#hoyt volker | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

plutoswritingplanet · 9 months

Text

Moon River (Hoyt Volker x Reader)

a/n: listen....that's how romance looks like, okay? don't drink kids

Warnings: it's a Far Cry 3 fanfiction for crying out loud, Canon-Typical Everything. No Smut, just, kinda Soft(?) Hoyt Volker.

Summary: When your boss goes a little too hard on the alcohol, you're about to suffer the consequences. Or so you think.

Anger and alcohol don't mix well with Hoyt Volker.

And since Jason Bordy has arrived at the Rook Island, Hoyt's anger management has gotten worse and worse every day. Which was unfortunate for you, as his secretary/fucktoy/assistant, because as soon as the man felt anything even vaguely reminiscent of annoyance, he reached for the bottle. That usually ended with your ability to walk being stripped away from you for the next couple of days. The relationship developed between the both of you was a strange one, deffinitely not a usual sight to the habitants of the Island.

His reasoning for "hiring" you was rather simple. He was running an empire, after all, a unique sort of company. And any respectable businessman needed to have a pretty thing on his arm, to look over more mundane tasks, and bring him coffee. Or, in some cases, to vent his frustrations to, in the only way he knew how to. Your salary has been simple as well. He allowed you to live and keep some sort of a resemblance of human life, which, on this particular island, was more than a woman could ever hope to achieve. And, despite everything that has happened to you, despite this horrid place, that smelled of fear and death, and many bodily fluids, he kept you safe. Obviously, it was a stark contrast from the life you led back home, if you could even remember what it tasted like. But beggars can't be choosers, and as you compiled a list of medical supplies that needed to be ordered for his men, you couldn't help but think of how much could've happened to you, but didn't.

Of course, you couldn't completely relax into your squeaky chair, because despite this relatively cozy agreement you have been roped into, Hoyt Volker was a dangerous man. Unpredictable and violent, the scars on your body a testament of his short temper. Your arms littered with cigarette burns, one of his favorite ways of showing affection. A long line across your thigh, from when you've spoken out of turn. And of course, the bullet wound on your right arm, when you stepped over an invisible line and asked him a question about his past.

Still, here you were. Late in the evening, adding bandages to the list, while a cup of cold coffee stared at you from your desk. Thank Heavens for caffeine. He wouldn't let you partake in any other form of substance abuse. his reasoning was simple, he needed his assistant to be always sharp and ready. Really, you suspected it was just another way for him to fuck with you.

Today's been quiet at least.

He hasn't sauntered down to your "office" with any weird requests. The whole day passed with him locked in his own room, which stayed eerily quiet. You waited, always on edge, for him to yell for you, to drag you wherever he needed you to be. But, as hours passed, and you continued to do your job, no call came. Small blessings, you supposed.

That is, until midnight has passed, and your thoughts have slowly begun to drag you to bed. You needed sleep, despite your devotion to the "company" and the insane ammounts of coffee you've drank throughout the day, you were still human, and the single cot tucked against the wall of your room called to you every time you dared to rest your eyes. Slowly, you place the papers on the edge of the desk, take a sip from your cup and move to stand, quietly, so the creaking of the chair doesn't alert the dragon locked inside his lair. It was a ritual you've adapted over the weeks, months, years of working for the man. Of living for him, and thanks to him.

In retrospect, you concluded, that night you did everything right. Your chair moved without a sound, you didn't bang anything on the desk, you didn't even breathe too loud. Which is why, you theorized, that maybe your boss (owner) had developed some sort of super hearing abilities, because just as your bottom lifted from the chair, the door to your room busted open.

You swallowed a scream of surprise, as none other than the man, the myth, the menace stood in your doorway. His figure slanted forward, a half empty bottle of whiskey in his slender hand. You can feel him watching you, his dark eyes scanning the room, your body, as he sways in place. Finally, after what feels like forever, he turns around without a word, and walks back to his office.

For a moment you stay where you are, dumbfounded, legs cramping from the uncomfortable, half-seated position he has caught you in. Then, you debate, whether walking after him would be a good idea. He hasn't called after you, and honestly, you didn't see any indignation, that he wanted you to follow. Then again, it wouldn't be the first time he expected you to know his thoughts, wouldn't be the first time you get punished for not reading him like an open book. So, mustering all the courage in your body, you straighten up, knees cracking as you stand.

He always does this shit when you're exhausted.

Always finds you, on the verge of passing out. Or maybe, you're just perpetually tired, and the fault is yours. It most likely is. Even if it isn't, it's always your fault. You try not to pry too much on those thoughts. Bitterness hasn't been particularly helpful in your current position. You have to be good, always, otherwise he might think keeping a secretary is boring, or, even worse, troublesome. You can't be troublesome, you can't be a burden. You're not ready to die, yet.

Your rising panic is interrupted, rather rudely, by the sound of loud shuffling. Something is being dragged across the floor, coming closer and closer. Finally, he walks in, his body barely managing to stay upright. His other hand is clasped tightly onto the backrest of his leather office chair. He drags the furniture into your room, placing it right in the middle. Then, after standing still for a couple of seconds, presumably to regain his footing, he plops himself in the chair, sinking into it immediately, as if his bones were made of cotton.

You're left there, standing, as the man lifts the bottle of liquor to his lips and takes a long drag. You can see the liquid spilling all over his face, dripping down his chin and neck, just to be greedily soaked up by the red material of his shirt. While he's busy with himself, you wonder absentmindedly, what he would do if you just, walked over and licked all that liquor off his skin.

Your thoughts surprise you, not only because you're not used fo fantasizing about your keeper in such a way, but mostly because of how bold you appear in your daydreams. You could never do that, not ever. He'd kill you on the spot. If there was anything Hoyt Volker hated with real passion, it was insubordination. There were lines you just wouldn't dare to cross, not after the last attempt left you with a bullet wound dangerously close to your vital organs.

And as it turns out, there would be some lines you'd have to trample over, as the man lets go of his already empty bottle. It clangs to the floor and falls right beside the chair. You fight the urge to gather it up from it's spot and dispose of it into a trashcan. Old habits die hard, and before the pirates took your life away, you'd never be caught with such a mess.

Then, you nearly jump in your spot, because the man, who you assumed was passed out in his chair, raises his hand. Golden rings reflect the dim light from your desk lamp, as his palm motions for you to come closer. It's not an angry swipe, nor an impatient one, so your bones relax slightly, as you wobble forward on weak knees.

You sincerely doubt, in his current state, he'd be able to pounce on you, would probably hurt himself more than you. There's a small voice in your head that hopes he'd just die of intoxication, or trip and smash his head on the floor. Those thoughts are squashed quickly with a sudden and damning realization. If he dies, there's no one here that could protect you. So, you move, until you're just outside of his reach.

Hoyt's head lulls backwards, as his eyes land on you, hidden under heavy eyelids. In this light, you're not afraid to think he looks like shit. The lines on his face are accentuated, and his cheeks look even more sunken than usual, which is a horrific sight. He hasn't been shaving for quite some time, it would seem. There is a cast of dark hair poking through his skin all around his lips.

- Do you need anything? - you ask, voice barely above whisper, but still too loud to your ears in this silent room.

Hoyt watches you, his arm still slightly extended. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you take notice of the slight blush that has settled onto his tan skin, making his sunken features a bit more bearable.

If he wasn't a monster, he'd look handsome.

- Dance - his voice startles you more than you're comfortable with admitting.

You can barely understand him, between the slurred tone and the roughness coating his words. Your face must reflect that confusion, because his eyebrows immediately scrunch together.

- Daaance - he repeats, louder, waving his hand in front of you, his body sliding slightly in the chair.

You raise your hands in immediate defeat.

- Okay, okay Boss - you mutter, before bracing yourself for impact, because there was a question you had to ask. - There is no music, Boss - you cringe in preparation of an outburst.

It never comes, thankfully. Hoyt seems to be on another plane of existence with the amount of liquor he's been drinking. Your lucky day indeed.

- Fucking... - his entire face scrunches up, as if saying anything at all is causing him physical pain. - Fucking think...of it. Use that... - his hand dances in the air, as he points to the vague are where your head is - Use it.

If you weren't scared for your life, you'd find that hilarious. Drunk people usually made you laugh, but this? Your big and scary boss, who deals with death and torture on the daily, and likes it... Reduced to a bumbling idiot. And right in front of you, at that. Maybe there was a God.

But, his request still rings true, and your mind tries to focus on some song you remember hearing in a strip club years ago. From another life. Your movements are a little stiff, as you sway your hips, touching your body in a way, you hope, he finds pleasant. A strip tease usually works for him, and it wouldn't be the first time he's ordered you to put on a show for him. Good, you know how to do that.

Immediately, when you start to move, the man in the chair shakes his head. Okay, apparently you've missed. His whole body becomes animated, feet kicking and sliding on the tiled floor like an impatient toddler trapped in a stroller.

- No no no no - he reaches up to push his sweaty hair back from his forehead, you can see him scratch his skin along the way - Not like - his lips purse - thaaaat...

To your surprise, you can feel a tinge of irritation rising in your gut. Again with the fucking mind reading. Your life would be so much easier if he would just communicate with you. You realize having an expectation such as this, about a murderer, torturer, human trafficker and a lot more, is borderline insane, but still, a woman can dream.

You surpress the urge to run, as he suddenly shifts his body weight and slumps forwards. He stays like that for a long while, his head down between his legs, and for a second you entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, the fucker has finally passed out. Your hopes are short-lived however, because as suddenly as he changed his position, his head snaps back up, dark eyes fixated on you.

He swallows thickly, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down under his thin skin.

His expression is serious, the dark circles around his chocolate eyes give his face an almost ghastly look. But, to your general discomfort, you realize he's trying to form a thought through the alcoholic haze. It's not good if he's thinking. You prefer him boneless and mindless, and preferably far away from you.

- Dance like... - you catch onto the change of his tone almost immediately, but for the life of you, you can't quite place this new expression.

Dare you say, he looks almost wistful? No, you wouldn't dare call it that. You're not dealing with a lovesick puppy after all, and the worst thing you could ever do, while in the presence of Hoyt Volker, whatever his state may be, is letting your guard down. So you don't. Your arms come up to encircle your waist, as if holding your own body would stop you from shattering on his command.

- Dance like I'm not here.

A pin drops somewhere in the room, as his words register in your brain. Like he's not there? Can you even remember how to move your body like that, so carelesly, so happy?

There's an obvious strain in his body, as he pushes himself back against the chair, his head lulling back. His eyes stay trained on you however, and with a sigh, he watches your body sway. It's awkward at first, your movements clumsy and uncertain, but you continue to move in your own rythmn. What was the last song you heard before your life got destroyed? You try to remember, to envision yourself back at home, standing in the kitchen with a wooden spatula in your hand.

You'd be cooking spaghetti, or some bastardized version of it, the whole kitchen filled with the smell of tomato sauce and spices. God, you missed that smell, and the taste of good, home cooked food. Or, taste of any food, for that matter, because the sorry excuse of meals they've been giving you here could barely pass as edible. What music would be playing, you wonder, as you let yourself slide around the room, twirling in place. You liked old timey tunes, something that would be easy to work to, to dance to. Something, with music that would rise and fall, smooth and light, like your steps on the tiled floor.

You can almost feel the sun pouring through the window, the buzzing of insects and the sound of birds singing outside. Is this the insanity of Rook Island finally settling in? Have you finally gone mad with the fever, with all the pain and fear? Perhaps. Maybe this is only the first step towards oblivion.

You sneak a look towards the man. He hasn't moved from his position, head lulling from one side to the other, as his eyes follow you through the room. You can see his hands, tightened around his knees, where his blunt fingernails dig into the thick material of his jeans. Then, as if pushed by something, he slumps forwards. The chair creaks as he does, and in surprise you loose your momentum for a split second, before regaining your rythmn. He says nothing, but you can hear his voice mixing with the buzzing of the electricity all throughout the base.

He's humming, you realize with a mixture of feelings you can't quite place.

It takes you a while to recognize the tune, as his voice is broken by the thickness of his drunken state. Then, it hits you like a ton of bricks. Motherfucker is humming Moon River. Has he seen the Breakfast at Tiffany's? In your mind's eye you can almost imagine him, splayed out on a couch, with a glass of burbon in his hand and the face of Aubrey Hepburn on the TV screen. The thought brings a small giggle to your lips, and as you spin in place again, you swear you can see a ghost of a smile on the man's lips.

Again, you allow yourself to get lost in the fantasy, in the smell of fresh pasta and the low humming coming from the man. You miss your past life, you always will. The comfort of freedom, of being allowed to decide for yourself. You missed going to sleep and not having to worry, if you'll be able to see the sun rise. Of hoping, deep down, that you won't.

The tears pricking at the edges of your eyes are the first thing that startles you. Your dance stops, as your hand migrates up wipe your eyes. Stupid, stupid, so stupid. You can't allow yourself to become sentimental now. You have to survive, as long as it takes to find a way out of here.

The second thing that startles you, is the sudden hot weight, that hangs around your back. Your bones lock in place, heart thrumming wildly against your chest.

Hoyt buries his face in the crook of your neck, his slender arms encircling your body in a vice like grip. Your breathing nearly stops, as you feel his chest brush against your back. He smells strongly of cologne, sweat and alcohol, and he's hot, almost unnaturally so.

Then, he starts to move, and your mind scrambles for any other instance of a behavior such as this. It's no use however. Never in your life on the Island, has Hoyt Volker gotten so close to you without finding some way to hurt you.

His breath huffs strands of your hair to the front of your face, as he mutters something quickly into your skin, his lips moving across the juncture between your neck and your shoulder. Phrases leave him in hushed whispers, in a language you don't understand but can recognize. Afrikaans. Did all the alcohol and drugs finally scramble his brains? Did he finally go completely insane?

He might as well, because as you swayed in place, trying to accommodate the sudden weight of his body, Hoyt's hands start to roam your figure. Blunt nails dig into any flesh they can find, raking over your thighs, squeezing your hips, before finally settling on playing with your breasts, weighing them in his hands. Then, with a sigh, which you can only describe as content, his arms fully encircle you, pulling you impossibly close.

- What the fuck? - the question slips from your lips despite your best efforts at stopping it.

He doesn't say anything, his voice going back to the low hum from before, as he starts to sway in place to the tune of the song, shared between the two of you in a whisper.

He stays like that for a while. You're not sure how much time has passed but soon, the humming starts to become more and more jagged, his voice rough. And before you know it, his whole body weight pushes you towards the desk, where with an annoyed sigh you realize, he has fallen asleep.

He always does shit like that, when you're exhausted, you think. The distance between your room and his bed suddenly becoming a dawning problem, one, you'd have to deal with sooner rather than later.

#hoyt volker #hoyt volker x reader #far cry 3 #far cry 3 x reader #my writing #i just think he's a pathetic little baby and i want to squeeze him in my hands like a gummy bear okay?

17 notes · View notes

senka-mesecine · 6 months

Note

Super late to the party on this but I played Far Cry 3 for the first time ever recently and just wanted to say your Hoyt content is INCREDIBLE. You really fleshed out a villain who deserved far more development and screen time than he got.

also v random but I’ve seen a semi-common thing mentioned in any fic about him owning five villas but I don’t remember hearing anyone say that in the game? Do you have any idea where it came from? You seem like pretty much the definitive expert on his character lol

Won't lie, but I don't remember either (😬) because the last time I played this game was eons ago (and I'm not active in this fandom anymore) so frankly, I would definitely have to brush up my lore to see where the 'Hoyt Volker owns five villas' thing originated from in the first place (Maybe a side-character mentions it? I don't recall anymore. Sorry. Would be hilarious if it originated from me and I have no recollection of it.) but I like to think it is simply a logical piece of fanon, among others. Man's a slave trafficker. Arms dealer. Drug peddler. A whoremongerer. The biggest one in the South Pacific. It's a very lucrative, albeit horrendously ethically wrong sort of business. It's easy to become filthy rich when you've no qualms about stepping on other people's backs to acquire it. Stands to reason that outside of his bubble on Rook Island, the man actually lives, boasts and maintains a lavish lifestyle...that is, if he was ever off of that archipelago enough to actually enjoy it, because that damned place doesn't let anyone get off, invertedly tying and trapping everyone and everything in its midst and most people aren't even aware of it. Therein lies a huge bit of irony about Hoyt.

Man's richer than God.

He runs everything he surveys within this microcosm, sure, but he's also overworked, greasy, cranky and looks like he's seen better days. Has the appearance of a common street pimp too, rather than someone who's effectively a millionaire. Looks like he hasn't left Rook Island in ages either, so whatever bit of revenue, real estate, ships, boats, money, wealth, cars and luxuries this guy owns, and I'm certain he technically owns a lot, is let unattended, unused and unsavoured somewhere abroad, because even Hoyt himself might not realize just why he has never left his base on Rook Island to actually indulge in the spoils of his own hard work. But, that's why Rook Island is so eerie and accursed. Why it has such a mystical quality to it, almost like an entity with a will of its own. Because Volker has profited off of exploiting the place for decades. The people on it. He turned its hallowed wildlife and sacred grounds into a base for his illegal operations. Its nature into fields where he grows his narcotics. Transformed the place into a gathering place for privateers, pirates, junkies and hookers. Rook Island has a way to repay that offence, ensuring Volker never leaves to actually be able to find joy in any of the material goods he's earned through his labor, in some beautiful villa somewhere, soaking in a jacuzzi with a martini glass, even though he owns that and much, much more.

Nope. Rook and his office is where he stays.

Occasionally going out dish out some order and authority when it's required to the other ends of the islands and come back and continue his same old routine, at that very desk, in that very chair, overlooking the courtyard to his equally decrepit looking compound.

Of course he has five villas.

Never lived in them a day in his life, though.

#hoyt volker #far cry 3 #character analysis #thank you for your lovely complements though #that's very kind of you #magical realism #rook island

9 notes · View notes