snarled as he fucked you faster. “Needy little slut. You like getting all your holes filled, huh?”
You simply bit down on your lip, not realizing it wasn't a rhetorical question.
"Answer me," he insisted.
"I-I don't like it," you said— quietly, because if you spoke any louder it would've been mostly unintelligible with sobs.
"Huh?" he taunted, leaning in closer.
"It hurts, Jackson," you choked, pleading.
“No?” he noticed, feigning shock with heavy sarcasm in his tone. “Are you saying you don’t like it up the ass?”
“Please, please,” you choked out, “fuckin’ hurts— god, please, hurts—”
"You don't like it, sweetheart?" he cooed at you, cloying condescension dripping from every word as he roughly pet the hair out of your face. You whined and shook your head. "Well, I could always put it back in your cunt, would that make you feel better?"
He chuckled at your grimace of disgust.
"Is that too dirty for you?" he wondered, clicking his tongue. "Aw, it's okay, just gonna give you what you wanted— hold still, baby."
You winced when he pulled out of your ass, only to whine as he slid back into your cunt; you hid your face, feeling how absurdly warm it had become from all this, and tried not to think about how dehumanizing what he had just done to you was.
He picked his pace right back up when he entered you, letting out a deep groan of satisfaction. "Oh my god you're fucking dripping, is that from being fucked in your little ass?" he noticed. "Jesus Christ, wettest fucking pussy I ever had... somebody likes it dirty, hm?"
You wanted to deny it, but he wasn’t lying about your physical reaction; you were soaking, and you didn’t even know why. It wasn’t like you found much pleasure in that experience physically, it was rather agonizing— and then there was the thought of it, of knowing you’d been used that way, and it just made you feel dizzy and weird. Regardless, it was true… your body responded even when your mind was running in circles convincing itself there was nothing enjoyable about this.
“Such a pretty thing,” Jackson purred at you as he sped up again, shaking your whole body against the floor— that arm around your shoulders was the only thing keeping you from being pushed away, and he held you tightly like he really was worried you’d get away somehow, even though you’d stopped resisting quite a while ago.
At least it didn’t hurt anymore— except that you were still a little sore, and he was holding you too tight and his weight made it hard to breathe, and you were probably going to get rug burn, and you felt disgusting. But in a literal sense, it hurt less.
“Think I need to turn you over and get a good look at that pretty face,” he decided, pulling out of you and rolling you onto your back. Maybe it was just because you knew it was only for a moment, but being empty wasn’t as much of a relief as you expected. You were pretty much limp by this point, letting him turn you over and simply looking up at him blankly. “Oh,” he said as he smiled proudly, “look how fucked out you look— and I’m not even done with you yet.”
Lifting your legs and pressing them against your chest, he slid back in until he was deeper than you thought possible, and you gasped and shivered helplessly. “F-fuck, wait—“
He started to fuck into you quickly, and you nearly screamed, reaching down to try to hold his thigh or push him back or something to keep him from going so far inside you, but nothing deterred him. For how drained you were a moment ago, the shock of this gave you renewed energy, and you hated feeling your walls bear down on him in sick, overwhelming pleasure. “Oh god,” he moaned, “so fucking good.”
As hard as you were trying not to be loud, your efforts were lost when he reached down and roughly rubbed at your swollen clit; again, you tried to reach to stop him, holding onto his wrist and pushing his hand away with all your strength, but he bested you easily and kept going. “Fuck!” you screamed. “Please, please— it’s too much, I—”
“It’s okay, baby,” he soothed, watching proudly as your back arched and your head tilted back with a gasp.
You hadn’t even realized you were building to an orgasm— you would’ve sworn you weren’t, before, but now you felt all sensitive and sticky, and his thumb on your clit was relentless, and the shivers that had been running all over you all evening were turning into hard, heavy jolts of— of something. Something you’d been holding back longer than you realized. Something you hadn’t felt in much, much longer than three weeks.
“It’s okay,” he kept encouraging you with a proud grin that turned into a growl through his teeth as he fucked you harder. “Show him what it looks like when you’re not faking it, babydoll. Show him who you really belong to now.”
“Please,” you cried, the word barely spoken and more just a shape you made around your cries. If he didn’t stop now, you wouldn’t be able to, either; you were spasming uncontrollably, inside and out, it was just getting worse and worse (or better and better, depending on how you looked at it).
It felt fucking good. You would die before you admitted it, but you didn’t have to— it was obvious. And it was overtaking everything now, even your shame, until for one impossible moment, you were completely shameless. You weren’t sure you had ever felt quite like that before— not just physically, but spiritually. Shameless. Even though all you’d felt until now was ashamed. “Good girl,” Jackson praised you, though it was sort of lost on you as you were coming down from a high that hit you hard enough to not even feel real until it was nearly over.
It was like time had slowed down, and then snapped back to superspeed, to hyperreality, when he finally pulled his hand away and let you have a small reprieve.
"Fuck, I'm gonna come, oh my god," he gasped, his voice getting oddly high-pitched as he said it. "Want me to come inside, babydoll, or paint that pretty face?"
“Not… not inside,” you warned, just conscious enough to remember that.
“Mm? Why not?” he smirked.
You were still blinking away the blurriness in your vision, panting, trying to process all that you’d just felt— so you really didn’t have any energy for stupid questions like that. “What?” you just asked groggily. “Why… why do you think?!”
He just laughed briefly— more like a hum— and kept going. Of course, you should’ve known he’d do it once he realized your boyfriend didn’t; but wasn’t it enough that you and your boyfriend used condoms and Jackson had already gone past that?
“Just— just don’t,” you begged again, shut up with a firm hand over your mouth suddenly as he grunted lowly above you with each thrust.
“Fuck,” he said, a sort of warning though it wasn’t specific. “Fuck!”
He bit his lip when it happened; you shut your eyes, not wanting to see his face all slack and flushed like that with his hair falling forward and his neck and jaw flexing. But closing your eyes only made the feeling inside you more undeniable: the rush of warmth, the flexing against your walls as he pushed himself in as deep as he could. You whimpered a little, though you weren’t sure it was audible to anyone but yourself, and Jackson sighed as he emptied himself into you.
He took his hand away with a deep breath, and all you did was let your mouth fall open and your eyes blink numbly— what else was there to do?
As he caught his breath, he laughed a little, very softly; he put his hands on the floor beside your head, propping himself up but letting his head hang down loosely for a second— he was still smiling.
“You’re… you’re really something else, you know that, babydoll?” he informed you.
You didn’t say anything, and he sighed again just before he pulled out— you both winced, for different reasons, and he took a moment to hold your legs open so he could look at what he’d done to you; you felt filthy and exposed like that, but you were too weak to try to stop him or even to close your legs.
“Now that’s just beautiful,” he decided in reaction to whatever he saw; you didn’t want to picture it, how stretched out and used up you must look, but you could feel his come oozing out, running down.
Some of the numbness was already wearing off, at least physically, and you were beginning to realize how purely un-ergonomic it was to get fucked on the floor. Your back and shoulders were sore, your legs were tight when you finally got to lay them down again after being held up for so long… you tried not to imagine how long you’d be feeling the effects of this, wearing bruises and feeling knots and having to know exactly where they came from.
“Come on,” he mumbled as he lifted up your limp upper body, pulling you closer to him. He held your face for a second, petting your cheek which was still a bit clammy with sweat. “Kiss me,” he demanded, though he said it somewhat softly; you didn’t actually sit up and do it for him, but you let him press his lips to yours and you tried your best to half-heartedly mirror his movements as he did it.
He held your head and neck more firmly and slid his tongue into the kiss, making you whimper a little but that was the end of your protest. You thought it was a little strange that he wanted to kiss you now, but maybe it was just a matter of claiming you in the final way since he’d pretty much covered all the others.
When he broke away, he brushed his thumb over your cheek and smiled at you sweetly.
It’s over, you told yourself, hoping to feel more relieved. It’s over, he’s finally done with you. You did it. It’s over. But as those words repeated in your mind, you only felt emptier than ever.
“Look at your boy over there,” Jackson mumbled beside your ear, a smirk on his lips as he shook you a bit with the arm around you. “You see it, don’t you? He looks different now.”
You dared to glance at your captive boyfriend, who you realized you hadn’t heard muffled protests from in quite some time. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen, but dark, too; his stare was heavy and piercing. You suddenly felt sick.
“He looks at you different now.”
You bit down on your lip as it started to shake; you felt worse than ever with him looking at you like that. Things hadn’t been perfect before he left— nothing’s ever perfect— but they were good, and easy, and now you felt like he hated you. But what had you done wrong? All you’d done was try to keep him unharmed by appeasing this awful, horrible person…
Jackson had already been speaking quietly, but he dropped his voice down to whisper as he rubbed your shoulder. “I don’t think he’ll look at you the same way ever again,” he posited, and you swallowed as your stomach dropped.
“I don’t… I don’t understand,” you whispered under your breath.
“He’s never seen you like that before,” Jackson explained, “and he understands now that he can’t do for you what I can.”
Jackson brought his hand to his own chest as he said that, but then reached up to wipe up another tear that rolled down your cheek. “Please,” you said, looking at your boyfriend though he wouldn’t meet your gaze, “don’t— don’t think that I— it’s not my fault! I didn’t want this to happen!”
“Shh, you don’t have to lie anymore,” Jackson cooed at you, “we’ve all seen the truth now, it’s alright.”
You were exhausted, you were devastated, you were too overwhelmed to even feel terrified anymore; you dropped your head onto Jackson’s shoulder defeatedly. After all you’d been through tonight, you were starting to lose track of what was real anymore.
He let you cry quietly against him for a while, petting your head, until finally breaking the silence. “Now, the thing is, there’s actually just… one more thing I need you to do for me,” he admitted, and you started to cry harder again.
“Please— please, I did everything you asked,” you sputtered out through your tears, “you took. Everything. From me.”
“Hold on, that’s not true,” he frowned, “you’ve still got your cuck boyfriend over there, even if he’s not quite what he used to be— you still love him, don’t you? Can’t help that?”
“O-of course I do,” you insisted, feeling oddly guilty as you said it.
“So, you don’t want me to hurt him?”
Even if this was the end— even if he would hold what was done to you against you, which would break your heart— you couldn’t have that on your conscience. You shook your head.
“I didn’t think so,” Jackson nodded, “you’re too sweet for that. I won’t hurt him, and I’ll let him go, if you promise to do what I ask you to.”
“What more… what more could you possibly want…” you breathed, shaking your head, trying not to imagine what else there was for him to do to you.
“Something a lot less fun than what I wanted before,” he smirked. “What I need from you now is purely work-related.”
You wrinkled your brows together with a sniffle as you began to slowly compose yourself. “Work…?”
“Let me tell you a little bit more about what I do for a living…”
#jackson rippner x reader#jackson rippner smut#jackson rippner dark fic#cillian murphy x reader#cillian murphy smut#red eye fanfic
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Astarion As a Father
Fem!Tav/Reader
I FINALLY GOT A NEW KEYBOARD WITH FULLY FUNCTIONING KEYS LETS GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
I elected to write about something that's been giving me brainworms for ages, because I'd been talking about it with someone on here awhile ago and it just infested me. Astarion finding out you're pregnant and how he handles fatherhood. (Or, in this case, doesn't at first.) This isn't my best work but I blame it on the fact that I didn't intend for it to be THIS FUCKING LONG okay 😭
But without further ado, daddy Astarion:
Finding out:
When it comes to children, I think Astarion hasn't put much thought into it beyond 'me!? ABSOLUTELY NOT—'
He has no illusions about his state of mind and his faculties, you see. Astarion knows that he's fucked up, he knows that he's a problem, and he's only entirely too confident that any child unfortunately put under his care would likely end up just as damaged as he is, were they to miraculously make it to adulthood. He's just not equipped for it.
And, frankly, Astarion isn't even aware he can have children... That's just, not something he ever thought to question. He's undead, is he not? That should take care of the...fertility question.
Shouldn't it?
Truth be told, Cazador never told him of the possibilities because it was never meant to be a possibility. Astarion was too malnourished, his victims too short lived for anything to ever have come of it. He was supposed to die a sacrifice, not live to carry his own bloodline (hah) onward.
Were you to ever ask him about it, even jokingly over dinner one eve, he'd be very firm in the fact that it's a terrible idea and he'd be entirely unequipped. He would even go so far as to say he's the worst choice out of all of your past companions.
"Me? No. Absolutely not. I'm sure whatever little devil you managed to cook up would be the most charming child Baldur's Gate has ever seen... But even that magical explosive that fancied himself a God would be better suited to fatherhood, darling. I am built for luxury and adventure, nothing else." All bookended by typical Astarion preening.
So when the day comes and you inform him of the little life growing in your womb?
Nope. Not happening, not even a chance of happening.
The denial is strong with this one.
And when I say denial, I mean that Astarion well and truly blots out what you've said from his mind, as if it simply didn't happen at all. You never had the conversation, you never dropped the revelation, there is no child, he is not becoming a father.
It's not a lack of want— though he doesn't realize that yet— it's true, blinding terror. Before it was just a joke, just something for him to brush off with commentary about how terribly he'd do as a parent, better the uncle than anything else. But now it's a reality and to accept what you've said is to accept that he might well and truly destroy a child. But not just any, yours.
The traumas Astarion possesses heap onto his shoulders and slough off plentiful enough to make new oceans of it. Now, not only is he just beginning to regain his own autonomy, he's supposedly being given responsibility over a brand new life?
(It would only make sense for Astarion in retrospect, that the life you willingly sacrificed to nourish and nurture him would in turn allow him to grow a new life within you. The fool had just been too blind to consider it: The way, fresh off your blood, he could pull back from the delicate column of your throat and you would find his cheeks and ears and chest flushed with the loveliest shade of pink, eyes wide and soft and alive. The way his entire body would warm, going from corpse frigid to something just beneath normal. The way his once-still heart would slowly beat again.
He'd even asked you once- curled together on a familiar silken bed, foreheads touching and your hands clasped together between your chests- if you knew what it felt like to be so, so hungry that all you could even think about was about badly you wanted to eat? How food sounded so good that the desire became crossed and instead felt even more painful and nauseating? How it consumed your ability to make rational decisions, denied you the capacity to control your emotions?
He'd told you then, voice tender and timid and weak, that he'd felt like that every single day for two whole centuries, until the night you'd willingly laid down on that cot and put your life in his hands.
It was so simple really, of course you granted him the strength to create life. It was you.)
And of course it comes to a head before there is any chance at recovery. Your body begins to show the changes, you begin to swell, and Astarion only grows more avoidant and flighty. Because now he can't simply wipe the idea from his mind and continue on as if the child doesn't exist, the proof is there every single time he looks at you. He makes it very clear to you that he will not be returning to your side without a confrontation, a very potentially ugly one at that.
And ugly it is, explosive. Astarion hasn't truly had the time to recover from his life under Cazador, and all of those protective traits he grew remain sharp as ever, returning to the surface as if they'd never truly gone away to begin with. He sneers and hisses, tries his best to dig in and hurt you enough to stop poking his tender wounds. Enough to push you away so he can lick his wounds back open. He'll go so far as to accuse you of infidelity, though he regrets the words the moment they leave his lips, it's easier for him to imagine that you simply grew tired of him, that you were weary and longed for the daylight. That you wanted someone who could hold you beneath the sun, unlike him.
How you respond to this is entirely up to you, but just shy of throwing something truly despicable back into his face, such as Cazador, Astarion will apologize... eventually. If you remain stalwart and patient, if you have it in you to recognize that he doesn't mean his words, that he's barbing you with intent, Astarion will break down in that very same argument, his angry and accusatory rant will dissolve into an admission of deep insecurity and deeper terror.
But if you respond with anger? Justifiable, and Astarion knows that even in the moment as it's happening, but emotions rule him far more than he'd ever care to admit, and he will dig in and relish the reaction he's managed to draw from you. He will bristle and bite back until suspicion and bitterness fully claims his heart, and he aborts the conversation to hide in the shadows.
Astarion will wait until nightfall, until his freedom calls for him. The one thing that always manages to clear his head, even when you prove to be the cause of his muddying. It's a reminder, every time he steps into the cool and dark of Baldur's Gate, that Cazador is dead and he is a free man. That he can go where he chooses and when he chooses to, and not only that no one can stop him, but that you wouldn't even want to stop him.
And that truth is always what brings Astarion home.
Under the distant lonely stars and that cold moon, he has to remember that time and again you have let him. You have accepted him, you have not fought him on anything shy of a horrible mistake he wanted to make in a moment of weakness and hysteria. You have accepted all his deepest and ugliest wounds and kissed them like they were freckles to pour affection on. You fought Cazador for him, you defended him from your own friends. You even- at times- tested your own morals for him.
You wouldn't betray him, and Astarion knows he can't betray you.
Astarion would return to you late, curling into bed at your side, his eyes would not meet you, and his apology would come in the form of a simple confession. "I am... afraid. I am afraid."
Astarion wouldn't blame you if you don't forgive him immediately for his transgressions, he was cruel and you were vulnerable. But even then you'll find that your love doesn't abandon you again. He accepts- however frightened- that what you've said is true and is coming, and he must accept it. Mind you, it won't be perfect and it won't be romantic. Astarion doesn't know the intricacies of handling a pregnant woman, he's hardly tactful beyond his well honed and flirtatious lines. He genuinely loves you, but he's going to come pre-equipped as father material.
You need something? He'll get it with minimal complaint (but never none, you'd sooner get him to dye his hair black than cease complaining for the sake of it), he won't begrudge you your mood swings though he might be inclined to poke fun at you ever so often. And he will panic when you burst into tears for seemingly no reason, and no- time doesn't make him adjust, he will panic just as much the thousandth time as the first.
However, if it's any consolation. The moment your child enters the world, Astarion is a changed man.
When You Go Into Labor:
Astarion did the honors of informing all of your friends about your pregnancy, once he came to terms with it. And believe me when I say it is extravagant. The stationery and grandiose script that Astarion wields when informing everyone that you were expecting better fits a wedding invitation than it does... well. Very elegantly explaining that Astarion had accidentally knocked you up.
You can tell from the splotchy stains addressed to you from Wyll and Karlach that one of them had been crying when penning the message, Astarion has coin on Wyll, and you on Karlach. Lae'zel never responds to begin with and you know for a fact the Githyanki's response will likely come in the form of her simply showing up one of these days, unprompted. Jaheira personally and rather frequently visits as well, she becomes a sort of bastion as nerves take you over, confident and calm as she is. Halsin's "letter" arrives late, rather because alongside his letter is several little carved animals for the child's room, and mentions of a quilt he intends to bring along when next he visits. Shadowheart's letter, while congratulatory, contains an air of interrogation strung all about it, all aimed with pinpoint precision at the man responsible for your pregnancy and dripping with sarcasm.
Gale's letter is seven pages long, comes with a violet hued wax stamp, and multiple different inks in the most lavish hand he can manage. You daresay he's competing with Astarion. However, surprisingly, Gale's seems to be the most... helpful of them all? It wasn't your intent, you simply wanted your dear friend to join you in celebration, and yet Gale goes on to inform you that upon reading the letter he'd become a madman in pursuit of knowledge on pregnancy and giving birth. He admits that this wasn't a particularly fruitful endeavor, as he's rather confident that you're not a gnoll, troll, cambion, succubus, or any other variety of strange creature with strange metrics of procreation. Still, Gale directs the latter portion of his letter to Astarion quite pointedly, informing him of bookshops around Baldur's Gate where he might have more success.
Astarion scoffs, but you don't miss the way his fingers twitch and flex.
After the hilarity of this is resolved and you just begin to believe that peace might return to your soft little home in the city, the first of your companions begin to arrive.
This continues on for the next week or so, without you ever knowing that this had been planned- and without knowing that Astarion had been the one to plan it. It's a furthering of his apology, of his guilt over the way he'd treated you. Again, Astarion has no illusions of the kind of man he is, and the fact he's not nurturing in the sort of ways that you need- but he's not completely stupid and he knows you're scared. So... bring the cavalry, darling.
Eventually your entire home has become a crash pad for all of your dearest friends, your family, and you only grow suspicious of Astarion's hand in this chaos because he's surprisingly amicable to having his peace so thoroughly disturbed by 'everyone and their mother'. Truly, he manages to bite his tongue some of the time about them trampling his fine rugs and scratching the plates. He even seems... wistful about it. As nostalgic as you openly are at seeing all of these beloved people under one roof again.
Nights are filled with raucous laughter, clattering utensils, a table so thoroughly overcrowded that people are playfully shouldering each other out of the way for a chance to get at their own food. And Astarion stays faithful at your side, his hand perpetually clasped gently around yours, thumb rubbing over your knuckles. Days are never spent alone, no matter what it is you need to do, someone (if not everyone) is following you along. And though Astarion feels his heart ache that he can't join you, he'll be glad to know you're safe.
Besides, your companions are likely all taking turns tormenting, testing, and relentlessly teasing him about what is to come. He has his own hands full. He's starting to regret being such a generous lover.
And then your water breaks in the dead of night.
Remember how I said Astarion was far from perfect? This would be one of those moments that it really shines.
Not that he's particularly terrible, no. He's not actively cruel toward you, and certainly not dismissive, it's somewhat the opposite. Halsin and Jaheira end up the ones helping you, the only two with some iota of understanding on what was happening and what to do with and for you. The others, less experienced in "mundane" medical situations will take up the second most important role.
Prevent Astarion from catastrophizing any more than he already has been.
Karlach has been the sole force capable of keeping Astarion away from the wine, typically bear hugging him away from your cellar while Wyll tries his best to talk your lover down from a total nervous breakdown. Of which he nearly has, several times. It's not even the sight of you, specifically. He's okay with being at your side and holding your hand, in trying his best to provide comforting words that aren't laced with sarcasm for once. But the sounds you make, that's what breaks him. Astarion isn't good at hearing you scream from the pain, he isn't good at the choked sobs or your heavy breaths. The way you sound like you're struggling against death. It makes him want to crawl out of his own skin, fight assailants that aren't there.
And for a few hours there, in the midst of your labors and your exhausted, pained little cries, Astarion isn't sure how he can love the child causing you this much suffering. It's not as if Astarion was an altruistic man on his best days, as if he were particularly reasonable when it came to you. You've both come to a mutual understanding that were something to happen to you, no morals would be involved in the things Astarion would do to rectify it.
And now, here you are, suffering. Astarion isn't supposed to do a thing about it? He's supposed to be- what, overjoyed by it? It infuriates him, he's truly prepared to have a grudge match with an infant.
Until, as the sun is starting to creep up on a brand new day, it's no longer your screams that meet the air, but another's entirely. Tiny but powerful, high pitched little squeals of fury and distress. And your laughter, disbelieving, soft, adoring already.
Astarion has a daughter.
I go with the HC that Astarion had eyes like honey once, and that his daughter takes after that, along with the delicate points of his ears mirrored in her own. She's small, so small, but healthy and already feisty, wiggling as best as her tiny body can whilst still too heavy for her to lift and move.
You're the first to hold her of course, and Astarion will be at his knees beside the two of you. The expression he wears is something you've seen maybe two or three other times in the entire time you've known him- moments when you know he expected everything to fall apart, moments where he couldn't believe that the world was so good.
It's then that you can breathe for the first time, and know that both of your darlings will be just fine.
Once he does hold her, he's not inclined to let her go. Even once you ask to have her back, he'll simply move you into his lap, so that he can hold you both. It's better that way anyhow, having both of his girls in his arms. And Astarion will repeat again and again how stunned he is, he just can't believe it. Cannot fathom any of it. I think he's the type to say that he's speechless and then spend the next five minutes doing nothing but talking. It's nervous rambling, but still, speechless is not the term I would use to describe him here.
Astarion With Your Baby:
Once your little darling is actually in your lives, you get to see how hilariously unorthodox Astarion is with children. Especially his own. Astarion doesn't baby-talk like you or the rest of your companions, he speaks in the same exact tones as he would a grown woman. In fact, for the first few days you're adjusting to a child in your life, you sometimes mistake Astarion as speaking with an unexpected guest, only to round the corner and find him lightheartedly chastising his own daughter for her poor nappy conduct as he wrinkles his nose and changes her diaper.
He's disgusted by that, by the way. Absolutely hates it, complains loudly about having to do it. But if you so much as try to stand to help he'll force you back down onto your chair or the couch, something something not useless something something already up, darling. It's as if Astarion is simply allergic to admitting that while it makes him nauseous, he wants to care for his daughter. He wants you to rest.
And yes, Astarion is the type of father that thinks all other children are hideous little fecal beasts and his daughter is the only gorgeous little angel in the entire world. Perfect, can do no wrong. He tells her as such too, in the same deadpan voice he always uses, wiggling and stretching her legs.
"You know, darling. You should count your blessings, you're the only child I've ever seen that doesn't look like some sort of hideous, deformed bean. I can't be surprised though, with as gorgeous as your parents are." And though he rolls his eyes, he's unable to contain the grin that shows his teeth when she coos and squeaks at the sound of his voice.
And yes. Astarion dresses up with his child.
The older she gets the more he does it, little matching outfits and ribbons. Nothing that she would choke on, were she to get her mitts on it. (You had to be the one to tell him no, at first. He did throw a little fit about it, just a small one).
But it's not all lighthearted, good or bad.
There are times where Astarion won't touch your daughter, won't be alone with her in the same room. He fears it, he'll eventually tell you. His... affliction came with it's dangers, always. But he's always trusted that you could defend yourself, and you're big enough that he can't just kill you between one blink and the next. The same can't be said of your darling girl. She's so small and so fragile that, were he to lose even the slightest grip of himself around her, it could cost her her life. No doubt it would traumatize her for life, regardless.
You watch it, too. The way it pinches his brows and makes him wipe his palms against his pants as if he were sweating. Nervous habits creeping up his throat and causing him to pace about like a caged animal. It's during these times that you have to bring your daughter to him. Gently place her in his arms and remind him that he's loved her from the moment he saw her. And where once he held trepidation and queasiness at the prospect of fatherhood, you can see him care so much about this little bundle that he looks sick from it. A vulnerability he can't mask.
And of course, there are times he nearly weeps for other reasons.
Like when she takes her first steps, and immediately tries to run for him.
And Astarion knows he should let her tumble, that it's good to let her fall and get back up again, but the moment her unsteady feet cause her to careen she's safe in his arms. Little kisses peppered against her giggly face. And he'll tuck away against her to try and get his bearings back, but she'll pat his cheeks and tug his ears- and you'll have to distract her with a toy while he hiccups and sniffles down his need to cry. He wasn't ready for her to grow so fast, gone is the tiny bundle that could fit perfectly in one arm, now she's walking. How long before she's dating? Gods, should he be preparing for betrothal requests!?
"I want to be mortal." He whispers to you, one night. She's tucked between your bodies, sound asleep and wiggling from time to time. This is one of the rare moments you and your love can speak to each other uninterrupted, in the tranquility of the dark hugging around you.
It's strange that he brings this up now, you'd spoken about it several times since the Elder Brain had been taken down... But in the past few years since your daughter had been born, all of that had fallen to the wayside. "What brings this to mind, Starling?"
Your hand comes to cup his throat, as you watch and feel him work as if he were swallowing a stone. "I don't want to outlive this."
It's hard to blink the tears from your eyes, understanding the implications.
Were he actually two hundred years old, Astarion wouldn't survive well past the existence of his sweet little family.
He'd been more melancholy the past few weeks, after realizing that your daughter was beginning to function on her own. She was walking, grabbing things, talking in rudimentary sentences. She was even beginning to call him pa.
He'd cried, at that.
"I'll forget," his voice draws you out from that brief reverie. The distress is palpable, but runs low like the tide before a storm. "I'll forget all of this. I don't want to know what I'll become, then."
And when you run your hands up into his hair, to scratch lovingly along his scalp, he doesn't hide the shiver or the way his face presses against your palm, cold and smooth on your skin.
"We'll find a way, Astarion. I haven't given up yet... We just- she's too young."
It's both a strain and a relief, to know that. To be reminded that your daughter is still so small, that he won't be losing her- or you- any time soon. There's still time.
Astarion With Your Teen:
Arguably this is the best time between your daughter and him. It's simultaneously a surprise and yet- not at all? He's more like her confidante and best friend than strictly a father. He isn't one for harsh curfews and strict ways of dress- rather, he's the one she comes to when she's made some sort of mistake. Or when she's angry about something.
In general, Astarion withholds judgement of her, for better or worse. The unintended consequence is that you might become more of her enemy than Astarion, because he's less inclined to punish for questionable behaviors.
It's not that he's afraid of angering her or dealing with push back- rather that Astarion's frame of reference for what constitutes a mistake is ah... rather broken. Even in the beginnings of your relationship with Astarion, the mistakes that would anger him constituted dropping an entire building on his head or... risking being turned into a Mindflayer to help some old lady find her cat.
Not feeling up cute boys in alleyways.
As a result you'll likely need to have a few conversations with him about not being so lenient on her, because she needs to have structure in how to behave. Stealing things is in fact, not okay! And Astarion will listen, but he's always going to be a bit more of a friend than anything else.
A total gossip with her, too. You'll catch them huddled around the dinner table at night, both with a glass of wine (this was an argument that Astarion ended up winning, she's allowed one glass a week, but that's all!) in hand shittalking a storm together. Astarion has become the Baldur's Gate equivalent of a PTA mom, he shows up as stylishly as he can and beefs with the parents of whichever children have upset his daughter the most. And then when they get home they just toss it back and forth together.
But I want to stress, just because he doesn't punish her doesn't mean he isn't protective of her. Astarion is more protective than you are.
Once she begins dating you'll find yourself home alone semi-frequently, because Astarion will play the supportive, loving father part when she leaves- and immediately follow her out into the dark. He's had centuries to know what dangers lurk around every corner, and foggy memories of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time before his nightmare began. He won't allow that to happen with his girl.
And it's funny, because Astarion will talk mad shit to himself while he does it. Logically he knows that she's with some teenage boy or girl, but it doesn't stop the petty, emotional side of him from rolling his eyes and sneering at the cheap one-liners and the dumb tactics that this would-be charmer utilizes. Really, taking her into dark alleys to get her to tuck into you? Going to a totally secret spot that Astarion has known about for at least a hundred and sixty years? Get real, kid.
And you have to try valiantly not to laugh when he comes home, huffing and puffing about it. Because you will hear every single petty thought he had the entire time, and you will know that he looks like a petulant child. It's very cute.
All in all, I think Astarion is a reckless, chaotic, petty father. And one that loves his child so, so much. To the point of ruin, to the point where suddenly staying in one place doesn't seem so bad, just so she can have friends. Helping people isn't the worst, just so she can know there are heroes in the world. Suddenly he's learning to bandage scrapes and kiss bruises, and having tears and snot on his clothes mean nothing compared to the grief of the one shedding them. He loves her in ways he didn't anticipate he ever could. Enough to know all of her ticks and secrets, to know when she's lying through her teeth and when she's being devastatingly obvious.
Learning to cook even when he can't eat, listening to her spin a story with a straight face and then- as she's stepping out the door- telling her to be careful with that boy and listening to her groan loudly as the door slams shut, a mischievous smile on his face.
Holding you and dancing you around, cradling you close with all the tenderness he has in the whole of his body and soul. Kissing you, calling you the mother of his child, thanking you for giving him something he didn't even know he'd wanted. A family.
Small and odd, but his.
#astarion ancunin#astarion#astarion x tav#astarion ancunin x tav#astarion x reader#astarion ancunin x reader#bg3#baldur's gate 3
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Forgetful Valentine's
The long awaited fic! I do hope you all enjoy what I've whipped up!
Everyone have an amazing Valentine's Day! ❤️❤️❤️
Pairings!: Sir Crocodile x AFAB Reader.
Quick summary : Crocodile is hard at work trying to get the Cross Guild up and running and accidentally forgets that it's Valentine's Day.
4.3k words
Masterlist
Buggy Town was lively as usual. Almost Everyone here belonged to the cowardly clown’s crew, but a few select members had elected to stay loyal to Crocodile. The ex-warlord strolled through the tall tents toward the middle of town where real construction had begun. He had a hand in each building, deciding what and where needed to be built first. Mihawk was uninterested in this side of running the guild, and Buggy was far too incompetent to use a hammer, much less direct a building crew made out of pirates.
Crocodile made his way to the largest building, a hotel slash bar of sorts that housed him and the other leaders of the Cross Guild. It'd been a couple of days since the devil fruit user had been able to rest his head, and he was thrilled at the thought of getting to see you, his wife. The two of you have been together since his relocation to Alabasta, been married for around eight years now. Impel Down and Marineford had been life-changing for both of you, but things were beginning to look up with the formation of the Cross Guild.
Only the people Crocodile thought worthy enough to see him with his walls down knew that he was a bit of a romantic at heart. You were obviously one of them, and he couldn't wait to get back to their personal room, curl his huge frame around you, and go to sleep.
However, Crocodile couldn't help but think that he was forgetting something important- he just couldn't figure out what. He sighs heavily and pushes open the door to the hotel, and his cigar would have fallen out of his mouth if he had not clenched his teeth.
The entire lobby has been decorated in PINK. There are paper hearts and streamers everywhere, and someone has even made cupcakes with cutesy designs. There is a massive banner that spans across the bar, where Buggy and his crew sit at the bar, drinking and having a swell time, and Crocodile feels his heart drop. It's Valentine's Day, and he forgot.
Crocodile has nothing ready, nothing prepared for you. He's been far too busy dealing with the new shipment of crops and lumber coming in. The ex-warlord swears under his breath and spins on his heel, mind working quickly to try and find a solution.
Any other year, Crocodile has gone all out for you. Back in Alabasta, he'd wake you with flowers and a sweet breakfast, keeping the day open just for the two of you. Then he would take you out for an extravagant date, only to bring you back to the casino to feed you expensive fruits and worship you from head to toe. Before the night was over, he would run the two of you a bath, making sure it suited you perfectly before gently cleaning his love of the day's events.
All that changed after Straw Hat came and wreaked all of his plans, but right now, none of that mattered. Crocodile needed to find something - anything to give you. He's already wasted the majority of the day and cursed himself for not realizing what today was again. He could only hope that you would be forgiving.
Crocodile flies out of the hotel, dropping into sand and scattering out through Buggy Town. He comes back together when he finds Mihawk, knowing that the other man would have some fancy, expensive wine lying around somewhere.
The swordsman cocks a brow at him, looking thoroughly unimpressed at Crocodile's sudden entrance. Mihawk takes in the older man's rather erratic appearance.
“Can I help you?”
Crocodile smooths his hair back, settling back into nonchalance. He doesn't want the haunty man's help, but he doesn't have many options at the moment.
“I need a favor, a bottle of wine - strawberry, your most expensive brand.”
Mihawk shifts his weight, crossing his arms and leaning back against the crates behind him. It's not every day that Crocodile of all people comes asking for a favor.
“Why?”
The taller man flicks the ash from his cigar, eyes flickering to the darkening sky. He inhales deeply, lungs filling with smoke and then leaking up into the air. Fuck. This was embarrassing.
“I forgot it was Valentine's Day. I can't show up empty-handed,” Crocodile grumbles and huffs in annoyance when he sees the amused smirk on Mihawk’s face.
“You? Why celebrate such an unnecessary holiday?” Hawkeye inquires, but his eyes shine in mischief. Mihawk knows exactly the reason, but he can't help but want to pick on the other man.
Patience running thin, Crocodile glares down at the pompous bird who looks too smug for his own good.
“Because I don't take the one I love for granted,” he snarls down at Mihawk and revels in the look of anger that flashes across his face before it disappears. They glare at one another before the swordsman ultimately sighs and rolls his eyes as he is being asked to do the most unfortunate thing in the world.
“Fine,” Mihawk drawls and turns on to march back to the hotel, “Only because your wife deserves to have a nice Valentine's.”
Wine now in hand, Crocodile stalks to the back and into the kitchens. He demands the cooks whip up a platter of fine fruits and cheeses, simple things that he knows that you like. As he steps back into the lobby, he catches sight of the rack of cupcakes that sit far too close to Buggy for his liking. He sighs as he steps over to the figurehead of the Cross Guild, clearing his throat and smirking around his cigar at the way the clown shrieks and breaks into pieces.
Crocodile snatches up a cupcake, transferring the bottle of wine to a helpful pile of sand that he summons without a thought, “Who made these?”
Buggy looks about to die in his spot when he raises his hand, cheeks coloring bright red in embarrassment as he admits to baking the cupcakes. Crocodile scoffs at the goofball of a man who somehow became an emperor of the sea.
“Of course you did,” he sneers before turning on his heel and loping upstairs, leaving behind a befuddled and terrified Buggy.
The gator is uncharacteristically nervous when he arrives in front of his door. He can hear soft music playing from within, and his scar pulls tight around his nose when a wince crosses his face. The song is slow and crooning, one that he recognizes as one of the few that you play when you are feeling upset with him. Shit.
I’ve lost all ambition
For worldly acclaim
I just want to be the one you love
Crocodile steps through the door, brows pulling up at the sight of soft lighting and delicate decorations that are just a bit tacky. He cracks a tiny grin, and stubs out his cigar in the nearest ashtray, though the effort you’ve put in here just makes the ex-warlord feel guilty. On he goes, passed the living room, and out to the small balcony where he can still hear the slow tune of the song.
And with your admission
That you feel the same
I’ll have reached the goal I’m dreaming of
You sit in one of the chairs that have been set outside, blanket wrapped tight around your body, and turn when you hear the door slide open. Crocodile catches your eyes, and his shoulders slump in relief when you reward him with a soft smile full of love. You stand, dropping your blanket, and come to his side, simply happy that your husband has made it home before the end of the day.
Crocodile drapes himself over you, setting the wine bottle and cupcake away and then curling his arm around you tightly. He lifts you, tucking his hooked arm under your legs, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself in so that you can seal your lips to his, sighing in relief at feeling the man you loved close again. You know that he is busy, and you try not to let how much his absence hurts, but you hadn’t thought that Crocodile would have forgotten Valentine's Day.
You rest your brow against his own when the ex-warlord parts from you, letting out a quiet giggle when he presses a smattering of kisses to your cheeks and nose, though when he stops, you can see the regret still shimmering in his purple eyes.
“Forgive me, doll,” Crocodile rumbles against your lips, “Getting the guild up and running has taken too much of my attention away from you.”
You smile at him, a soft quirk of your lips that Crocodile had fallen in love with over time. He once thought you were mocking him with that easy expression, but now it is one that he cherishes above all else.
“There is nothing you need to apologize for, baby,” you coo softly and smooth a hand along his jaw, feeling the days-old stubble there. You trace the scar that runs along his nose and cheekbones, “I know that you’ve got a lot on your plate.”
Crocodile huffs, leaning into the hold you have on him, “That’s no excuse. You deserve better than this. If I’d remembered, we wouldn’t be spending this evening in the hotel surrounded by fools.”
“It's not very nice to speak about your co-workers like that,” you tease your husband, and the gator just rolls his eyes skyward.
“As if either of them contribute to the guild,” Crocodile grouches and shrugs out of his heavy overcoat and settles into the chair, situating you into a more comfortable position in his lap. Below the chair, sand shifts and slides back inside and to the cellarette. He retrieves two wine glasses and his hand reforms with the stems tucked between his fingers.
“Impressive as always,” you quip and take the glasses, resting them beside the wine and cupcake that you are just now noticing. Your smile turns into a delighted grin, and you snatch up the bottle, reading the label, “You got my favorite!”
Crocodile gives you a smug smirk, feeling proud of himself for doing at least something right tonight, “Thank Mihawk later. He’s the one who had it lying around.”
He disintegrates the cork of the dark bottle and pours them both a generous amount of the pale pink wine, handing you your glass first and then taking up his own, “The cooks are making you that little snack tray you like so much. Always eating like a little mouse.”
You snort at the old nickname, “Not my fault that fruit, cheese, and bread go so well together.”
Crocodile keeps a steady hand on your hip when you lean back over and pick up the cupcake, examining the bright pink icing and chocolate cake, “Who made this?”
The sigh Crocodile disperses is earth-shattering, and you raise a brow at his dramatics, only to smirk when he hisses, “Buggy.”
“See, your business partners are good for something, right?” You point out and take an obvious sip of your wine, then examine the cupcake, wondering which angle to go in at to create the least mess.
Crocodile snatches the cupcake from your hand, setting it back on the table. He didn’t trust you not to get crumbs everywhere, “Enough, you’ve made your point. Be grateful, hmm?”
You scoff at his audacity to think that you would ever be ungrateful for anything the devil fruit user got for you. You quickly decide to show your husband just how grateful you can be by being obnoxious, of course.
You drape yourself over Crocodile’s chest with a dramatic sigh, shifting to cradle his face in both of your hands to press your lips to his in a lip-smacking kiss, “Thank you so much for the wine and snacks to come my sweet, dear husband! What would I ever do without you?”
“Be wineless and snackless,” Crocodile rumbles and snickers at your dramatic display. Seas does he love his wife, so opposite to him, but with a unique outlook on life that he has always admired.
You laugh, catching him in another kiss before settling back down. Crocodile pours you another glass, and you sip it with a suspicious look, “Are you trying to get me drunk, Sir Crocodile?”
The grin that you receive is dastardly, and you are tugged impossibly closer, almost spilling your drink if not for the grip you had on the delicate stim. You shiver when that dangerous hook finds the edge of your dress, and send Crocodile a soft glare when you hear it begin to rip. Cool air meets your thighs when he rips it further, and he leans in, lips brushing against yours as he speaks.
“If I recall, you quite like it when I take advantage of you, Doll,” He rumbles, and his flesh hand smooths up your thigh, thumb dipping in between the juncture of your legs and stroking the soft skin there. Crocodile longs to feel your plush thighs wrapped around his waist or his head. The ex-warlord wasn’t picky. He presses his cheek to his wife’s, breathing you in and leaving a lingering kiss to your ear, “Or am I remembering incorrectly?”
A breathy laugh escapes you, and you turn your face, lips finding his stubbled cheek, “No, you remember correctly.”
You think about teasing him about the fact that he had forgotten what today was but cast the thought away when you lean back and catch sight of the dark circles under his eyes. Your husband looks tired, and your tipsy, lust-filled mind is swiftly reminded that this is the first time that Crocodile has been back to the hotel in days.
The gator raises a brow when he catches the change in your expression, and he sighs as he is subjugated to your concerned fretting until a knock on the door grabs his attention. Crocodile sets you on your feet, hands off his glass to you, and suggests you gather the wine and join him inside.
By the time you make it inside, Crocodile is shutting the door and lopes over to the sitting area where you’ve sat your bounty on the center table. The tray of snacks joins the wine and sweet treat, and Crocodile presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, “Get ready for me while I change, Dear.”
Crocodile smirks at the way you flush at the husk of his voice, and satisfaction curls hot in his chest at still being able to make you blush like a virgin even after all these years.
“Yes, Sir,” You breathe, and his cock twitches in interest. Crocodile leaves before he can say fuck it and go straight to the main course.
With your husband gone, you take in a deep breath and set to “getting ready” as he ordered you to do, which surmounted to waiting for him to get back so that he could manhandle you how he wanted. You help yourself to another glass and pick at the charcuterie board - eating the cupcake too while you’re at it - you’ve already eaten, but you were never one to turn away food.
The sight of your husband dressed down in black sleep pants with a cigar hanging from between his teeth - he’s even taken off his golden hook for the night - makes you smile, affection, and love for the dangerous man who used to infuriate you at every turn. Now, only you had the honor of seeing the suna suna user like this, all soft and intimate, and all for you, his wife.
Crocodile sighs as he settles on the floor where you’ve strewn out pillows and thick blankets, making a cozy pallet for the two of you. He rests his back on the couch, extending his hookless arm along the cushions and taking up his filled glass. He watches you pick over to the record player and switch songs, smirking when the husky voice of the female artist fills the room. You settle back in his lap, and he wraps his left arm securely around your waist.
Your fingers find his scared wrist and trace gentle patterns there. You rest against him and quietly ask him about how the last couple of days have been. You listen to your husband grouch about the incompetent fools he works with a fond grin, occasionally rising to pick at the snack board and feed your overworked ex-warlord just to get him to pause in his rants. You chime in here and there and offer one last time if he wants your help, but Crocodile denies you like every other time.
“I won’t have you out there around those heathens when I can’t be there to protect you. Mr. 3 and Daz are the only two I trust around here,” Crocodile grumbles and pushes away the cracker and cheese combination you offer him. He smirks as he watches you shrug and eat it for yourself.
“Once I get a more stable network, then we can talk about getting you back out there.”
You huff, but agree for now, not willing to argue with the stubborn man right now. You blink when your world suddenly spins, and the next thing you know, your husband is looming over you, scar scrunching up as he grins meanly down at you.
“Enough about work, Doll. I’ve held myself back for your sake, but I’m done being patient,” Crocodile rumbles and stabilizes himself with his left elbow, trailing his flesh hand up your knee and pushing your dress up and around your hips. Saliva pools in his mouth at the sight of smooth thighs, your panties hugging your mound and leaving little to the imagination. He wants to mark you up like his personal canvas and paint you with bites and hickies so that everyone would know who you belong to.
He leans back just enough to tug your dress up and over your head, tossing it behind him the moment it leaves your head. Crocodile hums, pleased at the sight of your bare breasts, though he would have liked to have seen you nice and dolled up for him, “What have I told you about wearing the lingerie I bought you?”
You blush and shake your head, “It just gets in the way.”
“Ku ha-hah, If you would give it a chance, then maybe you would change your mind,” Crocodile grumbles at you and then leans down to mouth at your collar bone, nipping at the delicate skin there. His hand splays across your side, and he slides it down your hip to hook into your underwear. He tugs them down, growing impatient when his cock throbs in his pants.
Any thoughts of arguing about lingerie are whipped from your mind when those sharp teeth of his find one of your nipples and bites. You curse, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other sliding into his hair, nails biting sharply into his olive skin. The tip of his tongue curls around your nipple, sucking gently to ease the sharp pain.
With your underwear out of the way, Crocodile hooks his fingers around your thigh and tugs your legs open, hooking your left one over his hip. The tips of his fingers dig into your inner thigh, and you moan when he nips your nub before releasing the abused flesh and lean your head back to expose your throat when he noses forward. He sucks dark marks into your skin, leaving behind a painting that only your husband would have the pleasure of viewing.
Crocodile drags his hand down your thigh, growling low in his throat when you dig your nails into his scalp again. The tips of his fingers find your cunt, and he slides his middle finger through your folds, smirking against your skin when he feels how wet you are for him. He leans up and sucks his finger into his mouth for half a second, soaking it thoroughly before sliding it back down and finding your entrance with practiced ease.
“Fuck,” you hiss, and your hips jerk at the sudden stretch. Crocodile was a large man, bigger than the average at the least, and that meant everything on him matched his height. His fingers, usually decorated with rings, were long and thick, and the gator knew how to use them to bring you over the edge until you were begging for his cock.
“Too much?” Crocodile grunts out from where he has leaned back to lave his tongue along your throat, sharp teeth nipping, “But you can take it even if it was, couldn’t you, sweetheart?”
You jerk your head in a nod, deliriously with wanton lust, “Of course, Sir. Whatever you wanted from me.”
He laughs against your skin, and then he is moving up to shove his tongue past your lips, groaning at the mixed taste of you and sweet strawberry wine. You suck on the thick muscle that fills your mouth, jaw aching at the way Crocodile doesn't let up. Your thighs shake when he adds another finger, the pace brutal and impatient.
“C-croc, please,” you plead when he pulls away, lips red and smeared with spit, “You're not the only one who's been waiting.”
Crocodile gives you a smirk, not needing to be told twice. You unwrap your arms from his neck, and he sits back on his knees, thumb hooking into the elastic of his pants, pulling them down, and you watch his impressive length spring free. Your mouth fills with saliva, and if you didn't want your husband inside you so badly, you would demand he sit back so you could suck him off.
Instead, you reach out and wrap your hand around the thick base, smirking when you feel him pulse in your hand. You squeeze gently, eyes landing on the thick precum that leaks from his tip. Crocodile rumbles above you, sounding like the animal that he is named after, and the sound sends shocks straight to your core.
Done with your playing, you sit back and tighten your legs around his waist, causing the big man to rock forward.
“Fuck me, Crocodile. Make it up to me for almost missing Valentine's.”
Crocodile's grin is nasty and mean, sharp teeth pearly and on display, “As my wife demands.”
With those words, Crocodile bats your hand away from his cock and takes himself in hand. He guides himself forward, hissing at how tight of a fit you are, swallowing him down until his hips pressed flush against your own. Crocodile lingers for half a second before he is pulling out, dragging along your walls before slamming back in.
You shout, head falling back to the pillows below as Crocodile sets a back breaking pace. You hold on to his shoulders to dear life, his hand tight around your hip to keep you still as he fucks into your cunt. He shifts his knees under you, arm moving to wrap around your waist, keeping you close as he moves to kneel on the ground. This position pushes him impossibly deeper, and you lean forward to rest your sweaty brow against his chest.
Crocodile bounces you on his cock, bodily moving you up and down, and you feel that hot coil of pleasure snap inside of you when your clit grinds wonderfully against his pelvis. He doesn't stop, growling as you clench tight around him and snapping his hips up, dragging his length against your sweet spot.
“You should see yourself,” Crocodile snarls above you, and bends, pressing his cheek to yours, “Stuffed so full with my cock. You like it when I'm rough, don't you baby?”
You nod eagerly, teeth clenched tightly when your husband tightens his grip in your waist and holds you down while he grinds up. You come quickly after that, hands tight around his shoulders and nails digging into Crocodile’s back.
His pace becomes erratic, and Crocodile can feel himself starting to get close. His wife feels too good, and he doesn't fight it when that heat snaps, pulling you down and shoving in to fill you up to the brim. You watch him, taking in the blissed out way, his brows furrowed and his sharp teeth clench. He paints you from the inside, and the two of you look down at where you are connected to see a mix of slick and semean leak out and stain your thighs.
The two of you stay like that until Crocodile grows soft and he slips out of your fucked out pussy with a quiet groan. You stay draped over him, unwilling to move, and feeling exhausted. The gator huffs at you, though he can't pick when Crocodile lets out a jaw cracking yawn. He stands with a heavy sigh, unbothered by the mess left behind as he lopes to the bathroom.
Crocodile switches arms, tucking his handless arm under your ass to keep you help up while he flicks on the tub. It's too hot for him when he steps into the huge tub, but he knows that you wouldn't tolerate anything cooler than molten lava. He adjusts you so that you are mostly submerged, big frame relaxing against the edge of the tub.
He smooths your hair away from your face, a soft smile playing on his lips when he catches your eyes. He leans in and presses his lips to your brow, “I love you, Doll.”
You grin, eyes falling shut, and you press yourself as close as you can to your husband, lips grazing his chest, “I love you too, Crocodile.”
The ex-warlord hums low, a smirk appearing, but you can still see the slight discontent in his eyes. Today isn't how he would have liked it to go, and you both know it. He tucks you close, head leaning back.
“I won't forget next year.”
#fanfic#one piece#reader insert#fluff#valentine's day#valentines day#sir crocodile#op crocodile#crocodile one piece#crocodile#crocodile x you#crocodile x y/n#crocodile x reader#cross guild#masterlist
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it takes a conscious effort to break your patterns of consumption and unlearn the notion beauty, interiority, diverse ways of existence aren't exclusive to whiteness or maleness. part of that isn't your fault. certain music is played on the radio, certain shows survive cancellation no matter what, certain people seem to be able to commit the worst possible acts against other human beings and are excused on account of their creative genius. others are selectively punished, with good reason sure, but still, selectively.
now more than ever it's easier to immerse yourself in art made by people outside of the mainstream. reading lists, free resources, playlists... all this stuff is more accessible than ever, but you've got to make an effort to give it a try. it's black history month, the recs are pouring in, go have a look. or take a chance on something absolutely no one has recommended anywhere and if you find something you like, rec it to someone else because the likelihood is they haven't heard of it.
tracy chapman's "fast car" is one of eleven songs that appears on her self-titled debut album. can you name the second hit single from it? if you're american and you fell anywhere left of center as of the 2016 election, it should be on the tip of your tongue if you were engaged in your country's politics at the time, regardless of your level of actual investment in the system. if not, the next time you're doing a task you need both hands with, washing the dishes, having dinner, doing your makeup, put that album on.
there's a post with over 100K notes on here that i see all the time of bruce springsteen and clarence clemons kissing. there's a part of that that is immediately meaningful to many if you're lgbtq, and a part that is harder for non-black lgbtq people to feel the weight of. but it is worth trying to do and was part of the reason why they kissed so often in the first place. clarence clemons was from norfolk, virginia. he released multiple albums outside of his work with the e street band. they may not be for you, but give them a try.
give enough music, or movies, or books that aren't a part of the approved canon a try, and there's no way you won't find something you don't feel as passionate about as you do about springsteen, siken, the beatles, what have you.
james baldwin was a prolific artist. see if you can't find something of his you like more than giovanni's room.
immerse yourself in ringo sheena, who mitski cites as one of her influences.
if you have difficulty paying attention to music you don't recognize, (i get it) make a playlist that alternates tracks you know and love with brand new tracks. start small. 5 faves of all time, 5 you're going to try out. you won't like everything, but you might find yourself looking forward to 6 songs instead of 5 eventually.
for movies, pick an actor whose performance you loved in something and explore their work. last year i picked whoopi goldberg, also a prolific artist, with a vast body of work that's pretty accessible as a result of her constant, intentional effort.
if you're an artist yourself, you can only stand to improve by getting to know your fellow artists better. so expand your notion of what art is. you can do it for free in lots of cases, and you're spending that time listening to music or reading or watching movies or series anyway, what have you got to lose?
anti-racism sometimes means engaging in real-world narratives of pain endured by brown and black people. that pain permeates much of our art, but we're just as three-dimensional as everybody else, and every aspect of our experiences come through in our work. you know that already, because what else is happening when you indulge in various genres. for everything you love or enjoy, there's a brown or black person who's doing something along those lines, in many cases, those genres wouldn't exist in their current form without the influence of our communities, some more than others, depending on where you're from. you can actually keep one foot inside your comfort zone and dip your toe into something else. that choice is both a joy and a luxury.
#im saying this with generosity#the best time to start was ten years ago the next best time is today#hope i don't regret this. lol.
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One of my characters is forced to kill one of their childhood friends to save a bunch of people and I'm wondering how quick (or painful) can you make their death with just a knife? Thanks for your input!
I'm not sure exactly how fast a bleedout from a severed femoral or carotid artery is. In the former, we're talking less than a minute, in the latter, death occurs within seconds. Being able to reliably open the artery you want does require a bit of anatomical knowledge, so getting the most value out of a knife isn't something that any character would automatically be able to do.
As for how much it hurts, I dunno. Neither one is particularly high on my bucket list, so I'm content on leaving that as a question mark.
From personal, subjective, experience, the condition of the blade has a bigger impact on how much it hurts. A clean, and sharp blade, fresh from the factory (or carefully sharpened and honed) will hurt less than a poorly maintained blade. In the latter case (or, with cat claws, as I was recently reminded), you can feel the foreign object catching and ripping your skin. It's an unpleasant sensation, and, far more painful than a clean blade.
In fact, my most painful laceration experience came from a hose attachment that came apart while I was using it, and ended up getting jabbed into my thumb. As a safety measure, if you find yourself in a situation like this, turn off the water beforetrying to repair the attachment.
In contrast, the scar on my right index finger was almost painless. It was a brand new knife, which I fumbled. (Specifically it's double bladed, and the handle is a little too short for my hand. I accidentally knicked my left hand on the base of the fore-blade, and instinctively, flicked it away, gashing my off-hand.) At the time, I didn't even feel the cut, and then saw what I thought was a small welt... before it started bleeding. There is some truth to the cliché about not feeling a cut when it occurs, but the blade needs to be in immaculate condition for this to occur.
How painful can you make it, intentionally? This is not going anywhere pleasant, but I'm not sure there's a limit. That's not sarcasm. There is a point where too much pain can cause someone to slip into shock and die, but, for someone with sufficient sadism, there isn't really a limit. The problem is that a knife in an experienced and knowledgeable hand can do horrific things to someone without killing them. If the point was to inflict pain and suffering, that could be drawn out for day. Probably weeks.
As for the scenario, I have reservations. I'm reading a lot into the way you phrased the setup, but there is something very artificial and, more than a little cliché, about the villain strong arming a protagonist into violating their morals. Particularly on ticking bomb scenarios.
In a lot of cases, neither side really gets anything of value out of the interaction. The villain gets a tiny bit of room to wag a finger and say, “we're not so different now,” but, really, they would have done that anyway. And the hero gets to have a chunk of their credibility chipped away, for no real benefit. In this case, I specifically mean their credibility with the audience.
The reason I say that is because this is a downright inhuman thing for someone to do. Kill someone who you presumably care about, or save the lives of five thousand randos. One of these things is an abstract concept, and the other is a person.
Now, the problem is, for you, both are abstract concepts. Your hero's childhood friend is not a real person to you. They are, at best, a simulacrum, but one you know is fake. Similarly, the mass casualty event is something you also know is fake. Even more so because you have already chosen the outcome. This means that, for you, this is a simple trolley problem. However, the evaluation would be radically different for your character. In situations like that, it is possible they'd elect to kill their friend on the basis of there being fewer casualties, but that kind of cold calculus is borderline monstrous.
This doesn't mean that you can't create a compelling scenario where a character ultimately needs to put down their friend. But, it is a deceptively difficult scenario to credibly engineer, and even then, can frequently result in massive plot holes. So, it can be done, but proceed carefully.
-Starke
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I'm bored so
All years referenced in Hamilton:
(directly from the songs)
1776, Aaron Burr, Sir
1780, Winter's Ball
1781, Yorktown (The World Turned Upside-Down)
1785, I Know Him
1789, What'd I Miss
1791, We Know
1800, The Election of 1800
(by event/lyric, assuming Alexander was born in 1757, in order of events. This might be a bit confusing so feel free to ask clarification)
1754, I was given my first command I led my men straight into a massacre
1766, when he was ten his father split
1768, his mother went quick
1768-1835, Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (Angelica's brother, son of Philip Schuyler. Philip had like 15 children apparently, including the sisters and Philip)
1769, the cousin committed suicide
1769, as a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war ("I wish there was a war", letter to Edward Stevens)
1771, they placed him in charge of a trading charter
1772, a hurricane destroyed Hamilton's town
1772, ship is in the harbor now see if you can spot him
1773, I am Hercules Mulligan
1773, your tea which you hurl in the sea (Boston Tea Party)
1775, Farmer Refuted
1775, yo let's steal their cannons
1775, I was a captain under general Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec
1776, British Admiral Howe's got 32000 troops in New York harbor
1776, he promotes Charles Lee makes him second-in-command
1777, I need someone like you to lighten the load (Alex becomes Washington's right hand man)
1777, I'm John Laurens in the place to be
1777, je m'apelle Lafayette
1778, Theodosia meets Burr
1778, Battle of Monmouth
1778, duel between Laurens and Lee
1779, Laurens i like you a lot (letter from Alex to John, "I wish, my dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by actions rather than words, to convince you that I love you")
1780, give it up for the maid of honor (Alexander and Eliza's wedding)
1781, Hamilton leaves Washington (due to his lack of command)
1781, we fought with him
1782, Philip's birth
1782, me I died for him
1783, Theodosia's birth
1785, I am sailing off to London
1787, at the constitutional convention, goes and proposes his own form of government
(October-August) 1787-1788, write a series of essays titled The Federalist Papers
1789, Hamilton runs the state department
1789-1792, life without the monarchy
1790, Cabinet Battle #1
1791, Burr becomes senator
1791, Hamilton meets Ms. Reynolds
1793, Cabinet Battle #2
1793, Thomas Jefferson resings
1797, Washington's presidency ends
1797-1801, Adams' administration
1797, The Reynolds Pamphlets
1799, George Washington's death
1800, the first murder trial of our brand new nation (Levi Weeks' trial)
(March) 1801, death of Peggy Schuyler
(July) 1801, George Eacker's 4th of July speech
(23th November) 1801, George and Philip's duel
(24th November) 1801, Philip's death
1804, Alexander Hamilton's death
1810, You're making me mad (King George III actually goes mad)
1820, I'll love you til my dying days (King George dies)
I tried my best to get most of the dates, but tell me if I missed any! :)
#hamilton#hamilton musical#I really want to do a “every part that's historically inaccurate in Hamilton and everything that's a direct quote”#For funsies
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I’m not British so sorry if this is a stupid question and 8’m struggling to phrase this intelligently, but is there a limit of how many people can be the replacement prime minister before they have to have a vote? Like I can understand a rule where they can just nominate someone from their party to replace them (although in my mind that should only be applicable if there was a death or some sort of illness that makes them unfit and not incompetence) but when is there a vote?
I'm pretty sure I discussed this before but I have that specific brand of ADHD laziness rn where I feel like it's quicker to type it out again than just. Look for the post. So eh, c'est la vie, here I go again
So the legal answer is no, there's no limit. This is because when we vote in Britain, what we're voting for is a Parliament - you are electing your local MP, nothing more. One of the parties gains a majority of seats - or, if parliament is hung, two or more will enter into a coalition to gain a majority between them - and then that party constructs a Cabinet to form the actual government which then makes laws and shit. And they can change that Cabinet as much as they want and at any time, and that does include the party leader i.e. the Prime Minister.
However.
(However.)
The situation is unprecedented. It is extremely rare, anywhere in the world, to see one of the parties in a two-party system disintegrate into ashes. Minor third parties? Sure, those come and go. Rocked by scandals? Oh yeah, very common. Crumble to dust so completely they're very literally incapable of governing because every ounce of energy is going towards yelling and scheming while they all commit political suicide one by one? No.
Like I cannot stress enough that they haven't actually achieved anything in MONTHS. Except, memorably, obliterating the economy and vastly expanding the national debt. So far, all Sunak has done is try and undo what Truss did, and all Truss did was try and undo what Johnson did. They have done NOTHING new. Almost every issue the country is facing, for good and ill, has been on a back burner for half a year. Barely even looked at. Ignored. Functionally, there is no government, and hasn't been for about eight months.
And to put it into perspective, the last time leaders changed this much between GEs was the second world war. And that time the middle guy (a) died and (b) lasted longer than Truss anyway. And on top of that, the third guy was Winston Churchill, who got the job because there was a coalition government at the time, and he was the one Labour were most willing to work with - meaning, there was at least one group (and in reality more than one) who actually wanted him in the position and voted for him, unlike Sunak, who stole the job because literally no one else wanted it. We are in uncharted territory, without a map.
So while legally there is no limit on leader changes...
How long will the public put up with it?
That's now the question.
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okay i know solving counting sheep is an evo fic first and foremost but i'm super curious how the hermits end up dealing with three. it sounds like this is the kind of hermitcraft thats already a sanctuary for weirdos, but i feel like someone whos skin is feathers and wears a mask they can't see out of is a new level of strange. also, would pearl canonically still join the hermits after a few seasons in that universe? sorry to bombard you with questions when you already have a lot queued up LMAO
okay so this is like, a BIG QUESTION, and another one i've talked about with @strifetxt. we've noodled around a lot so off the top of my head, here's a few answers to "things we think three might do on hermitcraft"! (with the note: none of this is CANON. just because i'm saying it, word of god style, doesn't mean that's actually what HAPPENS, you can have your own story and headcanon for this in your head.)
three joins in season seven, not six, in my head. i'm not even going to try to pretend to guess what a season six without grian looks like just know that apparently happens.
three gets like, SUPER into the head games, because its a way to use its combat skills to HELP SOMEONE why wouldn't it get super into that? this is the first real introduction most of the hermits have to three. the hermits are like "okay mumbo where on earth did you find someone this good at murder". mumbo is like "who knows".
we were definitely joking that outside of hermits who know how to recognize a watcher (iskall, probably xisuma, i'd say also maybe like... doc or ren), the hermits just kind of assume three is autistic and roll with it from there because the idea the hermits, on being told three's actual circumstances, go "why would we guess that mumbo you said you met it hiding in a bar from overstimulation with you" is VERY FUNNY TO ME.
we were debating if election still happens; three is less likely to set up events on its own but IS likely to accidentally do something a little overboard.
our hack for if we wanted three to do the election is as follows: mumbo makes a joke with like, scar, about wanting to be mayor, three takes this completely literally, three and false end up in a cold war of "who is the scarier person NOT to vote for as mayor". meanwhile scar is vibing and a sith lord backing stress is very concerned.
grumbot does not happen. i don't think there's a world where three does grumbot.
three DOES befriend etho, at first to learn how to do interiors better, since etho is doing the all-interiors base, but later because etho's brand of tomfoolery actually works well with three. TWO weird dorks in masks now.
i think three would LOVE free glass. it and etho would make the world's Most pranks i think, all of which are technically what they were asked for. three helps work for shade-e-e's.
there's definitely more stuff we've talked about that i've missed and ALSO these aren't necessarily canon! you may have your own COMPLETELY DIFFERENT IDEA of what happens post-scs, which is fine! this was us waffling around about what would be fun to have happen, haha.
as for pearl... i like to think she does eventually still join hermitcraft, after a few years of texting back and forth with three and a bit more healing. she deserves it.
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As someone who does think Biden's age is a political liability but considers all of this "open convention" stuff to be pipe dream silliness - the time for Biden to not run again was in early 2023 so a primary could happen, its too late now - replacing his VP is definitely a more interesting idea. Harris was always a weak pick, done for "interparty" versus electoral reasons. It was both a weird time in politics and in a certain sense Trump maybe seemed very vulnerable, so perhaps it was logical at the time to lean left.
But now we have had four years for Kamala Harris to build her brand, something she has completely failed to do (no blame being cast here, I don't know who is making what decisions in the White House), and she trails Biden handily in a Trump matchup on polls. She has never been a popular politician, and that trend seems set to continue. While proving causation is too difficult to even approach, I think that the "age" issue for Biden is probably in part a reflection of the fact that he has such a tepid replacement lined up.
And meanwhile a "new" VP definitely has energy the same VP doesn't; its a headline maker and a mind shifter. Choosing the right one can send a message about campaign tone and direction. Its not much, but Biden right now is on track to lose the election. A lot can happen ofc, its far from over, but the general signs aren't amazing.
So I think that if you want to do something *practical* about the Biden Age Problem, instead of weird outsized ways to make him not the candidate, you could find a solid alternate VP pick. Its the only big idea really worth considering IMO.
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Lie To Me | M.B.
note: based off this song by 5sos of course
summary: mat sees you for the first time after your breakup causing both of you to confront your feelings
warnings: angst (do I even need to warn you?)
wc: 1.7K
I saw you looking brand new overnight
I caught you looking too, but you didn't look twice
You look happy
Mat thought he was daydreaming at first. How many times had he thought he saw your face in a crowd? The back of your head just in front of him on the sidewalk? When he notices you sitting directly across from him at a basketball game, he thinks his mind is playing tricks on him again.
He turns away from your look-alike, responding to something his date said. When he looks up again, you’re looking directly at him. A chill goes down his spine as you gaze into each other’s eyes from across the court. It’s really you. He hasn’t seen you in months and now here you are in the same building.
He watches as the blonde guy sitting next to you leans over and kisses the top of your head. Mat’s vision turns red as you turn your head and smile at the man, placing your hand on his thigh. The guy goes in for a kiss on the lips but you turn your head, giving him your cheek.
He watches you throughout the rest of the game but you never look in his direction again. Your hair is shorter since the last time he saw you and you’re practically glowing. You look happy. Clearly you’re not hurting as much as he is.
The man sitting next to you can’t keep his hands off of you and it’s pissing Mat off to no end. Not that he has much room to talk considering he’s here with his own date but it’s not anything serious. Any time he tries to talk to a girl he ends up comparing them to you. They never measure up.
Flashing back to New York City
Change your flight so you stay with me
Remember thinking that I got this right
He remembers the night you both said I love you for the first time. Mat had a game and he was so excited to see you standing by the glass wearing his jersey during warm ups. Tito chirped him about it endlessly but he didn’t care. He never thought the level of happiness he was feeling was possible.
The high he was on came crashing down during the third period when a deflected puck came up and hit him right in the face, causing his face shield to cut into the bridge of his nose. He got off the ice on his own and walked down the tunnel to the locker room.
You were nervously waiting for him in the hallway when he finally left the locker room after the game. He had stitches on his face and a broken nose along with being on concussion protocol. “Let’s get you home, puck magnet.” You joked as he pulled you into a hug.
He rested his chin on your head, enjoying the feeling of having you in his arms. “I have to get you to the airport.” You were supposed to be getting on a red eye so you could make it back to Boston for your work meeting.
“I canceled my flight.” You informed him as you stepped back from his embrace.
“What?” His head was pounding and the painkillers he was given were making it hard for him to think. He knew the meeting was big for you so why would you elect to miss it? “Why?”
“I want to stay with you and make sure you’re okay.” You said as you took his hand to lace your fingers through his. “Is that alright?” You blushed, realizing you should’ve asked if he wanted you to stay with him longer before canceling your flight.
“Yeah, of course.” He laughed slightly high on painkillers as you led him down the hallway and out of the arena. “But why?”
Frowning as you looked at the confused look on his handsome face, you stood on your tiptoes to gently kiss his cheek. “Because I love you, Mat.”
He turned his head and kissed you hard, ignoring the pain he was in. “I love you too, y/n.” Everything was alright if he had you. He knew at that moment that you were the one for him.
It's 3 AM and the moonlight's testing me
I know that you've been holding on to someone else
And now I can't sleep
I ain't happy
You spotted Mat the second you sat down in your seat at the game. You thought it would be fine, knowing how into basketball he gets. Then he caught you looking at him and you swore time stopped. Even from across a basketball court, Mat’s eyes still paralyzed you. He was with a girl and you tried not to let it bother you as you kept your focus on everything but him.
You felt his gaze on you all night and it made you flinch away from your date, Greg, every time he tried to touch you. Greg wasn’t anything serious, just a guy you had gone out with a couple times. No one was ever going to come close to Mat in your eyes so why put in the effort to really date someone else?
It wasn’t until you got home after the game that you started wondering who the girl with Mat was. You didn’t look at her long enough to pick out any features but you knew it wasn’t Liana. You were the one that left. It was completely fair for Mat to start dating again. It still hurts to physically see him with another woman.
Greg snores softly as you lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. The clock on your nightstand reading 3:04 AM is the only thing stopping you from picking up your phone and calling Mat to ask him things you no longer have a right to ask.
Who is she? Is he serious about her? Is he holding her the same way he used to hold you?
Flashing back to New York City
I was done, but you undid me
Classic me to run when it feels right
Your heart aches as you watch the shadows on the ceiling, thinking about the night you left. It was snowing outside Mat’s Brooklyn apartment. The two of you had spent the day finding a real christmas tree and you were excited to decorate it the following day.
Mat made the two of you cocoa as you started Elf on the tv. “Here you go baby.” He handed you a mug before sitting on the couch next to you. “What are we watching?”
“Thank you.” You smiled at him before taking a sip of the warm liquid. “The best Christmas movie ever made.”
“Die hard?”
You rolled your eyes at him and playfully pushed him away. “Die Hard is not a Christmas movie. It’s barely even a good movie.”
Mat blinked at you. “I hope our kids don’t inherit your horrible taste.”
The blood in your veins turned to ice as you looked at him. “Kids?”
If he heard the change in your voice he didn’t show it. He placed a hand on your thigh and smiled. “Yeah, two maybe three little Barzal’s running around at christmas time? It’d be perfect.” He winked at you. “After I make you my wife of course.”
“Of course.” You felt like throwing up. He wanted to make you his wife? Have children? You hadn’t even been together a year yet. Your hands started to shake as you brought your mug up to your lips again. There were so many things you wanted to experience still. He was already thinking about kids?
You watched Mat in silence while he watched the movie. Occasionally he would laugh at something on the screen and you’d find yourself smiling. You loved him more than you ever thought possible but now you were questioning if you were right for him.
By the end of the movie, Mat was sleeping. You leaned over and kissed his forehead one last time before you wiggled out of his grip and went to back your bag. You knew you were taking the coward’s way out but you couldn’t bring yourself to look him in the eye and tell him you were leaving him. He’d want a reason. If you told him you could never give him kids he’d compromise for you and you knew that wasn’t fair. One day he’d realize you did him a favor. That’s what you told yourself anyway when you left.
Now I wish we never met
'Cause you're too hard to forget
While he's taking off my dress
I know she's laying on your chest
I know that you don't, but if I ask you if you love me
I hope you lie, lie, lie, lie, lie to me
Your phone begins buzzing on your night stand, the vibration echoing in the quiet room. You pick it up quickly, hoping it won’t wake up Greg. “Hello?”
“Y/n?” The sound of Mat’s voice brings tears to your eyes as you slowly get out of bed. Greg lets out a soft hum as he rolls over and gets comfortable.
“Yeah?” You talk quietly as you walk out of the bedroom. The apartment is dark so you move around by memory.
“Are you with him?” You can hear the pain in his voice and it kills you to know that you put it there.
You swallow a sob. “Are you with her?”
You hear him sigh and you can picture him running his hand through his hair. “Sometimes I wish I never met you.” His words slice through your heart and it’s all you can do to hold in a gasp. “You’ve ruined every other girl for me.”
“I’m so sorry.” Tears well up in your eyes as you sink to the kitchen floor. “I never meant to hurt you.” When Mat called you the night you left you ignored him. He showed up at your apartment but you refused to let him in. One look in his warm brown eyes and you would’ve been done for. You couldn’t let him throw the future he wanted away for you.
“Just answer one question.” He says.
Your lip wobbles as you breathe out, “Okay.”
“Do you still love me?” His voice breaks on the word love and your tears begin to fall.
You open your mouth and close it a few times, wondering if you should lie or tell him the truth.
“Mat, I-”
#mat barzal imagine#mat barzal fic#mat barzal fanfiction#mat barzal x reader#mat barzal x y/n#mat barzal#my writing
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Trash talk is a part of most sports, but it’s definitely a part of basketball.
Let’s break it down and get to the point: Angel Reese was humiliating Caitlin Clark. And she made the John Cena gesture at a time when Clark and Iowa had no possibility of winning. This made qwhite a few people mad. The real questions we need to be asking are 1) Why did it make them mad? Because Caitlin was expected to win and had already been dubbed the girl boss darling of the tournament. 2) Why weren’t those same people upset when Caitlin Clark told an opposing player to her face, “You’re down 15 points, shut up!”? Why was it cute “girl boss” when Caitlin was mean and rude to someone else, but it’s “poor sportsmanship” when Angel Reese gave it right back to her?? 3) Why are white people sooo comfortable making up brand new rules that suddenly advantage them but penalize others whenever they aren’t in the winner’s seat??
What all the upset white people are really saying is, Angel Reese did not show Caitlin Clark the “proper” amount of respect. Caitlin was supposed to be the inevitable winner.
And it doesn’t matter if Caitlin did the same thing to others. Because it very specifically burns white people up when a Black woman has the upper hand and isn’t suitably “kind” or not demure enough—even to someone who taunted the Black person first.
And for many of the selectively outraged people, it didn’t begin until Angel Reese did something wrong. That is sO very much like white history in America: ignore everything that happened preceding the event. Ignore or make excuses for everything that happened right up to the point where white people got mad.
The same thing happens every day in schools, politics and workplaces: except we call the double standards and made up rules “professionalism,” and certain white people are allowed to flaunt professionalism and other Black people are not.
Also, people saying this has nothing to do with race are lying. A predominantly Black team beat a predominantly white team. This is 2023 America and racism is alive and well.
Who do you think most of those players on the Iowa team are going to vote for in the next presidential election?
And it bears repeating again: Jill Biden inviting Caitlin Clark and the Iowa team to the White House is thee foulest, most white privileged, All-Lives-Matter kind of bullshit. Everyone is super focused on making sure that the white girl doesn’t feel bad.
Oh, last thing - it’s not against the rules of basketball to follow someone around on the court. Some people call that covering your opponent. If you follow (cover) the wrong person or don’t follow them well enough, ultimately your team loses points and loses the game. Just like Iowa lost. To LSU.
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how can a person know everything at 18 but nothing at 22 (almost 24)
warning: im writing this while im on my period and eating ice cream.
i've been dissociating for what now? half a year maybe more. i dont recognize reality. i feel im floating in this sea we call society and i've been feeling the wilson of the story here. i assume everything that's happening around me is real, ofc. but that doesnt make it any less a convenient arrangement i build for myself to try to act like a real person and not freak out. i am feeling out of reality. like the part of the game where you let the sim on auto-mode. i am the sim on auto-mode. and i don't know how to stop this stage of oblivion.
to make a vague introduction, the thing with me is that im a living paradox of a full time contradiction. i am flamboyant but i hate being perceived. i like to speak up for myself but i hate people thinking about me because of it. i have my own process of how i understand things. i trust logic and i question everything. im quite skeptical over things when there's no empirical evidence. i seek for knowledge. critical thinking, data analysis and the whole stuff. i know myself. i sometimes look like i am too obnoxious, frivolous, morally corrupted (people have told me that), when i obsess over something —because i sometimes treat people like they are stupid (not my intention really)—; but probably the only thing im completely sure of is myself. i tend to be a confident person, to have an ego, to not let the guard down, to calculate every single move. and lately i am noticing myself being impulsive, insecure, nervous, weird, saying stupid shit, nonsenses, feeling small. and i don't know how to make it stop. the thing is i put my whole self-esteem backed up by my intelligence, however im not sure of anything anymore. i don't know if the reason behind not recognising myself lately is the fact i have somehow a new crush —or a new hyperfixation for that matter— or just the natural act of growing, also known as the quarter life crisis.
i have this thing where i hyperfix on random stuff, i've been like this my whole life. one of my friends even made a powerpoint of all the things i've been obsessed with over the years. and the issue here is that this things never last that much, or maybe they do? i actually never though about it. the most random ones i remember are probably me buying ice-cream cakes of this specific brand every week for two months. i also got obsessed with eating too many scrambled eggs all day every day for a very long time. then it was that turkish telenovela on an airing channel. then ofc succession, and it grew into watching every single movie kieran culkin was part of. the world cup. mbti —im intj by the way—. red white and royal blue (i watched it five times in a day), then nicholas galitzine —did yk he has a lineage that comes all the way from the romanovs?— and his entire filmography. and also politics, i got way into politics; election campaigns, follow up candidates, history, economy, the law, etc (my candidate lost tho) (we're succumbing to disgrace) (like literally we collectively, as a country, haven't had any kind of good news since then) (please help me). and etc etc. but the thing is, i also hyperfix on random people, or not so random i guess. it doesnt happen very often tho, im quite picky, but the procedure is this: i meet someone, they draw somehow my attention, i want to know everything about this person, i talk to this person a lot (medium to long term) (week to months), and then this person becomes my friend or i get bored and completely ignore them for the rest of my life and move on.
but this time is different, or im feeling it different. i find myself questioning everything i know and i was convinced of. i dont know if it has something to do with the fact that i met someone, probably the first person wise enough to make me question if i was ever correct about anything. maybe i am hyperfixating on this person, idealizing them. but it's truly amazing how much more data this person has about everything i know of. and right now i feel way too insecure, because even if this person told me they find me smart and they enjoy talking to me, i am always thinking that if i say something not completely fact-checked they'll think im stupid. it's absurd. it's a boohoo situation, i know. and it's a process im having about who am i, or what am i supposed to be. some months ago the whole context around my life changed or i think it changed? i dont know how to explain it, —i mean i know how but i would have to talk about other things not related to this (politics stuff, things happening in my country, etc). i'll probably will make a new post about it someday—. but the whole issue is, i dont know myself anymore. and everything is crumbling.
im afraid the person i build for myself it's a fraud. or doesnt exist anymore.
i remember myself at 18, and i was this marvellous whole person. independent, smart, focused, driven. that girl spent their whole days outside her house. did everything she wanted to. wasnt scared of anything. and i look at myself now and think how? the pandemic has a lot to do with it i guess, but when i first heard taylor saying that in nothing new i thought "that wont happen to me". guess what, i was wrong.
for my fellow girlies being 23 —in my experience— is exactly how they say it will be. the worst age of your life.
next month is my birthday and im pushing 24. and i have to say my life is a mess. but i dont know if i can call it a mess because it is truly a mess or because i am a complete drama queen. because people probably have worse problems than mine, and i am what you call a white girl, only poorer —and a third world country citizen—. the issue is, i am almost 24, almost 25. almost 27. ALMOST 30. and i did nothing with my life. absolutely nothing. my mom had me at 29 for god's sake.
and by nothing i mean everything i do is not enough to feel it worthy of a life well-lived. should i look for a job and work while studying just to say i am extremely occupied because i have somehow a life? just to feel something? even if that makes my stress situation and anxiety even worse? should i somehow save enough money so i can move from my parents house? even if for my whole generation it's close to impossible? is studying something i (kinda) like enough to not feel like shit about myself? i've never had a boyfriend, nor girlfriend. shoud i look for one? get myself one? even if i dont think any of that would make me happy? i dont think i know happiness as a state of mind, nor the concept of it.
i dont feel like i have many anecdotes to tell in my future. should i measure the life-worth by anecdotes? my friends feel the same way i do, but they have a more organized life. jobs, boyfriends, careers, plans for the future, one of my closest friends move to the other side of the world with her boyfriend (!) in the blink of an eye. but they aren't much happy nor they have many anecdotes either. and i dont have the money or the guts or the available friends to create any.
every day i understand fleabag a bit more.
my favourite anecdotes about my life are from when i was about 13 and 15 years, also known as the worst time of my life. i didnt appreciated it back then, probably none of us did. but when we were teens everything was possible and we didnt have a care on anything other than mundane stuff or rebellious stuff but nothing more than yelling at people, drinking and smoking weird shit (i never had weed tho). not a real responsibility. being careless, free, avoiding consequences that mattered. i think that girl hates me right now. and i am not sure if that's the feeling i should have or if it's just utterly pathetic.
#girlblogging#girlblogger#girl blogger#girl interrupted#girly things#gaslight gatekeep girlblog#this is a girlblog#girl problems#girly stuff#girl blogging#girlcore#girl boss gaslight gatekeep#girl interupted syndrome#girl rotting#girlhood#girlblog aesthetic#girlblog#femcel#girlrotting#hell is a teenage girl#i’m just a girl#just girly thoughts#just girlboss things#taylor swift#nothing new#this is what makes us girls#fleabag#20s#life in your 20s#20 something
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So yes I’ve been busy with uni work and not seen the news everyday. However major news headlines are sent as notifications to my phone.
Yes I refuse to use X.
In Earth shattering news, until people started getting their knickers in a twist about Lando carrying a cup, I didn’t know anyone was trying to boycott Starbucks. Yes. Really. That is possible.
I’ve seen the discourse over the US TikTok ban having a basis in Pro-Palestine traffic, (might have a bit more to do with shady practices and cyber concerns but anyway). I’ve seen the Democrats turning themselves inside out because someone actually said what needed to be said and is true. Obviously day in day out I see the latest on the war in Gaza and Ukraine. Stuff about the upcoming UK & US elections. The ongoing Russian elections. Nope nothing about Starbucks.
So if it bypassed me, when I’m actually studying it, it can get past a 20 something, or a busy Mum, or someone in their 60s who only uses Facebook. Stop holding people to account with no proof what they know.
Imagine actually watching the news and then studying international law, so you understand where the power lies and who the actors are that can change the course of things. Heads up, it’s not a single US brand. Or anybody you follow on socials. By all means have your own principles that you stick to, God knows I do, just don’t hate others if theirs aren’t the same. Trust me from experience, it only makes you angry.
I have never been more grateful to be boycotting Elon Musk’s bull in a china shop approach to businesses than I have been in 2024.
Now back to how colonisation is largely responsible for climate change and breaking down UN Conventions.
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Can you do hcs for shikamaru and kiba with a celebrity s/o(acting, singing, whatever)? Like how the act on the red carpet, at award shows, everyday life etc? Thanks so much 💕
Shikamaru
The two of you meet at the bar where you did open mic. He was in the corner with a chess board enjoying the ambient music that was provided, and your lyrics happened to get his attention.
Very few people could actually pull off writing in Iambic Pentameter, at first he thought that maybe someone else wrote your songs for you
Somehow you ended up talking with his friends (Ino probably roped you into it) and he realized that you were more intelligent than he originally gave you credit for.
The two of you meet up for coffee after that, and it was all history from there. Shikamaru was there to support you through all the stages of you becoming a celebrity, he even took it upon himself to learn about the music industry and represent you as your agent ("It'd be a drag to have some outside person do it. This way you don't have to worry about ulterior motives")
The one thing that he desperately hates about your job is red carpet events. ("They're such a drag, we should just stay home" 'I've been nominated for an award, we can't stay home,')
At the event he is quiet, he follows your lead and tries to stay out of the lime light as much as he can. He tries to fly under the radar (occasionally he has to step in when reporters get a bit to pushy)
At home he spends a lot of time in his office [going over deals, reviewing contracts, filling out charity paper work, looking into brand deals, the works. By the end of the work day he is completely over looking at paperwork and dealing with people.
It's around this time that he'll stop into your recording studio and listen to whatever project you're working on
Your melody's aways manage to sooth him, you've always worries that it was boring listening to you work shop the same bars over and over (he assures you it isn't) he usually ends up being in such a state of relaxation that he ends up dozing off [which is totally not the reason behind you buying that super comfy couch]
Kiba
Kiba and you met through your college's jazz concert class. He needed the elective, you were pursuing a career in music education.
For an extra credit assignment, you were asked to create and perform as a band. You and Kiba decided to work together (along with a few others from class).
While the class required you to perform as a jazz band, the four of you found that you worked well together and decided to make your band work more official.
During the first few years of the new band, you worked as a teacher, and Kiba worked for his family's vet office. You would play small venues every other weekend (mainly playing covers of bands you were aspiring to be). On weekends when you weren't playing, you were working on songwriting.
One of the nights you stayed late at Kiba's place, you were so close to getting your new song to sound how you wanted it, the two of you took a break for dinner and began talking, the next thing you knew he was taking you out officially.
You two have been together ever since.
Your band slowly grew in popularity, eventually getting to the point where you all left your typical jobs and were able to focus full-time on creating music and performing shows (you even managed to pull out a headliner tour)
Eventually, you found yourselves at a few award events here and there. Kiba relished these events, they always stressed you out a bit. Being the figurehead of the band usually meant you were the one participating in the interviews and speaking on behalf of your bandmates.
The day after these events were always filled with Kiba boating about you on the internet
"Look at how good my partner looks!" Always accompanied by pictures of the two of you from the event
"And my friends look alright" Accompanied by unflattering pictures of your bandmates.
As soon as you could, Kiba insisted that the two of you purchase a house. One that had enough space for you to have a studio and plenty more space for a dog (or two, or three... or five).
You did end up adopting quite a few dogs [ and then running a nonprofit foster and rehab for abused animals] despite his aggressive exterior, Kiba was the bleeding heart of your relationship.
#naruto imagines#shikamaru x reader#kiba x reader#naruto#naruto shippuden#request#naruto--imagines#jay writes#reader insert
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Our New King Needs An Advisor
Welcome to the Kingarthurtournament Extended Universe! For those who weren't there for last tournament, at @kingarthurtournament we democratically elected the new King of England: The Swedish Little Girl Who Found a Thousand Year Old Sword In a Lake. Now our new ruler has to establish her court and first and foremost she need A Merlin.
Some rules to follow for submissions
We are looking for a magic user of some kind/a wise person, or you know, some guy named Merlin or someone who happen to have a king Arthur of sort that they follow around. Gender and age don't matter here (although a long white beard is appreciated)
You can subject as many characters as you want but only submit them once please
I will accept any adaptation of/work inspired by the arthurian legend as well as places, brands, objects, animals... real or fictional as long as they fit the theme.
I might not get the reference tho, please specify in the form, there's a section for this.
I can't say "no real people" because, well... *gestures to the little girl*. But it will be case by case
Historical character are okay as long as they were dead before 1900
No Harry Potter.
They don't have to be related in any way to the Little Swedish Girl to enter
You totaly can resubmit characters who already were put in the previous bracket if they are relevant here
Submit your characters through here!
Contestants will be selected by number of submissions but depending on how many I get, if you're very funny in the form I might be biased
Like last time I will include some bullet points about the character taken from the form so feel free to rant in question 4
Propaganda is welcome in the ask box!
#themerlinmatch#poll tournament#tumblr tournament#arthuriana#arthurian legend#king arthur#merlin#merlin the wizard#knights of the round table
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