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[hairloveindiajaipur]

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[snapbackslide]

sephora's birthday gift selection this year sucks 😔💔

[nerdie-faerie]

Can't believe my parents have 8 kids together, the majority of whom have textured hair and they still haven't learnt how to look after it

[brainstormingg]

[eowynstwin]

clawing at the door

ghoap x reader. jealousy. bisexual soap. bisexual ghost. emotionally constipated ghost. manipulative soap. ghost likes em thick. lightly explicit. MDNI. ao3

When Ghost first sees you and Soap together, his jealousy is hard to parse. He doesn't quite understand what he's feeling.

On the one hand, Occam's Razor. Simple explanations usually prove the truest. Soap is his boy, has been since Las Almas, and you are an interloper in their hard-won dynamic. Ghost does not absorb others into his life lightly, even less so then he allows them to strongarm themselves beneath the mask. He doesn't particularly like people, isn't really fond of their tendency toward abject mortality.

Soap's strong arms are a rare exception. And Ghost has nearly died too many times not to admire a nice round ass when he sees one—the kind that glistens and quivers beneath the weak spray of a communal shower. Some part of him has always kind of supposed the sergeant had been showing off specifically for him, too, when he dropped trousers and moaned like a whore when the hot water started flowing.

The boy certainly dogs his steps like that's the case.

Then, you: showing up on base one day, Soap's hand spread wide and possessive on the small of your back. Jewel-bright eyes following your every move. Blush high and feverish on his boy's cheekbones every time you throw half a smile his way.

So it's envy. So it's a crush, unrequited.

Simple problem, simple solution. Getting over by getting under and all that. There are apps for every heartache, and plenty of hard-bodied gym rats out there tripping over themselves to bottom for a brute like him, who can actually throw them around.

Not two minutes after making his profile (military, six-five, top), likely candidates start filing themselves into his inbox. Some part of his ego is gratified, at least. The influx of taint pics certainly confirms for him that his vanity, in fact, is justified, even if the last thing he wants to see is some random stranger's asshole.

He messages a jacked brunette with brown eyes and dimples, who led instead with a comparatively tame "hey big guy," and lets him pick the bar where they'll meet up.

And it's...fine.

The guy is fine. Equally as attractive in person as on camera, with curly hair and short stubble. He's there before Ghost, and directs an easygoing smile at him when he drops onto a stool at the bar beside him.

He doesn't even question the mask, though his eyes linger on it, half-lidded, the kind of way that suggests he's figuring something out about himself that he hadn't considered before. Not the first time it's happened for Ghost.

The problem with fine is that Ghost can't work up even much of a chub talking to him. The guy has a nasally voice and a friendly attitude that makes Ghost's teeth go numb from the sweetness. When they sequester in the dingy pub bathroom, the guy goes to his knees like an angel, and Ghost's cock actually softens more, thoroughly bored already with the notion of this random guy’s mouth on it.

The problem is, Soap would bust Ghost's balls for this.

Sure, Ghost could get him on his knees. Soap is a good boy, he'll take an order if he's given one. But he's also a fucking brat, and the moment Ghost pulled his cock out Soap would immediately start complaining about it.

Too big, too ugly, not hard enough, and when was the last time Ghost washed that fucking thing? How romantic, LT, making him suck Ghost off in a pub bathroom, hasn't he ever heard of good old-fashioned wooing?

He'd complain, Ghost knows, because he'd want, more than anything, for Ghost to just cut through the bullshit and shove straight down his throat. He'd run his mouth because the only thing he wants Ghost to do is shut him the fuck up, for once, and make him actually work for the praise they both know he's so desperate for.

And Ghost would give it. If Soap earned it. The fight isn't about winning.

This guy isn't putting up a fight. He tries nicely, licks all over the limp-hanging head and pale glans, but Ghost ends up making some excuse—Dad has cancer, Mom died, the usual—and leaving him there still on his knees.

He deletes the apps. He can invest in a fleshlight, and find some porn star another with enough of a resemblance to be functional.

Less of a hassle for everyone involved.

Problem solved.

And then he encounters you again.

You're walking out of the supermarket one night, with two huge bags over your shoulders, digging through your purse out in front of you. He has to stop you with one hand on your shoulder to keep you from running into him.

The evening is warm; your shirt is a thin camisole with little elastic straps. His palm meets your bare skin, and finds it soft and dewy with a little sweat.

You look up, startled, blinking as if caught in a bright light.

"Oh," you say, "Ghost, hello!"

"Bird," he grunts, wondering why he's surprised that you recognize him.

He pulls his hand away, and still feels the imprint of your body heat in its grooves.

"Sorry, I should have been looking," you say, smiling. It's a friendly expression, open and innocent—a daisy's petals spread on a clear day. "Johnny's making beef wellington tonight when he's off duty, so I went and got everything."

Ghost frowns. What kind of boyfriend lets his girl do so much heavy lifting?

He helps you carry the bags to your car. He's jealous, not an asshole. You thank him with a breezy laugh when he closes the hatchback—

"I'm sure Johnny wouldn't mind if you stopped by for dinner," you say, folding your arms across your ribcage. It presses your tits together as you cup your elbows in your hands, pronouncing the line of your cleavage with an uncomfortable eloquence.

"Busy," Ghost says immediately, staring very hard into your eyes. "Thanks."

You shrug, unperturbed. "Anytime. Good night!"

He stands in the carpark for a full five minutes after you drive away. He thinks he can feel his own heartbeat throbbing through the palm he touched you with.

Well, then.

Bereft of any opportunity to get to know you—as if it would even be appropriate—Ghost stalks social media until he finds you through Soap's Instagram. Your account is private, so he sends a follow request, expectations very low that you'd allow someone with a blank sky for a profile picture and only one post on their feed to follow you, "sghostriley" notwithstanding.

But—you do. And suddenly he has a decade of material to peruse, beginning with your last year of secondary school and leading all the way up to present, the most recent photo one of you and Soap at the top of some mountain, grinning at the camera in your hiking gear.

You don't post very many pictures of yourself, he finds. Instead you document interesting food you eat or make, crafts you're working on, nice scenery you caption with variations of "saw this on my walk today :)". It's all very domestic, sweet in a way without being saccharine.

Soft, really. Totally separated from the hard edges of the world he and Soap routinely throw themselves along.

And yet, honest in a way that makes your version of the world feel more like the real one, and his and Soap’s the nightmare.

Ghost hasn't been with a girl—let alone been interested in one—in years. It isn't that the attraction had ever died, exactly. Rather, it simply became so complex, so twisted in on itself and trapped beneath years of grown-over scar tissue, that he'd made an unconscious decision never to confront it. He ignored Price’s stories about his wife’s antics at home, Gaz’s perennial heartbreak after strings of failed dates—

Soap’s lurid bragging about the women he’s taken home from various pubs.

(Were you one of those pub girls?)

So, here it is now, confronting him instead. Reminding him, in a pretty camisole, just how very much it exists.

In the carpark, there’d been a bead of sweat slipping down your neck as you’d waved him goodbye. He finds himself wondering how long it would’ve taken to slide all the way down to the slope of your breast, if he didn’t catch it with his tongue first.

He continues through your Instagram. The majority of your selfies show up, he guesses, after the beginning of your relationship with Soap.

Earlier pictures of you make your discomfort obvious. You don't like the way you look, and it shows in the tension on your face when confronted with a camera lens. But later on, you gain confidence. Your expressions are softer as you show off a new haircut or glasses.

And when the first picture of you with Soap shows up, it's like seeing someone glowing from the inside.

Your head is tucked into the juncture of his shoulder and neck. The smile on your face is soft, small and lovely in how little you're clearly thinking about it.

You're happy.

It floors him. A happy girl, settled into the embrace of a man who’s made her feel that way.

Piece of work, he is. Could ogle another man's ass without shame, but present him with that man’s girl and suddenly it upends his entire sense of self.

Some old cunt psychiatrist would have a field day analyzing him.

Ghost skips the apps and, following in Soap’s footsteps, heads back to the pubs.

It’s worse.

Not that he doesn’t have options sidling up to him, that is. It seems like all he has to do is sit at the bar and wait, and women circle their way into his orbit, not really talking to him but letting him know, simply by hovering, that they’d love for him to talk to them. Batting their lashes, laughing near him seemingly at nothing.

Up to him to make the first move then. It seems to him like the rules haven't changed over his long absence from the dating pool.

Therein lay the snag—Ghost doesn't know how to talk to women. Not that way, the way one says without saying it that he'd like to take her home and bend her over the back of his couch. Say that to a man at the right bar and that was his evening sorted, but Ghost has a feeling that won't play as well among people with cat-shaped brass knuckles on their keychains.

He's not much of a talker, period. Soap yaps enough to fill in his side of the conversation whenever they're in the field. And you...well, he doesn't know about you. Ghost has the uncomfortable feeling that he'd try for you, and fail miserably.

The bartender slides a drink in front of him, distracting him from his agonizing. When Ghost gives him a questioning look, he nods in the direction of a table behind him.

One of the barflies has made the first move.

She winks at him when he raises the glass at her. She’s pretty—her dark makeup makes her eyes look angular and mysterious, and her red dress is tight, thin, and low-cut. Her exposed chest shimmers, as if she dusted some sort of powder across her collarbones before making her way here.

Sparkly and colorful, like a lure on a line. Ready to hook something and pull it in.

(Your camisole had been threadbare and lined with cheap, fraying lace. A favorite of yours, probably, something you wore when you wanted to be comfortable, and didn’t care who thought what about it.)

Ghost notices other men are eyeing the woman, and a couple of them send nasty glares his way. That is, they do before promptly averting their gazes once they see what he looks like.

He can have this, then, if he wants it. He just has to reach out and take it.

He feels your warmth in the palm of his hand again. The breeze of your laugh brushes his cheek with a soft touch.

He sends the woman one of her own drink, drops forty quid on the bar, and leaves without looking back.

Another dinner invite comes his way, this time courtesy of Soap himself.

“She told me she met you at the store,” Soap says, one afternoon when they’re in the changing room. “Really nice of you to help her out, LT.”

“You weren’t there to do it,” Ghost grumbles. Soap has been prancing around shirtless for fifteen minutes, faffing about while Ghost waits for him to leave so he can adjust his erection.

“I didn’t tell her to get everything!” the sergeant protests. “She just went and did it herself.” Then Soap’s eyes go all dreamy and stupid. “She’s grand, isn’t she.”

Ghost grumbles again, something noncommittal.

“Anyway, dinner’s at seven, and I’ll send you the address,” says Soap, pulling a thin t-shirt over his head. Ghosts watches him yank the hem down over his pecs, covering the toned plane of his abs.

Soap winks at him. “See you there, Ghost.”

Ghost grunts.

Soap does, in fact, see him there.

He goes out of resignation. Or maybe with some notion that seeing Soap and you together again will finally vanquish whatever sits on his chest so heavily whenever he thinks of the two of you.

Soap’s the one to answer the door. “There he is, the braw wee bastard!”

“Soap.”

From the looks of it, it’s your flat. It’s nicely decorated without being too over-designed, something warm and comfortable and welcoming. When Ghost steps inside, he’s hit immediately with the smell of seared pancetta and garlic.

The sergeant leads him through the flat. Ghost has a bottle of wine under one arm, having remembered at the last minute he should probably bring something along. You’re in the kitchen, stirring a pot on the stove.

“Hi, Ghost!” you chirp when you look over your shoulder. “Ooh, good, that’s drinks settled. Hope you like bolognese. It’s all I know how to make.”

“S’fine,” Ghost says, which he would say even if bolognese made him violently ill.

“Ach, you can make more than that,” Soap says, retrieving three long-stemmed glasses from a cabinet. “Pour a nice glass of water.”

You snatch the dish towel hanging from the oven handle and give it a snap in the general direction of Soap’s ass. He laughs and dances out of the way.

“There’s a bottle opener in the island drawer, Ghost,” you say cheerfully. You're pretty tonight, in a loose t-shirt and soft-looking joggers. Casual, like you don't have a guest over at all.

Like it's just a night in with your boyfriend.

Ghost pops the cork as Soap sets the glasses down. After he pours, the sergeant delivers a glass to his girlfriend, and there’s a brief moment of quiet as everyone sips and the sauce on the stove bubbles.

It’s all so nice and normal as to make Ghost’s hackles raise just in anticipation, although he knows there’s no reason for it. Truthfully, he almost hadn’t come. The thought of you and Soap, and Soap and you, in the same room, together, a unit, had made his stomach clench up so tight that he though he might not be able to get any food down.

But some part of him needed to come, and see this. Test out Pavlov’s theory, to see if enough negative reinforcement could break him of this borderline manic fixation. If he could associate Soap and you with romantic nausea, and nothing more, maybe he could finally stop jerking off every night to no satisfaction.

Because he had, in fact, found a porn star who looked like Soap. More tattoos, and a buzz cut rather than a mohawk, but Ghost couldn’t be picky.

The real shock had been to find that this proxy often partnered with a girl who looked enough like you to be uncanny. Too skinny, definitely, but in the one video Ghost had watched of them together, he could have sworn, as the lookalike reamed her from behind—

That it was you looking at him over your shoulder.

Looking at Soap. Or, looking at Ghost, behind him.

At that moment in the playback Ghost had come so hard, cock blazing red and raw in his hand, that the notion had liquified a little. So he couldn’t be sure what the thought had originally meant.

He hadn’t been brave enough to watch another.

“This isn’t bad,” Soap says after tasting the wine. “Nothin’ on a good whisky, mind.”

“Don’t neg your lieutenant, Johnny,” you say. “This is good, Ghost, thank you.”

Hearing Johnny fall from your lips so casually threads something uncomfortable between Ghost’s intestines. Uncomfortable, because he likes it.

Had Soap told you to call him that? Or had you decided on it all on your own? Did Soap think of Ghost whenever you said his name? Did he think of you whenever Ghost did?

“Simon’s fine,” he replies.

It escapes him before he even thinks about it. The same way he’d taken his mask off in Las Almas and looked directly at Soap, wondering in some hidden part of himself if the sergeant was impressed.

“That’s a nice name,” you say, swirling the wine in your glass. You take another sip, closing your eyes to savor it, and then, tilting your head like a little bird in thought, you pour a stream of it from the glass into your pasta sauce.

“Suits him, aye?” Soap says, side-eyeing Ghost with amusement. “Right posh name he’s got for a big scary bugger. Hidden depths, him.”

“Yeah, unlike you,” you snark, stirring.

Soap slaps a big hand over his heart. “Ach, lass, you wound me always.”

“Someone has to keep you humble,” you say, grinning. There’s a charming twinkle in your eyes.

“You gonna let ‘er get away with that, sergeant?”

He surprises himself by saying it. But something in the way you and Soap bicker—absent of the usual sugary drivel, as if the two of you have skipped over the honeymoon phase and stuck the landing right into stable commitment—invites him in.

It's magnetic, almost. It seizes the spinning needle in his brain, draws it to a standstill. Evens out the landscape, so he knows where he can go.

“You’re absolutely right, LT,” says Soap, who smacks his lips, sets his wineglass aside, and bum-rushes you.

You shriek as he captures you in both arms, lifting you off the floor and whirling you around—both the spoon in one hand and the glass in the other fling drops of red and white absolutely everywhere. And then you’re giggling as Soap wedges his face between your neck and shoulder and shakes his head like a dog, probably biting down.

Soap growls; a big smile takes over your face, eyes squeezed shut as you laugh breathlessly. The sergeant’s broad, brown forearms have yours pinned up against your chest, pressing your breasts together.

“Not fair, Ghost!” you exclaim as Soap’s growling noises turn into obnoxiously loud kisses. “No pulling rank in my house!”

“Two against one, hen, you’re outnumbered,” Soap counters. “What should we do with this one, eh, LT?”

“See if I ever cook for you two again, is what!” you protest, still grinning with delight. You kick your legs to no effect.

Soap, also grinning, slots his face back into your neck. You giggle again, complaining that it tickles.

Some incomplete circuit finally connects.

Order given. Girlfriend “punished.”

Soap making you laugh because Ghost told him to.

Not one. Not the other. Both.

“Think we can let ‘er off the hook this time,” he says, feeling dazed.

The pictures on your Instagram, with you and Soap together. The both of you, smiling together, wrapped around each other, standing at the top of a mountain and grinning what the two of you get to share.

Soap's hand spread on your back.

“Aye, sir,” Soap says, setting you down. You’re still laughing a little as you go to check the sauce, and Soap finds a towel to clean up the mess he made. Ghost reels in the meanwhile.

There’s an imprint of Soap’s teeth on your neck.

They wouldn’t be there if Ghost hadn’t sicced Soap on you.

He’s still reeling as you begin plating dinner, and Soap sets out the silverware. When everyone sits down to eat, the sergeant tops up everyone’s drinks.

“I hope you like it,” you say to Ghost, setting his plate in front of him. There's a shyness to you, a verity to your concern for his opinion.

“Oh, he will,” Soap says.

He trails the tips of his fingers along the back of your arm as he directs that jewel-blue gaze at Ghost. It's sharper than Ghost has ever noticed before—

“The LT has good taste. Don’t you, Ghost?”

And with his other hand, he raises his glass to the knowing smirk on his lips.

a/n: I can't use arse, I know it would be more accurate but I just can't I'm sorry

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[talesofesther]

first in my heart

Astarion Ancunin x Reader

Summary: Astarion hasn't seen his own face in 200 years and this bothers you deeply. You find a solution to finally show him how you see him, yet it leads to much more than simply that.

A/N: Gotta thank my sweet @iamnicodemus for encouraging me to write this. Undoubtedly one of the sweetest things I've ever written.

Word count: 4,7k

Masterlist

"I've never even seen this face. Not since it grew fangs and my eyes turned red."

It was something that lurked in the corners of your mind, those words of his. No matter how many days passed, you couldn't shake them off. It saddened you deeply. Each new passing mention about the last two centuries of Astarion's life drove a knife into your heart and twisted bitterly.

To the naked eye, it was imperceptible, never there. Even now, as you sat around the warm bonfire, watching as the pale elf bickered halfheartedly with Gale, he seemed as ordinary as your group of misfits could be. His smile loose, adorning those sharp fangs you'd become quite familiar with; silver hair curling delicately around pointy ears; deep red eyes reflecting the fire embers with a unique shine whenever he'd steal glances at you. He was the embodiment of lightheartedness and witty remarks, eccentric, unbothered, and with a quick tongue for anything.

And yet, he wasn't, not always. You felt secretly privileged, in a way, to be able to see the real him—to be allowed to. To hold him close when he wakes up gasping for air he didn't quite need and with watery eyes in the dead of the night; to softly kiss each and every scar on his back, whispering promises of love where before he had only known pain; to remind him again and again of his worth.

Astarion had a side to him you were slowly uncovering; you think, that he himself is only now uncovering as well. Vulnerable and fragile, broken but not beyond repair, yearning to be cradled by gentle hands.

He deserves to be mended, you know it in your heart. To get back what was taken from him. And you wanted to help, if only a little.

Earlier today as you ventured through Baldur's Gate, you stumbled upon a discarded sketchbook. It was a little dirty and a little worn, but it was still very much usable. Amidst your—many—questionably valuable loot, you knew you had a few good pencils to spare too.

It's been long since you picked up some paper and let your mind run free—before your whole adventure, to be precise. Maybe you'd be a little rusty around the edges and it would take a few tries to get him close to perfect, but you had time; or, you'd make time. He deserved as much.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

The lines that made him him came almost like second nature to you, maybe because you'd traced those same features with your fingertips countless times before within these last weeks. Ever since he admitted he'd fallen for you beyond his plans of seducing you, things had been easier, lighter. He allowed himself to be cherished and you were more than happy to do so.

A faint smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you created curly strands of his hair with your pencil. Delicate and precise, even for the mess that was his curls.

The sky bathed in shades of orange, pink, and baby blue as the sun lowered in the distance. The camp was as lively as it usually was during the evenings. Karlach was playing fetch with Scratch and the Owlbear cub, the latter who was mostly just running around aimlessly. Gale and Wyll were hunched over the fire doing something you could only hope wouldn't end in mild disaster. Lae'zel sharpened her blades, a scratching sound piercing your ears from afar. Shadowheart looked to be in deep conversation with Astarion, to which the vampire gestured wildly as he apparently tried to make a point.

You never expected that your unfortunate encounter with a mind flayer would give you a makeshift family, but you were thankful that it did. For better or worse, you were all in this together, and that was comfort and motivation enough.

With the strangely soothing sounds of laughter and bickering, you turned your attention back to your sketchbook. Going back one page, you had already finished a rough sketch of Astarion's profile, focused on the contrast of his sharp nose and soft curls. Now, on the next page, you were working on a more elaborate portrayal of his features, depicting a look he often wore when you sauntered over to him; the faint smile on his lips that had grown all the softer ever since you first met; the gentle tilt of his head as his eyebrows scrunched expectantly; the sharp and alluring eyes who could pierce into your soul.

"What are you up to, my sweet?"

The sudden honey-coated voice startled you, you jumped slightly on your seat and hastily covered the pages on your lap with your forearms.

The elf himself stood only a few feet in front of you, his lips pursed and an eyebrow raised in curiosity as he tried to peek past your arms.

You chuckled timidly, "Nothing, I was just- just resting a bit." Shrugging nonchalantly as you smiled.

Astarion narrowed his eyes at you but didn't push it, he never did. "Gale is trying to make us something to eat with what he got from the vendors today," he gestured behind himself and to the fire where Gale stood in front of, "I wouldn't be the first to try it out if I were you but I'm dying to know everyone's opinion on it." A sly smirk got his fangs poking out, "bonus points if someone vomits it out."

You shot him an amused look, biting back a laugh. You never quite got why he had this little rivalry with Gale—besides the fact he wasn't overly fond of Gale's flirting attempts with you in the beginning, but that had long since subsided. To be honest, you think it's more routine than anything else at this point, for show and amusement; a friendly rivalry.

Slightly cold fingertips caught hold of your chin when you didn't answer, his thumb pressing against the corner of your mouth as Astarion held you. "Do join me, will you?"

The smile you still wore shifted into something sweeter, reserved only for him. And you leaned into his touch, closing your eyes momentarily. "I will… in a moment."

Astarion blinked at your briefly evasive answer, but nodded anyway, "I'll… be waiting."

He walked away, slow steps taking him towards the commotion around the campfire. You felt a little bad for denying him company right away, but it was for a good cause, you had to follow your streak of inspiration if you wanted to finish the drawing to the best of your abilities.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

Dinner proved to be pleasant, tasty even, for Gale's culinary standards. This time of day had to be one of your favorites, with everyone sitting together around the fire at night and forgetting about life's misfortunes for a moment.

You sat by a rock, leaning your back against it as your shoulders shook with laughter at one of Halsin's stories. Astarion had plopped down by your side not long ago, the weight of his shoulder resting against yours as comforting as it always was. He took just a while longer to take your hand in his tonight, cold fingers hooking around yours and squeezing as he brought your joined hands to rest on his thigh.

Everything felt so new, you thought of yourself as a giddy teenager sometimes; heart fluttering with each lingering touch and stolen glance. For most of the time, you let Astarion set the pace of things, giving him the freedom to choose to be by your side. And there wasn't a time when he chose not to be.

He played with your fingers, palm to palm as if to compare sizes, alluring red eyes focused solely on where you touched. Innocent, boyish even. It was new for him too, you thought, perhaps much more than it would ever be to you.

And then your mind drifted back to the gift you had been steadily creating for him, excitement twirling in your stomach. You leaned closer, lips brushing the fabric of his shirt on his shoulder, "I'm gonna head to my tent for a bit, got a few things to organize. I'll find you later, yeah?"

A low hum fell past Astarion's lips, his eyes flicked to you, all big and vulnerable. "Oh, alright," his voice quiet and sweet.

You smiled, squeezed his hand, and planted a kiss on the corner of his lips. His eyes never left you as you walked away.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

It had never been on his plans, falling for you. It wasn't even something he considered would happen when he first started to slip a few honeyed words your way. But then you threw his heart off course with your tender touches and whispers of comfort, leaving telltales of your warmth all over his cold body. And he was a goner.

The last time Astarion dared to care about someone, he endured a year of punishment locked away, alone, starving, and crying for help that wouldn't come. There had been a fear, clawing at the back of his mind as he watched himself crumble for you; a fear that this would end much the same.

When he finally bared his heart for you—shaking like a leaf with the proverbial organ stretched out in his hands—he expected you to deny him, scream at him, maybe even send him away.

You didn't.

You said you cared for him. You hugged him.

There was no one else in the world like you, he decided.

Three dangerous words lingered on Astarion's tongue each time he woke up to your sleeping form beside him. For the time being, he settled for kissing the shape of them into your skin, over and over, until maybe one day you figured it out.

He scoffed at himself, finally tearing his gaze away from where you sat on the other side of the camp. If his much younger self saw him now, he'd probably be laughing. Or he'd be very envious. No in-between.

Stars danced in the night sky, alongside a half-moon dusted with faint clouds. It was late, most of the group had already turned in for the night, with Karlach keeping watch, as much to her dismay, it was her turn.

Astarion ran his tongue over his fangs, grip tightening on the book he had in his hands. He'd been trying to read the same page for minutes now.

There was no one else in the world like you. He wondered when you'd realize that. When you'd realize that you were infinitely too good for the likes of him.

With a shiver running down his spine, Astarion worried that you might have started to.

It's been a few days now that you've been… distant; tucked away in your tent whenever you settled camp, not sparing him much time of day, at least not nearly as much as you used to.

With an annoyed click of his tongue, as he closed his book, Astarion realized he missed you, even with you sleeping side by side each night. How needy of him.

But he missed your mindless talks by the fire as everyone settled in for the night; he missed your walks through town just before sunset or sunrise; he missed the causality, the simplicity of calling you his. He'd gotten used to the sweet routine quite quickly.

The thought that you might already be growing tired of him made his dead heart clench agonizingly inside his chest. He glanced back at you, hunched over your makeshift desk as you scribbled something down in a book, Scratch lying by your feet. That is a kind of pain he wasn't sure he could endure.

Perhaps against his better judgment, his feet carried him to you anyway; yet he hesitated, words heavy on his tongue. Astarion stood awkwardly behind you, fidgeting with the edges of his shirt and praying that anyone who might still be awake wouldn't look this way. Scratch raised his head when the elf approached, a whine coming from him as his head tilted from side to side as if he wanted to ask what was wrong. Seems even the dog pities his predicament.

Old habits die hard and Astarion couldn't help but assume the worst, every time. He doesn't know how to be with someone, doesn't know the first thing about being in a relationship—was that what you two had? It's not like you ever labeled it. Maybe he did something wrong, and that's why you've been limiting your time with him.

"Astarion?"

With several blinks, his eyes focused again, only to see you regarding him with a frown, hand resting atop the closed book you had been writing in. Now your head was the one tilting inquisitively.

"Is everything okay?"

Still, your voice would always be sweetest to his ears.

Astarion shook his head softly to clear the fog his insecurities had brought and plastered a smile on his lips. "Of course, my darling," he approached, extending a hand to your sitting form and twirling a strand of your hair between his fingers, "I just think you should be getting your beauty sleep by now. Come warm up my bed, won't you?"

The faint blush that dusted your cheeks whenever he sweet-talked you would never cease to endear him. "We can read that book you're so fond of if you don't want to sleep, the cheesy romance one," Astarion purred, his pointer finger tracing the edges of your jaw.

You turned your head, planting a small kiss on his palm. "I'll be going soon, just want to finish something first. You can read without me, I don't mind."

But how could he ever tell you, that the words looked blurry and tangled without you by his side?

Longer than an hour had gone by when you finally decided to come to his tent. The night was mostly quiet, eery, with only the sounds of crickets, frogs, and the crackling of the dying fire. Astarion lay on his side, back turned towards the tent's opening. He didn't need sleep, not really, some meditation here and there would usually be enough to keep his energy up. But it was a habit he'd picked up when you started sleeping together through the night.

He wasn't asleep tonight, however. He heard your footsteps approaching him, quiet and cautious so as to not disturb him. He felt you lying down beside him, ever so slowly.

Astarion closed his eyes tightly, trying to hold himself back and failing miserably. One taste of your affection had been enough to get him hopelessly addicted.

He turned, shuffling closer and curling his body around you. His arm went over your stomach and tugged lightly, like a kitten asking for attention. You didn't say anything as you closed your arms around him, your lips finding the bridge of his nose and then his forehead. Words were futile when actions spoke the loudest.

Your gentle touches, the way you hold him without malice, he could hardly get enough of it. Your arms wrapped around him and your lips grazed his skin with lingering kisses, and it didn't hurt, it didn't burn or make him feel sick. You were the first one to ever do it, to hold him without hurting him.

Astarion nuzzled your neck, burying himself in the feeling, gladly drowning in it as he drank every last drop. Tears prickled his eyes, they usually did on nights like these and he's never quite sure why. Maybe it's because of the way your fingers gently tangled in his hair yet didn't tug or scrape; maybe it's the way you tighten your hold on him as if trying to mend his fragile heart; maybe it's because of how much he longed for someone like you to come and save him, on nights where all he knew were pain and unwelcomed caresses that scarred his skin more than any blade ever could.

And now, he wanted to lose himself in the comfort he found, that you so generously provided. His fingers closed forcefully on the fabric of your shirt, nearly ripping it, afraid you'd leave if he held you any looser. The fear of waking up alone and finding out that he'd lost you was all too consuming, tugging at his heartstrings.

He closed his eyes and rogue tears dampened the collar of your shirt. It was okay, it would be dry come morning, you wouldn't know. You were warm, you chased away everything that haunted him.

⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆

You stared at it intently. You have been staring at it for a while now, teeth chewing at the inside of your cheek in nervousness and anticipation. You checked it once, twice, turning the pages with careful fingers. The sketchbook wasn't filled, it would take too long to do so, but at least half of the pages inside it held some kind of scribble. Art pieces of various styles and levels of progression, some much more detailed than others, some mere hasty lines put together to paint a dear image you wanted to keep for a while longer. All of them of him. A book filled with the pointy ears and pale hair you adored so much.

You could only hope he would adore it just as much.

It was early in the morning and the day had yet to properly start. Most of your companions were still tucked away in their tents, some huddled around the burned logs of the fire from last night, coffee mugs in their hands and a sleepy look on their faces. You were never much of an early bird yourself, but today you made a point of rising before Astarion—you were lucky he'd picked back up the habit of sleeping and wasn't much of an early bird himself.

Hugging the sketchbook to your chest, you padded back to the warmth of his tent. As you opened the flaps, you were greeted with the sight of soft slivers of sunlight coming through the thinner part of the tent's fabric, they glimmered over Astarion's laying form, kissing his pale skin and making it shine.

You could easily get used to it; waking up to him, watching as the early morning rays painted his features golden, small wisps of dust flying in the air only giving him that bit more magical touch.

Astarion had his back to you, so you quietly kneeled beside him, extending a hand to run through his mess of curls; oh how soft they were, molding in between your fingers like seafoam on the shore. You counted yourself remarkably privileged.

You placed the sketchbook behind you so you could lie down, only keeping yourself up on one elbow. Your lips found his temple and the elf lightly stirred in his sleep. You kissed the tip of his ear next, waking him up gently. Always gently. He deserves gentleness.

With a hoarse groan, Astarion turned around to face you. He blinked several times as his ruby eyes adjusted to the soft sunlight, his face adorably scrunched from sleep. An easy, small smile appeared on his lips as soon as his gaze landed on you.

You weren't an early bird, yet you came to love the mornings, if only for this sight alone.

"Good morning, my star," you said quietly so as to not disturb the peace of the moment, still twirling a strand of his hair between your fingers.

He chuckled, "Good morning, beautiful." His voice all husky and deep, one hand finding your waist and trailing all the way up to your neck to pull you closer.

You kissed the corner of his lips and then the apple of his cheek, and Astarion's hold on you only grew tighter, pulling you on top of him. A welp escaped you as you laughed, nuzzling his neck before baring your teeth and giving him a playful nibble.

"Ow, you menace!" The vampire gasped halfheartedly, holding back a grin.

You pulled back from him with the ghost of a smile, bracing yourself on his chest. "I've got something to tell you."

His expression shifted to something you couldn't quite decipher, but he quickly masked it with a teasing tilt of his brows; "Oh? Are you gonna confess your undying love for me?" Both his hands brushed along the sides of your waist, gingerly raising your shirt as his pinkie grazed your skin.

"I thought we'd gone over that part already?" You teased back with a glint in your eyes, pushing yourself back up to sit beside him.

A whimper of complaint escaped Astarion when you separated, but he sat up with you anyway; his hair askew and all over the place, cheeks with the faintest flush to them, eyes just a little droopy, and… a strange stiffness to his shoulders. "What is it, my love?" He wondered, scrunching his nose endearingly when a piece of lint grazed it.

You squirmed in your seat; heart burning hotter than Karlach's in your chest, valves working overtime as the connection you shared enveloped you whole. You haven't actually told him how much you loved him, the four-lettered word hadn't been brought up yet, mostly for fear of the weight it held. But you wanted to, you've been feeling it for a while now.

"Well? Don't leave me in suspense," Astarion chuckled, but the sound didn't feel quite right to your ears, his smile wasn't reaching his eyes. And as you looked at him—one of his hands gripping tightly onto the fabric of his bedroll while the other tapped his knee incessantly; the ruby of his eyes almost nonexistent, covered by shiny black pupils as he looked intently at you, gaze filled with sentiment and vulnerability—you could notice it there now, that lingering fear of solitude gripping at his chest.

For a moment, you berated yourself, for you knew you'd spent quite some time on your little project, and maybe it had affected your routine more than you cared to admit. You felt a nagging guilt and sorrow for making Astarion even consider the possibility of loneliness again.

You tried shrugging it off. It would be worth it—and you'd be showering him with love and affection in just a moment anyway.

"I made something for you." The words rolled off your tongue more easily than you thought they would. You reached behind you with unsteady hands, heart in your mouth as you held onto your breath.

Astarion stared intently at the black sketchbook that was now clasped between your hands. He looked up at you, and back down, lips pursed in confusion.

"Ever since you told me… you haven't seen yourself in so long," you started, voice gentle as your thumbs traced the leather cover of the book. "And asked me how I saw you. I- I kept thinking about it and… when I found this," you wiggled the sketchbook in the air, "I guess I found a way of showing you…"

You extended the book for him to take, lowering your voice to a near whisper; "how I see you."

A short, trembled gush of air went past Astarion's lips. It was a difficult task to get him speechless, yet you had done it. He said nothing as he ever so carefully took the book from your hands, holding it as if the smallest wrong move could break it.

You watched as his throat worked through a heavy gulp, his eyes shining bright under the faint sunlight, swimming in a pool of sentiment and he hadn't even opened the book yet. Or properly looked at it, for that matter; his eyes still trailed on your face, as if waiting for confirmation that you meant it. Only when you gave him a tiny nod, did he finally look down. It hit you hard that this was probably the first gesture of this kind that he had received in his long life.

Shaky, pale hands reached to turn the first page. He hesitated for only a moment, almost looking afraid. About to see himself after 200 years of living as a ghost.

The first drawing you had made in the book wasn't your best, now that you looked down at it again; a simple portrait of Astarion looking down at a book in his hands, a little rough around the edges, hardly detailed. It had been your first try after not drawing for quite some time.

A beat passed, and a drop of water landed on the bottom corner of the page. You whipped your head up, only to see rogue tears steadily dripping down Astarion's cheeks until they reached his chin and fell on his lap. He cried silently, barely moving; the only signs being the obvious tears and the quivering of his lower lip.

He turned each page as if they were made from the purest gold. Stopping at every single drawing of him, to take it all in. He traced his fingertips over the lines that formed the curves of his curls, the tips of his ears, and the slope of his nose and lips.

People had referred to him as many things already; sexy, alluring, charming, attractive. Never had any of them referred to him as something… precious, delicate, bewitching, more than just a pretty face. Yet that's exactly how he saw himself now, through your eyes.

Astarion took his time, never speaking once. You let him, making yourself comfortable beside him and laying your head on his shoulder, simply existing in each other's presence.

Several minutes had gone by when the elf finally spoke up again. He was finally on the last used page of the book, and when the next appeared in white he slowly closed the book, still grasping onto it reverently. "For a moment I- I thought you'd grown tired of me already," it was the first thing he told you, and he refused to meet your eyes. A humorless chuckle fell past his lips, trying to laugh off his feelings.

You raised your head from his shoulder, lifting a hand to tenderly brush long strands of silver hair behind his ear; as you did so, you allowed your fingers to travel further, burying in the mop of hair behind his head. "Never. Never in a million years," you whispered.

Astarion met your gaze at last, ruby eyes glimmering with unshed tears while dried tracks of the ones before still lingered on his cheeks. This was the real Astarion; fragile, vulnerable, pleading for a gentle love, yet so beautifully strong.

"I'm sorry, my star. For allowing that thought to plague you. I just wanted this to be a surprise." You leaned forward and touched your forehead with his for a brief moment, hoping to bend the rules and physically give him your love.

"You made this," Astarion's voice broke in the middle, yet his smile was the most sincere you'd ever witnessed, "For me."

Catching a single tear that rolled down his cheek, you nodded, with a smile of your own.

There was a beat, a moment of silence where you simply looked at each other, wondering if the other felt just as much. And you didn't need a tadpole connection to confirm it.

Astarion set the sketchbook aside before all but throwing himself at you. Both his arms encircled your waist with desperation as he buried his head in your neck. His lips drew sloppy patterns and raised goosebumps in your skin as he kissed you relentlessly, from shoulder, to neck, to jaw; until he finally reached your own lips.

You brought your arms around him, pulling him in until your very souls were intertwined. Giggles escaped your lips as he kissed you, the shape of both your smiles making it difficult and all the more delightful.

When you parted, Astarion had you pinned down on his bedroll, with him resting snuggly on top of you. He refused to let go, clingy as he'd never dreamt he'd be. Your hand buried in his hair, his nose brushed the skin of your collar bone. "I had asked the gods for salvation, for any kind of blessing, countless times before. I could never guess it would come in the shape of you." He breathed in. He didn't hesitate. "Thank you. I love you."

You felt his smile. Felt the shape of his words on your skin, your soul. You kissed his hairline. "And I love you."

⋆* ☾ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ

Thank you for reading this little story. Feedback and reblogs are literally what keeps me motivated to continue posting here, so I’d appreciate it if you could take some time to reblog and comment. <3

You do not have permission to repost, copy, or translate my works on any platforms (even with credit), please respect.

Astarion’s taglist: @milkiane @v1ci0us

[hairloveindiajaipur]

Right hair accessories can be a game changer in your hair care routine. This blog "Hair Grooming Tools and Accessories: A Comprehensive Guide for Optimal Use" will help you to discover the right tools to enhance your hair care.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

don't wanna leave this play date

pairing: mike schmidt x f!reader

summary: you and mike find a way to make a boring shift at freddy's a little more interesting

warnings: 18+ MDNI, coworker!reader, smut, pwp, overstimulation, edging, blowjob, extremely rough oral, throatpie, fwb

word count: 1.9k

(based on these two requests, tysm for sending them in!)

"Thank you. God, thank you so fucking much."

You can't respond to him with your mouth as full as it is, but he picks up the acknowledgment in your next extra-hard suck. He probably wouldn't have heard you anyway, not with how loud he's gotten over the last half hour.

Should you both be working right now? Yes. Could something go terribly wrong because you're too busy blowing your coworker to watch the security monitors? Oh, absolutely.

But when his curly mop of hair appeared at the edge of the doorway midway through your shift, you knew you'd end up doing whatever he asked you to. It might just be your fatal flaw—you can never say no to Mike Schmidt.

He buries his fingers in your hair, tensing but not tugging, as you steadily work him the way you know he likes. He's surprisingly gentle for someone so eager to get his cock in your mouth every night, but you figure there's not much else to do during a midnight to 6 a.m. security gig at a closed-down pizzeria no one gives a shit about anymore.

Plus, you like doing it. You like him. It's cute how unashamed and unapologetic he is about how badly he wants you, and he makes you feel so good, you've never even thought about turning him down.

Even on nights when he just needs a quick release to ease the boredom or relax him enough to squeeze in a nap, just the taste and weight of him on your tongue has you soaking right through your panties. And he always makes it up to you.

But you're bored tonight, too. With three hours left to go, you'd been sitting in your shitty folding chair wondering how the hell you were going to stay awake and pass the time when Mike offered you an enticing solution. Except, you're still feeling antsy, and you don't want this to be over as fast as it usually is. Tonight, you want to play a little longer.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop and jerk him off languidly, loosening your grip to stave off his quickly approaching orgasm.

"That feel good?" you ask breathily, inhaling a lungful of air after letting him rut into the inside of your cheek for the past ten minutes. His fingers twitch against your scalp as he nods.

"S'good, feels so good," he slurs, his head tipped back as he bucks off the chair and into your fist.

"You want more?" You start to twist your wrist whenever you get close to the tip, and you can see and feel the shudder that wracks through him.

"Yes, god, yes. Please," he pleads, just short of begging.

"More what?" you goad experimentally. It wasn't your intention to make him beg when he walked into your office asking for help, but now you don't want him to stop.

"Y-your mouth," his head lolls forward, and he bites his lip hard at the sight of you licking away the precum streaming from his tip.

"Deeper, can I—," he tries to ask, but you shift to tease the underside of his head, and he chokes out a groan. "Wanna fuck your throat so bad."

"Are you gonna cum if I let you?"

"Fuck, probably," he admits reluctantly.

"Then, pick something else," you give him a teasing smile, a little charmed by his honesty.

Continuing to stroke him, you duck down to press a wet kiss to the base of his cock, then surprise him by sucking one of his balls into your mouth.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasps, leaking more precum that dribbles onto your cheek as you alternate between harder suction and softer swipes of your tongue.

He tastes salty and heady, and you were right. You're wet as fuck and so tempted to shove your other hand down your pants to toy with your clit, but you know he'll do that later. And you're not even close to being done with him yet.

Your grip tightens as you pick up your pace and focus closer to the head, maintaining eye contact that seems like it's setting him off just as much as your mouth or hand. His whole body vibrates with those telltale whimpers, and he finally starts to tug at your hair.

"M'gonna cum. Shit, keep going, I'm gonna cum," he grits out, his chest heaving.

His eyebrows pinch and his lips part, and he looks like he's seconds away from blowing his load all over your face—but then you release him again. You slide your hand under his shirt to stroke his heated skin comfortingly as he squeezes his eyes shut, panting like he just ran a marathon.

"Shit...shit," he keens, and you can feel his abs tensing and relaxing under your palm. His cock jerks pathetically next to your face, and you grip the base to make sure he doesn't accidentally topple over the edge.

"Shit," he whines again frustratedly, half-heartedly trying to pry your fingers off him. "Why?"

You rest your head against his thigh and smile, watching him pout down at you. He really is so cute when he gets fussy like this.

"You really wanna cum that fast? What happened to wanting to fuck my throat?" you tease him, beginning to jerk him off again. He sighs in relief, and his hips jut forward to meet your hand on every downstroke.

"You already said no," he replies dejectedly.

"I said not yet," you correct. "If you give me one more, I'll let you do whatever you want."

He eyes you curiously like he thinks you're baiting him, and you guess in a way you are. By now, he knows you've been edging him on purpose, but he has nothing to lose and everything to gain if he accepts your deal. He knows you'll make him feel good no matter what.

"You can choke me," you continue, slurping messily around the tip. "You can be as rough as you want," you trail your lips down his spit-slick length to the base and lick a wide stripe back up, "and you can cum in my mouth, and I promise I'll swallow all of it."

He's nodding frantically before you can even finish, and his eagerness reminds you of a golden retriever.

"You're gonna be good?" you confirm.

"I'll be good, I'll be so good," he blurts out, his urgency slurring his words again.

"I know you will. Just one more time, I know you can handle it," you encourage him.

Then, you swallow him down without warning. He lets out something guttural and animalistic, both hands tensing to hold you in place, and you let him.

You never planned on making this easy, but you meant what you said. He can handle this. He can handle the tightness of your throat constricting around him, contracting intermittently to mimic how your pussy feels fluttering around him.

Or, at least, you hope he can. You feel his balls draw up dangerously under your chin, and when you peer up through your watery lashes, his eyes are starting to cross. That's not good.

Slowly but steadily, he nudges the back of your throat harder and harder until tears and drool are streaming down your cheeks and chin. He's mumbling incoherent strings of praise and curse words between drawn-out whines, but you can barely hear him over the wet sounds of your own gagging.

"Fuck, that's...good, that's so fucking good," he pants raggedly, picking up his brutal pace. It's like he's lost all control of his body, and all he can do is chase the high you've been denying him all night.

You gurgle around him, grasping his thighs to ground yourself against the force of his thrusts, and briefly contemplate trying to stop him. But it's too late and he's already too close. His face screws up, and then you know it's coming.

"I'm sorry—I'm...fuck, I'm s-sorry, I'm so sorry. I can't—," he whimpers, fucking into his fist, "—m'gonna cum, I'm so close."

Moaning around him in response, you dig your nails into his skin, hoping the unexpected pain distracts him enough to keep him from cumming, but that only makes it worse. So, you let him.

The subtle vibration combined with the sharp bite of your nails sends him reeling. His expression goes completely lax, and then—

"I'm cumming...oh my god—," he all but sobs, burying himself as deep as you can take him.

You struggle to breathe through your nose as he empties down your throat, swallowing as much as you can, but you've been edging him for too long.

Viscous fluid leaks out of the corners of your mouth and down his cock, adding to the wet mess in his lap, and your harsh grasp on his thighs only seems to prolong his orgasm. After what feels like a lifetime, his whimpers taper into soft pants and he starts to rub soothing patterns into your scalp, an apology for his rough treatment.

You blearily meet his eyes, and they're glassy and unfocused, watching you reverently like he can't believe you just let him do something he's only ever seen in porn. And that you actually liked it. Shakily, he reaches out to thumb away the release dribbling down your chin, and you pull off of him briefly to suck it off his finger before returning to his cock.

That's why you do this night after night—that look right there. It's the awe and hunger that linger even after he's already thoroughly blissed out and softening in your grasp.

Except tonight, he's not. Mike is somehow still hard as a rock and thrusting weakly into your mouth, trembling like a leaf now that his aftershocks have subsided and the sensitivity is setting in.

Tentatively, you grip him at the base and swirl your tongue around the tip to gauge his reaction, and when he doesn't push you away, you take him further into your mouth. But on your next hard suck, his lips part and a violent shudder wracks his entire body, so you hesitate and pull off.

"Too much?" you wince, slowly uncurling your fingers from around his cock, but he shakes his head furiously.

"N-no, feels...so much," he says, dazed, his voice scarcely above a whisper. "Feels good. Can you keep going? Please."

His face is screwed up, as tense as the rest of him as he struggles with conflicting feelings of intense pleasure and pain, but he's not fighting it. He's actually enjoying it.

He flinches as you resume your movements, toying under the ridge with the tip of your thumb, and begins to squirm the longer you continue to play with him. A quick glance at the clock tells you there's still an hour and a half left of your shift—that's plenty of time.

In the four nights you've worked here, the security monitors haven't shown a single sign of activity and you doubt they're going to start now. Your gaze drops from his pained, yet hopeful expression to his twitching cock, and you make a decision.

You'll go as long as he wants. After all, you can never say no to Mike Schmidt.

"Mhm, whatever you want," you hum, then sink back onto him. He sighs gratefully, shivering at the sensation and your words, and verbalizes his gratitude repeatedly like a prayer.

"Thank you, thank you."

thanks for reading!

(dividers by @saradika-graphics)

[deathbyday]

-'⁠🫧*⁠.⁠✧ MOUTHWASHING ✧.⁠*⁠🫧'⁠ -

P4

“How could we end up here…?”

Daisuke x implied F!Reader

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Written By: DeathByDay

(Also written on Mobile)

2 MONTHS AFTER THE CRASH

You, Jimmy, Daisuke, Swansea and Anya sat at the lounge table. You haven’t grouped up with everyone in a while. They were always busy dealing with the aftermath of Captain Curly’s doings. Honestly, you were too. You couldn’t believe that he would do something like that.

You all stare at Jimmy, waiting for him to start speaking. You sit beside Anya while Daisuke sits across from you, Swansea right beside him. Jimmy sits on the end of the table, appearing as the leader.

“Anyone else would do the same thing.” Jimmy speaks, his voice calm. “We ain’t touching the damn cargo. The hold is locked down for a reason. The only thing worse than dying slowly is not getting paid.” Swansea argues.

You glance up at him, giving him a weird look. “But it could be something useful. I think-..” Anya attempts to reason with the short haired man, but failed to do so. “Could be what? Hopes, dreams and marzipan?” He chuckles, glaring at the black haired woman.

Anya tries to speak again, but she gets cut off by Jimmy. “If it helps us survive it’s worth it.” He mutters. You stare between the trio, not knowing whose side you’re on. Jimmy did have a point about how if it gives you an advantage to live, you’ll have to take it.

But a small percentage of you can’t help but wonder if it’ll hurt one of you. Or worse, all of you. You bite your lip as Daisuke chimes in. “Man, Pony Express bosses really aren’t chill at all, huh?” Everyone turnes their heads towards him, including you.

“C’mon! A quick look won’t hurt.” You gently shove Daisuke’s leg with your foot, getting his attention. “What if we get hurt trying to look?” You question, a worried expression glazing your face.

“That wouldn’t happen, Y/N.” Anya replies, a soft smile appearing on her lips for a moment. You can’t help but keep thinking about it. Even if it wasn’t going to happen, what if it did?

“How exactly is this group therapy committee planning on getting in there?” Swansea asks before Daisuke turns to him, exposing his solution.

“Right here, boss!” He happily replies. “You’re looking at the meanest swing of the regional junior baseball team. Straight up nearly corked a kid once!” He brags, a grin plastered on his lips.

“I can take the utility axe and-..” Swansea slams his hand on the table before shouting. “You were goddamn born fully corked!” He retorts. Daisuke’s smile slightly softens, but it was still noticeable.

“That’s enough, Swansea.” Jimmy cuts in before he could say anything worse. “There has to be an ‘in case of emergency’ way inside.” Anya perks up before speaking.

“If I remember correctly from the safety protocols, the doors should have an alternate access code. But, it can only be uncovered using a code scanner device.” She explains.

“Isn’t the only person who has access to the code scanner the captain?” You murmur, tilting your head. Jimmy nods, confirming your question. “Of course! Go ahead and ask him all about it then. Maybe he’ll sing ya the blues too.” Swansea sarcastically declares.

“We don’t need him if we find the scanner, get the code, and open the hold.” Jimmy argues. “For better or worse, I’m captain now. I’ll figure it out.” Your brows furrow, hasty eyeing the brunette male.

Nobody discussed that he would be the new captain. Although he was the second in command before the crash, it still felt wrong.

“Right on!” You wish you could punch Daisuke in the face right now. You love him, but god could he be dumb. Now that Jimmy’s the captain, he’s the one to search for the code scanner. You all let him be, going to do your own thing. You follow Daisuke down to the digital screen, wanting to talk to him.

Your arms sit crossed over your chest, a worried expression plastered on your face. You turn your head to see Jimmy searching for the scanner around you two first. You glance back down at the brunette before speaking.

“Are we sure we want Jimmy to be the new captain? It just feels wrong to me. You know Jimmy’s always rambling to himself about how he should be the leader, not Curly.” You mutter, keeping your voice low.

Daisuke smiles up at you, trying to ease any doubt you have about Jimmy. “I’m sure it’ll be fine, babe. You don’t need to worry about him.” He reassures, his voice soft.

You take a sharp breath in, not giving a very confident nod in agreement before smiling back, thankful for his comfort. Suddenly, Jimmy walks up to the both of you, causing your smile to disappear as Daisuke spoke.

“Looks like it’ll be soup again for dinner. You wanna rock paper scissors for the chicken noodle?” He suggests half-jokingly, trying to lighten the current situation. “How much food do we have left?” Jimmy replies, not in the mood for any kind of game.

“I think around 4 to 5 months, maybe in between?” You chime in, glancing at Jimmy. He thought for a moment before speaking. “Less than the remaining air supply, but we can make it last.” He hums.

“We’ll be starting to poke new holes in our belts pretty soon to pull that off.” Your anxiety worsened as he pointed out starving yourselves, not wanting to have to cut down on eating just to make sure the food supply last longer.

“Man, my mom will straight up stuff me when I get back. I’ll look like Swansea!” Daisuke chuckles. “We’ll have a rad story to tell, though. They might even write articles about us. We could be on TV!” His eyes seem to light up at the thought.

You chuckle before placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Don’t get too ahead of yourself, Daisuke. We still need to figure out how to even get out of here safely.” Although it would be nice to be famous, you couldn’t help but think of the reality.

It was silent for a few seconds until Jimmy spoke up. “..It’ll impress your parents too.” He nods as Daisuke grins like a little boy at his words. “Mhm!” He hums in agreement before nervously chuckling.

“The real problem is us running out of toilet paper. Fatal stuff, man.” He scratches the back of his head. “We should leave that part out for the press, huh?” You bite back a giggle as Jimmy changes the subject.

“Has Swansea been like this towards you for your whole internship?” He asks, his brow raising in thought. “That’s just how he is!” Daisuke defended. “Didn’t want a spud like me following him around for an entire year.”

“This isn’t really the internship experience anyone had in mind.” Jimmy mumbles, shrugging his shoulders. “Don’t let him push you around too much.”

“His bark is worse than his bite. He may be cranky, but he is legit a wizard of a mechanic!” You recall a few times where Swansea was fixing things in front of you, causing you to chime in.

“Yeah! I’m surprised he still has it in him, seeing as he’s almost at retirement age. I guess hard work does pay off.” You hum, a small smile crossing your face.

“I’m sure he’d appreciate your thoughts.” You couldn’t tell if Jimmy was being sarcastic or not, but you nodded anyway. You cross your arms against your chest once again as Daisuke changes the topic.

“Did you find the scanner thing yet? I’d ask Anya about it, she’s been reading the safety manual like a bible since the crash.” Jimmy nods as a ‘thanks’ before looking up at you, making eye contact for a split second. You instantly look away, not saying anything.

He didn’t mention it and turned his back to you both, possibly to search for Anya in the medical room.

————

You were cut off mid sentence by the sound of the lounge door opening, causing you and Daisuke to turn your heads to where the sound came from. It only took a few seconds for you to realize Anya was the one who ran through the door.

Her legs gave out as she clutched her chest. From the screen of the sunset, you could hear her heavy breathing. You were about to call out her name, asking if she was alright, but Daisuke wrapped his hand around your forearm.

You looked back towards him, brows creased in concern. He shook his head as to tell you to leave her alone and let her calm down, so you did. You kept your voice low, just in case it would trigger her.

After a few minutes, the door opened once again. This time, Jimmy came through it. He walked up to Anya and crouched down beside her.

“We don’t have a whole lot of painkillers left.” He muttered, ignoring the fact she looked like she was going to have a panic attack. “But you still want to keep-..”

“Why do you think he did it?” Anya cut him off, not paying attention to what he said. “Does it matter? What answer would make you feel any better?” He sternly replied, no hint of empathy in his voice.

“I have to believe that our worst moments don’t make us monsters, Jim.” She whispered. “…I have to. Even in his case.”

“He tried to take us all down with him, Anya.” It almost sounded like Jimmy was on the verge of yelling at her. “The way I see it, there’s two reasons to keep him alive at this point.”

You couldn’t stop staring at the two, watching their conversation. Even though Daisuke tried to get you to look away, it was useless. You felt the need to watch them to prevent Jimmy from doing something to Anya. Either verbally or physically.

“Guess the important bit is that we all agreed to it. For one reason or another.” He shrugged, his voice not as strong as it has been. Anya shook her head. “I-I’m still feeling nauseous.. I need a minute.” She quickly got up from her spot on the floor and ran off.

You looked over towards Daisuke before continuing on with your conversation about video games, twirling your fingers around one another.

————

Anya, you, Daisuke and Swansea stood in front of the Cargo Hold, waiting for Jimmy to bring back the code scanner. Luckily, just after a few minutes of waiting, he did. He walked up to the four of you, scanner in hand.

He glanced at you all, taking in your expressions. You just wanted this whole thing to be over. You stood beside Daisuke, one of your hands on your forearm.

“Well? Get on with it.” Swansea urges, his hands over his hips. “This is all you. I want it duly noted that I had no involvement in this.” Jimmy nodded in agreement before turning towards the younger brunette. “What do you guys think we’ve been shipping?” Daisuke pondered.

“If it’s spare parts, maybe me and Swansea can repair the ship and we can get out of here! Right, Swansea?” He turned to the older man who turned to him. “Quit yapping.” Jimmy ignored the two of them and looked to you.

“It could be more food.. maybe we won’t need to starve ourselves after all!” A gentle smile appeared on your lips before the dark haired male turned around to see Anya beside the door.

“Are we doing the right thing..? Let it be medicine, food, or water.” She hoped to herself. Jimmy stepped towards the sign with the hidden code before flashing the code scanner on it.

4517

He put the scanner away and walked up to the door code before putting the numbers in. The door slid open, revealing numerous of shipping boxes on shelves.

————

7 DAYS BEFORE THE CRASH

You stood beside the utility room’s door with Jimmy, peaking into the room. You snickered, not being able to contain your laughter. Daisuke was just trying to fix the vent, trying to be a good intern, but he accidentally triggered the emergency foam which made him slip out and get stuck in the substance.

You felt so bad for him, but at the same time it was so funny. You heard heavy footsteps to your right, causing you to look up. The owner of the footsteps was the captain. He gave you a short lived wave before turning towards Jimmy, glancing inside the room.

“And Pony Express said they don’t provide on board entertainment.” Jimmy slightly chuckled, eyeing Curly. You continued staring at the scene, a dorky grin running across your lips.

“Feels like there’s always something broken in that room.” Curly shrugs, a sigh leaving his throat. “Tulpar’s starting to show her age.” Jimmy raised a brow.

“Passed inspection, right? Shouldn’t be an issue.” He declared. Curly hummed, adding on; “Plus, they added Daisuke last minute.”

You perked up at hearing your boyfriend’s name, taking brief glances towards the two men beside you. “Didn’t account that there’d be six of us now. I only knew one more was coming, not two.” The captain tilted his head towards you before his head became straight once again.

“I really should have made a bigger stink about that.” He complained, regretting his decision to allow Daisuke on board. You were glad he did though. Otherwise, you probably wouldn’t have met him.

“Maybe you should intervene?” Jimmy suggests, referring to the mess inside the utility room. “Or we could just close the door.” He shrugged. “Your call.”

You and Jimmy kept away from the scene, staying in the doorway as Curly walked inside. “Well, I can see the issue.” He chuckled at the site in front of him. “The kid was brought on just to make me suffer!” Swansea had his arm crossed, the look of disappointment written all over his face.

“I was just trying to fix the vent! How did that trigger the emergency foam?!” Daisuke attempted to get free from his spot, only to be stuck in place. Swansea turned his head towards him. “Because you’re talented in all the wrong ways!” He argued.

“I would’ve dealt with this but only you can unlock the axe case.” Swansea grumbled, placing his hands on his hips. “Every goddamn thing has to go through you.”

“I’ll handle it. Hang in there, Daisuke.” Curly reassured him before walking to the ‘in case of emergency’ box that held the axe. He took out the code scanner, flashing the light on the black rectangle.

2609

He quickly put in the code, opening the case. He grabbed the weapon and walked back towards the two brunettes, ready to swing at the foam. A few seconds later, Daisuke was finally set free from the substance.

“Strong stuff, huh?” He ow’ed in pain but still tried to get a chuckle out of everyone. Swansea wasn’t having it though. “Get it through your goddamn skull! That vent is strictly off limits. Fully fucking collapsed inside.” He lectured. “You looking to get impaled, electrocuted and cooked?!”

You lightly smiled, knowing deep down Swansea does really care for Daisuke. But he just can’t show it. “Yeah, but like.. you can’t fit in there to fix it, right?” The whole room went silent, stunned at what just came out of his mouth. You instantly covered your mouth, eyes wide.

“So I can totally handle it-..” Daisuke gets cut off by Swansea turning to Curly. “Captain. Give me the axe.” He demands. “Swansea..” The dirty blond warned, trailing off. “This could’ve damaged the pods. You can’t let something like this happen again.”

You leaned against the doorframe, becoming bored from the lack of excitement. You drown the rest of the conversation out, waiting for Curly to be done speaking to the two of them.

Jimmy moved right beside you, arms at his sides. You twirled around strands of your hair, glancing at the man standing next to you. “Hi, Jimmy.” You muttered, your voice soft. He stared at you, nodding his head before mumbling, “Hey.”

You were honestly a bit surprised he even said anything back. Nonetheless, you give him a light smile, attempting to be sweet. It was short lived as Curly came towards the two of you and Jimmy opening his mouth to speak, ignoring you.

You rolled your eyes before blowing Daisuke a small kiss, making sure he saw it. You backed off, turning around and walked away from the utility room. You wanted a have a small chat about Jimmy to Curly, but he just seemed so busy. Along with that and the fact he’s always near him.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

author’s note

finally getting ready for angst!! I’m so ready to write how some people’s deaths impacts the reader. i can’t tell if i want a certain someone to be added into the mix yet or not..

fifth chapter will be up in a few days!! thank you all for the support, I appreciate it so much! and happy halloween!!! 🎃

bye for now<3

[crabsnpersimmons]

"Hair dyes or perms or just a quick snip, you can always count on your ol' pal Clip!"

it's about time i officially shared my design for Clip from my hairdresser au! here's the silly boi himself!

a.k.a. the most complicated character i've ever designed...

close ups and additional comments under the cut!

that's my boi, despite his crazy design, i love him. his silly top knot hat, the horn-like points around his faceplate, his speckled colours, his four arms, and his funky pants. he's just soooooo fun.

Clip likes to play games and knit! he even made the patchwork pants he wears (he made Sun and Moon a pair too, but they're too precious for them to wear... also a little gaudy to wear in public—doesn't stop Clip tho!). He actually makes everything the boys wear, since there's not a lot of things in their size/shape.

instead of resting at night, he can be found in their living room, playing Kirby 64 for the nth time and/or knitting something. he's just too restless to stay still, he's always gotta be doing something and if it isn't gaming, knitting, or hairdressing, then he's up to No GoodTM.

Clip... likes popping balloons. he says "Goodnight!" with each popped balloon and once he's done, he tosses up the scraps like confetti all while giggling joyfully.

needless to say, he is not fun at parties. Sun and Moon don't let him near balloons for this reason.

and yes, he has sewing needles on hand at all times. for fashion emergencies... and for unsuspecting balloons.

Clip's not allowed to have a phone (just imagine all the in-app purchases Sun and Moon would have to deal with), but he likes to keep up with his customers and their games, even if he doesn't get their fixation over bluenets he'll never openly admit it but he prefers curly-haired blond hunks that look sweet in soft pastels but could also squash him like the spider he is

also, he's great at microbraiding! though i imagine if Sun and Moon are free, they'd come help to shorten the wait but also to compete and see who braids the most (Clip always wins of course—make anything into a game, and he's winning)

aaaaand there's this! i wanted to make sure Clip would be able to freely rotate his waist so his arms could have their full range of motion, and this was the solution i came up with: a crop top on top and a wrap around his waist. and Clip here is being a sneaky little scamp about it.

[leth-writes]

Distance (Yandere tim drake x reader)

SUMMARY: Tim Drake is a fucking asshole, but at least you're moving.

WARNINGS: 18+ as always on my blog, though the work is safe for work. Typical yandere shenanigans.

MASTERLIST 

Requests are open!

“Have you ever noticed anything… weird with Tim?”

Your voice breaks the cozy silence that had fallen in Stephanie’s room. The blond looked over, face the picture of confusion.

“What do you mean?” Your other friend, Conner, asked.

“I don’t know, I just… Sometimes he’s kinda creepy, ya know? Like he knows more than he lets on. Like he’s looking through you, into your soul.” You explain.

Stephanie cocks her head to the side, pretending to think.

“I mean, he can be a lil’ weird, but I think it’s just cuz he was socially stunted growing up…” She hums. What could that possibly mean? You thought, confused. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it’s cuz of his parents; they like, left him alone all the time when he was younger.” Stephanie continues, turning back to her homework. She seems satisfied with herself.

“I-”

“Hey, maybe you’ll just have to ask Tim, he won’t bite, ya know.” Conner says, not even bothering to face you.

The three of you fell back into silence.

You liked your friends. You didn’t have much experience with friendship, especially growing up moving around constantly because of your dad’s job. You’d met Conner completely by accident; you just so happened to be going to the same school, he just so happened to be walking down the hall, you tripped, he caught you. The two of you hit it off after that. That had introduced you to Steph, and later to Tim, and just like that, you were no longer alone.

Conner was kind, despite his outward appearance. He had dark, ruffled curly hair and a slight southern accent, and he always wore his stupid black leather jacket, the one with the spikes on the shoulders. Sometimes he even wore a dark pair of sunglasses, even inside, like an asshole. Despite his arrogance and his snarky attitude, he was a good friend, defending you from the schoolyard bullies that had plagued your life.

Steph was in some ways, his polar opposite. She had long, slightly wavy blond hair, down to the middle of her back, and the most bright blue eyes you think you’d ever seen, the color of a cloudless summer day’s sky. She was boisterous, constantly laughing and joking around, a sharp contrast to Conner’s cool, calm demeanor.

TIm was an entirely different story. He was… Quiet. Weirdly quiet. It was the first thing you’d noticed, the first time you met him, sitting down for lunch next to Steph and Kon. They’d happily introduced the two of you, and Tim. Shook your hand. You’d never met another person who shook hands, except for uppity businessmen who treated you like a baby.

His eyes were a cold, cruel blue, almost grey. They stared into you, never leaving your form, even as you turned to talk to Steph. You could feel him staring, like he was trying to cut your skull open for a peek inside. You felt like a bad lab experiment every time his attention fell on you.

His hair was always perfectly mussed, like he’d spent the entire morning debating about where to place each strand, and his clothes were impeccably prepped. All in all, he looked more like a doll than a person.

It was creepy, off-putting. Despite all of that, you were in desperate need for friends, especially friends your own age, not your annoying little cousins that you were forced to babysit when your Aunt was away on vacation, which she seemed to always be.

You were willing to put up with him, if it meant being Conner and Steph’s friend. You weren’t willing to give up that first taste of freedom from your overwhelming family.

Even if you hated him.

Tim was perfect, was the thing. Any time you had a problem, he had a condescendingly offered solution. Homework troubles transformed from a normal, if slightly irritating, part of your life into an embarrassing and awkward time for Tim to show off his expertise. Conner and Steph, both seemingly prodigies in their own rights, didn’t have nearly the same problem as you. Sometimes, in fact, you felt like they had some sort of telepathy, reading each other's minds and knowing the answers before you’d even begun.

Tim was also the perfect child, as your parents were constantly berating you. He helped his family, Tim cared for the company his adoptive father would one day be giving to him, Tim had perfect grades, Tim was perfectly behaved. Everywhere you turned it was Tim, Tim, Tim. You couldn’t even escape him on social media. If he wasn’t peering out at you with those icy eyes from Steph and Conner’s feeds, he was staring holes into your skull through pictures of him accepting awards and attending important events.

As you got to know him, the disparities between the two of you only became more clear. He was annoyingly flawless, and you seemed to be built of nothing but flaws, at least according to most of your teachers and your parents.

The constant comparisons were grating on your nerves, and you knew that if you never saw Tim again, it’d be too late. The damage to your fragile self-esteem was already done.

Luckily, today, Tim had to be with his father for some stupid gala, leaving you to hang out with your two normal, non-superhuman friends, who would never rub their perfections into your face. Even if they had plenty of them. You knew the two of them toned down their gloating when you were around, and they were always trying to hype you up, to get you to brag about your accomplishments. To hear about it from them, you’d think you were the most talented person in Gotham, if not all of America.

You were pretty sure that particular award could go to Tim.

Everything was perfect, all three of you working on your own individual homework. Steph and Kon weren’t in the class you were working on. Tim, of course, was, and he was top of the class, as you were constantly being reminded. God, he was pretentious.

Everything was perfect, of course, until Tim walked in. Steph and Kon lit up, smiling and welcoming him in. His hair was, once again, perfectly tousled, and he had clearly changed back into his normal clothes.

“Ditching, pretty boy?” Kon teased, reaching over to ruffle Tim’s hair.

“Awe, don’t tease him, you know he’s a daddy’s boy,” Steph said, laughing.

Tim just batted Conner’s hands away, before turning to face you all.

“I got out of the gala early. My presence was unneeded.” He said, face completely blank. God, he even talked like a fucking robot. You turned away, rolling your eyes.

“Oh, are you working on homework? I can help…” He began, looking over your shoulder. You turned slightly to look at him, baring your teeth in what barely counted as a smile. “I’m. Okay,” you said, teeth grinding. Tim winced at the sight. “A-alright. I’ll just…” he gestured to where Steph and Kon had migrated to Steph’s bed, now painting their nails.

You finished your homework in record time and stood up, eager to just make an excuse and get home.

“Sorry guys, my parents must be worried… I have to get home,” you said, smiling tightly.

“Oh, it’s alright, you can stay. Your parents are still at the gala.” Tim said, not even bothering to look up from where he was concentrating on painting Steph’s pinky.

Shit. He couldn’t even let you leave in dignity, could he?

You gripped the handle of your bag even tighter and turned around. “W-well, still. They don’t want me out too late.” Steph and Kon nodded, saying their goodbyes with ease. Kon waved, his newly painted black nails shining in the dim light.

Tim simply. Stared at you. It’s like he knew you were lying. What a fucking asshole.

You left without another word.

The next day, your parents dropped a bombshell on you. You were all moving. Again. No amount of protest seemed to change their mind. The date was set and your house was sold; you had until the end of the week to say goodbye to your new life.

You, of course, immediately told your new friends. You hadn’t even known them for a month. You should’ve known this would happen; your parents would never let you be happy, and neither would the universe. The mood was solemn as you all sat around your designated table. Even Tim looked upset. More upset than you’d ever seen him, in fact, you think this was the first time you’d ever seen him show an emotion.

Steph looked over, eyes pitying. She squeezed Tim’s hand. What? Geeze, you were the one who was fucking leaving, and he’s the one who was getting comforted! He didn’t even like you!

Kon leaned over the table and grasped your hand, blocking Steph and Tim from your view.

“Hey, kiddo, you okay?” You simply shook your head, biting on your trembling lip. Sure, you didn’t like Tim, but you’d miss your friends!

“Is there any way to change your parents’ minds?” Steph asked as Kon leaned back. All hint of emotion was gone from Tim’s face. He couldn’t even pretend to be upset for the rest of lunch?

“No, no. They already sold the house…” You sniffled.

“Oh…” She said, looking down at the floor. You could hear the defeat in her voice, even as it wavered.

“Well, maybe you can come over tomorrow? One last hurrah, you know? We can spend the night together, do each other's nails, watch a movie…” She asked, voice hopeful.

You nodded. “Yeah, yeah. That sounds okay…”

“You’re crying.” Tim stated, voice cold and hard. Your hands flew up to your face, shocked to find tears slowly running down your cheeks. Fuck. Fuck him for saying something. You were fucking done. You were done! He couldn’t even pretend to care for a few minutes, and now he was mocking you?! You felt your anger boil up, faster than it ever had.

“Jesus, I’m sorry for fucking expressing emotion, not like you’d know anything about that!” You said, voice cracking. You slammed your hands down on the table as you stood up, grabbing your backpack and slinging it across your shoulder. Tim looked up, startled by your outburst, mouth agape. Steph and Kon wore similar gobsmacked expressions. If you weren’t so pissed, you’d find it almost comical.

Still, you were incandescent. You fled the room, rage boiling underneath your skin, masking the hurt you were burying deep inside.

You ignored Tim the rest of the day. As a consequence, you were unable to talk to Steph and Kon. The distance pained you, but you knew if you had to see Tim’s smarmy face, you’d punch his teeth out. Neither approached you alone, though they did shoot you guilty looks from across the classroom. 

The pain was the worst part. Tim’d been an asshole, he’d made fun of you for as long as you’d known them, and they were choosing him. Everyone always chose Tim; your parents, your teachers, the press… You were stuck in his shadow, doomed to never meet his fucking mold. You were done. You just couldn’t deal with it, not while losing your two best friends, the best friends you’d ever had.

Steph texted you that night, asking you to still come over. She’d assured you that Tim and Kon wouldn’t even be there. The knowledge that Kon was still choosing Tim was painful, but you could deal with it, just to see Steph that one last time.

So, you’d agreed.

The next day came with a fresh wave of grief, pouring off you in waves. It was exhausting, so exhausting that your parents asked you to stay home, concerned you would pass out and be injured right before the big move.

You’d agreed, and spent the day catching up on some much-needed sleep.

That evening, you waved goodbye to your parents, bag slung over your shoulder, and began the walk to Steph’s place. Her family was middle class, not as wealthy as yours, but still quite well-off. You had never seen either of her parents, but Steph assured you she had a very competent housekeeper to help her out when she needed an adult.

You were almost to her house when it hit you. What the fuck were you doing? You shouldn’t be doing this. You were being naive. You’d only known them a short while, they’d forget you in a week! It would be best to just turn right around and go home; that way, you’d be spared the pain of a slow, petering off relationship. You didn’t want to watch as they made new friends, replaced you, slowly stopped responding to your calls; you couldn’t bear the pain.

So, you turned around and walked right back home, not even bothering to text Steph. You’d call her at home, when you were safe in your bed, and you had the room to cry all you wanted and eat as much ice cream as you could handle.

As you walked home, shivering, you couldn’t help but look up. The bat-signal was up, projected against the cloudy night sky. If there was one thing you wouldn’t miss, besides Tim, it was the constant crime. The constant need to carry a gas mask or a taser, the constant preparation to be kidnapped or maimed or tortured. It was tiring, always being on edge.

You kept your eyes on the rooftops, hoping for a glimpse of one of the bats. You couldn’t help your slight fascination with them, despite the way your frie- former friends constantly laughed at you. Tim had looked weirdly smug after he’d wheedled you into admitting Red Robin was your favorite, though you thought the newest superboy on the scene was your favorite hero in general. You just liked his hair (and the way he reminded you of Conner).

It was only once you were back in your neighborhood that you noticed the feeling of being watched. You whipped your head around, looking every direction and clutching your taser. You couldn’t find anyone.

Shrugging it off as needless paranoia, built up over your stay in Gotham, you continued.

The lights in your house were off. The lights in your house were off, but your parents had promised they’d leave them on for when you got home. Did the fucking forget about you?!

You grumbled and stomped up the driveway.

The door was open. A sense of unease began to build, tension keeping your stomach in knots.

You slowly pushed it open, taser in hand.

The house was dark, and empty. Even the curtains were gone. You stepped further in, anxiety beginning to build.

“Mom? Dad?” You called, walking through the living room and to the stairs. You checked each room; each was as empty as the last, both devoid of any furniture, and your parents.

You made your way up the stairs, searching each room, all empty, until you came upon your room, tucked away in the corner away from your parents’ room. The light was on, shining through the cracks in the door and barely illuminating the dark hallway. You snuck closer, taser out and ready.

Finally, you were in front of the door, and you kicked it open.

Inside, your room was perfectly preserved, the overhead light shining down.

Sitting on the bed, head buried in his laptop, was Tim fucking Drake.

“Wha- Tim?” You said, tensed shoulders drooping.

He looked up and smiled, though it didn’t reach his stony eyes.

“Hey, come in.” he gestured to the bed. Confused, you wandered over and plopped down. 

He sighed and turned to face you.

“I’m sorry it had to come to this. I never meant to upset you, but I’m afraid it’s simply inevitable.”

You stared at him. “Tim, where-where are my parents?”

He sighed again, looking out the window.

“I thought we’d be able to avoid this. I thought I’d have time. I’m sorry it had to happen this way.”

“...”

He turned the laptop to you and clicked play on the video queued up.

On screen, your parents appeared.

“I know about the assistant.” Tim’s voice came through, tinny from the low quality of the   video.

“Wh- I don’t know what you’re talking about…” your father’s voice was shaky, shakier than you’d ever heard it.

“There was an accident, wasn’t there.” Tim.

“N-no. No!” Your mom, anger clear on her face.

“It only takes one push and the story gets out.” Tim, voice and face clear. His eyes were stony, glaring down at where your parents sat on the couch.

“We’re leaving town, it won’t matter. We’ll leave.” Your dad said, voice sure. He stood up.

“Sit down.” Tim commanded, and your father did, fear flicking across his face.

“It doesn’t matter that you’re leaving. The Daily Planet is an internationally renowned paper.”

“Please, that would ruin us, you can’t!” Your mom begged, tears springing up.

“What do you want.” Your father said, face stormy. You knew he was picturing hitting Tim, and you knew he was calculating the risk.

“I want you to leave, right now, and we’ll pretend nothing ever happened.”

“We will, we will! Just let me call my daugh-”

“No. Right now.”

“...” 

You could see the acquiescence, the relief, on your father’s face. He nodded, determination slowly creeping onto his features. Your mother just sighed and rubbed her forehead.

“And what of our things?”

“I’ll have them sent to your new address.”

“How-”

Tim just stared at your mother, face grim. She closed her jaw with a sharp ‘clack’.

The video ended.

You stared, speechless. Tim simply looked over at you, face blank.

“W-wh- I don’t… I don’t understand?” You said, voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, but when you said your parents were moving… I had to move quickly.”

You stood up and began walking, feeling as though you were pushing through cotton, like you were seeing yourself in 3rd person. You could barely hear Tim calling your name as you walked down the stairs, toward the door, slowly walking faster and faster. You pushed the door open hard, barely flinching as it slammed into the frame, and burst into a sprint.

You didn’t get far.

A red blur streaked through your peripherals before coming to a stop in front of you. There was superboy, staring at you with guilt in his eyes. No, not superboy. It was Conner.

Just like that, your heart fell. 

“No.” you said, voice shaky with disbelief.

“No!” you backed up, raising the taser. Conner moved closer, hands raised in placation. You flicked the taser on and let it connect with his side. He didn’t even flinch.

“Get the fuck away from me!” You shouted, dropping the taser and whirling around to run.

Arms like steel wrapped around you and picked you up. Suddenly, you were thrown over his shoulder, your vision upside down. He marched you back into the house, plopping you back on the bed where Tim still sat, the laptop on your nightstand.

Conner shot you another guilty look, standing guard by the door, his arms crossed over his muscled chest. You’d never noticed how buff he was; you guessed the jacket was there to prevent you from noticing.

You were crying in earnest now, tears running down your cheeks.

“Please,” you begged, voice cracking.

Tim looked at you, blew out a breath, and wiped your face gently, hands cool. He cradled your face, bringing it closer.

Gently, oh so gently, he kissed your forehead, then brought your head into his shoulder, as you continued to cry. He shushed you, patting your back comfortingly.

“Why?!” you cried.

He gave no answer.

Finally, your crying slowed, then stopped. You pulled away and wiped your eyes with your sleeves.

“You’re going to come with me. We’re going to go back to my place, and you’re going to meet the rest of your family.”

You looked up at Conner, pleading with your eyes. He looked away, grimacing.

“Tim, I- I don’t want to do that, I want my parents, you get that this is fucked up, right?!” You questioned, voice cracking.

“I’m sorry. I had no choice.”

[curated-tiktok]

OP: wizard_bisan1 posted: March 23 2024. link

visual description: Bisan, an arab girl with black curly hair, standing in the street wearing a hoodie. In the background there are four story tall buildings that are white. A couple people are walking in the background and some cars and horses are moving past. One of the cars is an ambulance with the flag of Palestine and the flag of Kuwait. Two red signs with white writing can be seen but the text is blurry.

During the video 3 different pictures are put up on screen. First a photograph of Muhammad al-Nunu. Later two from a news article about the israeli soldiers attacking, one showing the soldiers and one showing a brown tanks, there is text in Arabic. Another of three boys carrying a dead person.

transcript:

Hey everyone, this is Bisan from Gaza. It's the day 69 after hundred of the genocide and the day 13 of the holy month of Ramadan.

And it's the day six of the besieging and invading of Al Shifa hospital, attacking the hospital, the displaced people inside, the doctors and the injuries by the israeli army and the israeli soldiers, the israeli tanks and bulldozers.

So for those who don't know, people are either inside one building of Shifa complex buildings, without water, without food, without the ability to move anywhere or to get outside that building and to be executed.

And talking about execution today, Muhammad al-Nunu, he is a doctor. The israeli army executed Muhammad al-Nunu because he refused to leave the unit that he is working in and refused to leave his patients and preferred to stay to complete their treatment because a lot of the ICU, of the intensive care unit patients died, passed away because there is no electricity, there is no food, there is no staff, there is bombing and burning for the hospital utilities.

So he refused to leave them and he was executed. He was killed in front of the people, in front of the patients. This is what is happening now in Al Shifa hospital.

It is a hospital and this is happening to them.

Thousands of people, women, children and innocent men and civilians are stuck in a building, in Al Shifa hospital without food, without water.

They started to drink the hospital storage saline solutions. It's the only liquids that they have.

And no one is talking about that. No one, no media, not enough media, no government, no one is talking about this.

And this is not the only horrific thing that happened today in the north of Gaza Strip, by the way, today between ten to 20 people were killed by the israeli shooting on the liquid roundabout while they were waiting for their humanitarian aid.

They were waiting for food because they're starving to death. In the north of Gaza Strip, in Ramadan months, they were waiting for food and they were killed by the israeli army.

How many times we need to scream more about that?

The north of Gaza Strip is under attack like it was the first days of this genocide. Exactly.

They are brutally killed and bombed. It is a hospital with thousands of innocent people, medical staff, injuries, civilians, and they are starved - to death. They are without water, without treatment

They are bleeding in front of each other until the death. And everyone is out of the building executed by snipers or inside starving to death.

This is what is happening now inside Al Shifa Hospital now, at this moment, for six days.

transcript end

caption:

North updates, very important.. watch to the end.

[misctf]

My friend is such a stuck up jock, never indulging in fatty foods or beer and always watching his calories, can you show him whats its like to live a little and let go?

“Look, you need to get this thing off me!” Mike begged, pulling desperately at the bracelet around his wrist, “Seriously, bro!”

You were still staring at the jiggling mass of fat that hung over your friend’s waistline. Just a minute ago, his firm abs were on full display. But now? Now he was sporting a jiggly beer gut. His eyes filled with panic.

“I don’t think I can.” You replied, staring at the bracelet.

You barely remember how you came into possession of it. You and your buddies were down in New Orleans, celebrating Tom’s bachelor party. Mike was getting on your nerves though- constantly turning down beers, cigars, or any fun thing that went against his strict lifestyle. For fucks sake, it was a bachelor party. Would it have killed Mike to chug a beer with his bros? You recall drunkenly walking back to your apartment, but getting sidetracked in a pawn shop. And in your drunken state, you told the owner everything. How annoying Mike was being. How you wished he would stop being so judgmental. That you wish he could live a little and let go. And that’s how you come into possession of this bracelet. A solution to your problems, as the pawn shop owner said.

“But... It will come off in a week.” You reassure, “But in that time, anything you judge others for will be reflected back on you.” You believe that’s what the pawn shop owner told you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck...” Mike cursed as he poked his new beer gut, his finger sinking into the fatty mound, “This can’t be happening...”

Mike could barely believe what he was looking at. Years dedicated to exercise, healthy eating, and a strict lifestyle undone in mere minutes. All because he said Tom needed to lose the beer gut. For years, Mike sported a set of perfect abs and firm, clean-shaven pecs. His arms were toned and sculpted. His brunette hair perfectly styled. His perfect smile and hazel eyes could melt hearts. And while most of these remained, the large ball of flash that covered his abs felt totally unnatural and foreign to him.

“I need to go.” Mike said, “I need to go to the gym.” You told him that he shouldn’t, but he quickly grabbed his gym bag and left.

Mike wiped the sweat from his brow as he paused his treadmill run early. He couldn’t stand the feeling of his gut jiggling as he ran. Each movement reminding him of this new, unwanted growth. He placed a hand on it and bit his lip. Had it gotten bigger? He groaned and hopped off the treadmill, heading back to the locker room.

“Just a week.” He thought, “Will it even reverse though?” He thought dejectedly.

He entered the locker room, trying to calm his thoughts and made his way to the changing area. As he turned the corner though, he collided with another man, the two of them stumbling back. And when the shock of their collision subsided, Mike got a glimpse of the guy.

“My bad bro.”

“Yeah...” Mike wasn’t sure he ever saw someone so hairy before.

The man’s pits were overflowing with hair. His chest and back covered in curly, unruly hair. His beard long and thick. Mike wondered how someone could live like that. He always kept himself clean-shaven and he figured it helped show off his muscles. Too much hair was kinda gross. He watched as the man left and Mike quickly grabbed his bag. And as he passed a mirror, he froze.

“Oh my god...” Mike’s hand shot to feel the beard that now covered his face, “No way...”

The mess of curly chest hairs that rose above his collar made his stomach churn, and he lifted his shirt. As expected, his new gut now sported a thick treasure trail that traveled to his now hairy chest. Even his pits were filled with a forest of wet, musky, and tangled hairs. He quickly fled back to the apartment, slamming the bathroom door behind him.

“You good?” You asked, hearing the electric razor.

There was no response. And after a few minutes, Mike exited the bathroom. Your eyes widened when you saw your newly hirsute friend.

“The razor didn’t work...” Mike frowned, as tears threatened to fall, “I...”

“You’re staying indoors.” You say.

______

The next few days you barely see Mike. He barely left his room. You figured he was playing it safe. Besides, he had one day left of this bracelet curse. You hear him rummage through the fridge.

“Hey man.” You say, looking up from your videogame, “You good?”

He just glares at you, “I have a virtual work meeting.” He says, “See you later.”

Mike sits down at his computer, logging into the meeting. He forces a smile as people comment on his new beard. And as the meeting continues, he can’t help but wonder how some of the people even landed a job in business. Some of them were incredibly lazy and didn’t even try. He would even say some just didn’t have the smarts for it. Mike didn’t realize the impact his thoughts were having on him. His bright eyes dulled, and his mind wandered as the meeting progressed, no longer caring about the confusing numbers and figures on screen.

“Mike, do you have those figures we asked for?”

“Uh figures?” Mike asked, “Uh yeah, I think... let me see...” But he struggled to find them. And even when he did, he fumbled through his explanation of them. He could tell his boss was pissed.

“Mike, when you get back to the office, I’d like to talk to you.” He said.

Mike’s heart sunk. He needed this job. Yet, did he even care about it? It was so boring, right? The meeting ended and the young man groaned, ruminating on his performance. Yet, his thoughts felt somewhat slower. A text message broke his train of thought.

“Hey Mike,” Chad says, “A few of the guys are hitting the bar, you interested?”

Mike can’t help but wonder if that’s all they do- go to the bar and drink. Chad and his work buddies always seemed to go to the bar after work. It was kind of ridiculous.

“No, I’m good.” Mike replied. But as he sat there, he felt thirsty. Not for water or a protein shake. No...

“I could really go for a beer.” He mumbled, “Wait... no...” He continued, “I don’t drink...” But the thought of a nice cold beer at the bar seemed like a good idea, “Fuck it, I deserve one after all this shit. Not like it’ll make a huge difference.” He said, looking down at his gut.

He quickly changed into a more comfortable pair of clothes and headed out. You only realized he left when the door slammed behind him.

______

The bar next to your apartment was bustling. Apparently, there was a big event happening that night. But Mike couldn’t care less. He was just enjoying the ice cold beer, wondering why he ever gave the stuff up. And as he enjoyed his beer, he couldn’t help but overhear the conversation next to him. Two guys, who Mike assumed were gay, were rating guys in the bar.

“Dad bods are like totally in.” The one said, “I don’t care what anybody says.”

“Oh you’re so right, sis.” The other replied, “I’m so excited for the show tonight.”

Mike couldn’t help but chuckle. Dad bods? Really? Women were totally into his firm muscles and abs. The way they ran their hands down his firm muscles or rested their heads on his firm pecs. Yeah, whoever said dad bods were in must’ve been smoking something. Mike shifted as his pecs sagged slightly with more fat, while his toned arms and legs lost their definition. His back even widened slightly, giving him a bulkier figure. His face became rounder, a new double-chin hidden by his beard. Mike belched as he finished off his beer, scratching at his softer chest.

“Ladies and gentleman!” An announcer called out, “Welcome to our Pride Night!” He said.

Mike groaned. He just wanted a beer. Not a social justice lecture. Did they really need to make a spectacle out of this? But as the man continued to talk, Mike couldn’t help but pay more attention. As he talked about gay rights, Mike smiled. And when he realized the two gay men from earlier were checking him out, he grinned and gave them a wink. One walked over and grinned.

“Hey daddy.” He said, rubbing his hand along Mike’s hairy forearm. The feeling incredibly pleasurable.

“And now, give a warm welcome to our main event!”

Mike watched as several nearly nude men strutted out onto stage. A few entered the audience to interact with the crowd, while others walked over to the poles on stage and began their dance. The crowd was cheering, while Mike watched on with mixed emotions. Part of him found a growing attraction to these men, while another part was disgusted. Pole dancers? How desperate did you have to be?

“You could totally pull it off.” The guy said.

“You think so?” Mike said, the thought of pole dancing becoming more appealing in his shrinking brain.

And before he knew it, he was lifting his shirt above his head. He quickly pulled his pants off too, revealing his barely contained bulge in his tight underwear. The gay man next to him cheered and ran a hand through Mike’s hairy chest.

“Oh? What do we have here?” The announcer said, noticing Mike, “Come on up!”

And Mike did. Walking up to the pole and starting his dance. Not even noticing the bracelet fall off. The changes remaining in place. And as you entered the bar, having followed Mike, your jaw drops when you saw him. Dancing, drinking- his hairy body on full display. Not a care in the world. When the event finally winds down, you find Mike talking with a few of the other dancers. When he sees you, he grins.

“Hey hun!” He gushes, “Guess what?”

“Mike?” You ask, “I... uhhh....” You notice the missing bracelet.

“I got a job! Isn’t that great?”

You have so many things you want to say. So many questions you want to ask. But as Mike grabs another beer and chugs it, clearly enjoying this new life, your words are lost. And as he flirts with some of the other men, you sigh, grab a beer, and celebrate with him. The bracelet kicked under a table for someone else to find.

[hairloveindia]

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