#ghost-maker imagine

[pickedpiper]

Female Elsen: Ellens

[insidetheskinofthesun]

Please Like Me

by Minhkoa Khan

[Disclaimer: I have not read any comics with Ghost-Maker in them. This is largely based on reading tumblr posts about him.]

It can be strange, sometimes, to be me. I’m the wealthiest man in Singapore, for starters. Superheroes across America, and indeed the world, look to me as a visionary driving crime-fighting progress in areas from athletics, to technology, to just straight-up killing people without a trial or due process of any kind. The kinds of missions I do would blow most people’s minds. To the outside observer, I’m sure it seems like I have it all. And maybe I do. Although I’d like to make one simple request:

Please like me.

Please, for the love of all that is holy, consider me clever and interesting.

Honestly, I don’t get why anyone wouldn’t like me. I do cool stuff. I’ve got swords. People like swords, don’t they? I probably had sex with Batman. Isn’t that cool? Isn’t fucking the Batman something people like? Seriously, c’mon. Appreciate me. I killed Madam Midas. Your empire will crumble and history won’t remember your name, right? People hated that supervillain! I like to hang out. I microdose acid, a cool drug. Remember that time I went to Clownhunter’s shitty apartment and smoked that joint? Who else would be crazy enough to do that but me?

God, I’m lonely.

[swordsandholly]

Cherry Bomb - tattoo parlor au anthology

MDNI | poly 141 x fem fat reader | masterlist

Part 2: Piercings and Puns

“Pleeaaasse?” Johnny whines, pressing his hands together and giving you the biggest, sparkliest puppy dog look you could imagine.

You roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please! My two o’clock cancelled an’ I’m so bored!” He flops over the counter, arms dangling right above the appointment books. You pointedly ignore the size of his biceps.

“I’m not letting you pierce me just because you’re bored.” You scoff. “Now shoo, Simon’s got an appointment coming in soon.”

“But ye barely have any!” He argues. “All I’m askin’ fer is a wee ear. No’ even a nipple!”

A shocked amalgamation of a bark, laugh, and scoff forces it’s way out of you at that. “It’s still a no!”

Johnny groans, but at least moves away from the counter. Unfortunately, he takes the opportunity to circle around behind you, pinching the cartilage of your ear. “C’mon, ol’ righty’s beggin’ fer a conch.”

The intercom buzzes before you can respond. You swat Johnny away with one hand while pressing the speaker button with the other. “Hello?”

“I’ve go’ an appointment with Ghost.” A man’s voice drifts through. You blink dumbly for half a moment. You still haven’t gotten used to Simon’s social media and booking moniker - he doesn’t like giving his real name out much, apparently.

You buzz him in. Johnny is still hanging around the desk even when you leave to get Simon - making your way down the shirt hall to his studio. The large man stands in front of his stencil maker, back turned to you.

You knock on his door frame quietly. “Your guy’s here.”

“Be out in a moment.” He mumbles, focused on whatever he’s doing. You don’t really know the steps by heart, but you do know that there’s something so special about watching artists perform this repetitive song and dance. This rhythm they know by heart. Skilled hands enacting each step with careful precision.

He’s so hard to read. Big and bulky but calm as the night sea. You want him to like you, but you know badgering him certainly won’t get you there. So, you turn on your heal and head back out. When you return to the front, Johnny’s disappeared back into his room.

You suck your teeth and lean back in the desk chair, rolling your earlobe between your thumb and index finger. It’s not a bad offer, really. You only have two earlobe piercings on each side. Wouldn’t hurt to add a helix… you’ve also wanted to get your thirds done for a while. Work your way up. You glance at the clock. Simon won’t be done with his client for at least an hour or so, and you’ve balanced the registers for the moment. Both Kyle and John are out today, so they won’t need anything.

It wouldn’t hurt… well, not metaphorically.

With a sigh you stand, wandering your way to Johnny’s space. The door’s wide open, and his head snaps up the moment you step close like a sixth sense. “Takin’ me up on my offer, bonnie?”

You roll your eyes. “Guess I am.”

“Whit d’ye want?” Johnny practically skips around his station, pulling out wrapped, sanitized tools and placing them on a rolling tray. He pats the center of the padded table in the middle of the room.

“Uh, been wanting to do my thirds for a while.” You shrug. “If you have time for two.”

“Och, I’ve got all the time in the world fer ye, hen.” Johnny grins, pulling up in front of you and grabbing a marker.

He’s so close as he places the marks on your ears, warm fingers feeling for the best spots. A thumb traces the back of your left ear down just to the beginning of your jaw briefly. Fuck, he smells good. Warm musk with hints of citrus around the edges. The way he tucks your hair back, hands framing your face as he lines up the dots, is so oddly intimate compared to the other times you’ve gotten pierced. He chews at his lip in concentration, pulling at the scar on his chin while turning your head back forth a couple times.

“Think I’ve got it.” He grins and steps back. “Have a look.”

You take the mirror, casually checking but not paying too much attention. You trust him to do right by you. “Looks good.”

“A’right. Now the fun part.” He grins, tearing open the pack of tools and a two new needles.

“Is this fun?” You frown, squirming a little at the size of the needle.

“It’s always fun t’poke a pretty girl.”

You roll your eyes, a growing theme between you two it seems. “Oh, you thought that was real clever, didn’t you? Had that in your pocket a while?”

“Why donnae ye reach in an‘ check?” He murmurs, leaning close to clamp your left ear. You’re half tempted to tell him it’s mean to tease a fat girl like this - but you don’t think he means anything like that by it. He’s just a flirt by nature.

Before you can answer, he shoves the needle through your ear. You stiffen, a strained noise bubbling up out of your throat.

Johnny coos as he slips the earring into your ear. “One doon.”

“Uh-huh.” You sniffle. Not that it hurts badly, just a basic physical reaction. Johnny still gives you an empathetic smile.

The second goes quicker, Johnny locked in on his work. It’s interesting, seeing how intense they get. You Is it odd to wish someone would look at you like that? With that much focus and passion?

“There ye go…good girl.” He murmurs in that deep rumble that would have you squirming if you didn’t still have a needle through your ear. “Doin’ so good f’me...”

“You’re a devil, MacTavish.”

Johnny just chuckles, knowing full well exactly what he’s doing. He steps back to look at the final result after slipping the second stud into your ear. They feel hot - like two small ovens on either side of your head.

“If it weren’t for the piercings I’d think ye were blushing, hen.”

“You’re gonna get yourself slapped one of these days.” You scoff, sliding off the table.

“Wouldnnae be the first time.”

You find yourself rolling your eyes for the millionth time.

You grunt, squatting low in an attempt to pick the last of the parlor trash. It’s not that you mind, trash was part of your duties from the start, but holy shit do these boys put bricks in their bins? You’d think tattoos would make light trash. Especially after the sharps are disposed of separately.

“Solid?” Simon appears in the hall, eyes flicking over you. You still can’t tell how he feels about you. Neutral, you suppose. At least that’s all you can glean from behind his seemingly permanent black surgical mask.

“Ya.” You sigh, letting the bag drop and leaning back to stretch. “Just heavy. Swear y’all aren’t throwing rocks in these just to fuck with me?”

You give him a grin. Simon just cocks an eyebrow - exaggerated by the small piercing lining it. You think, maybe the slight shaking of his shoulder is a laugh. In combination won’t he crinkles in the corners of his eyes. Maybe not.

“‘ere.” Simon grunts, closing the short distance between you quickly before snatching up the bag like it weighs almost nothing.

You stutter, following after him toward the back exit. “You don’t have to-“

“Not a problem.” He grunts, tossing the thing over the side of the bin. He quietly leads you back inside, locking the door behind you “Johnny go’ you already?”

When you frown in confusion he points to his ears.

“Oh! Yeah.” You shrug, leading the way back to front desk to finish up your closing duties. “He’s insistent. I’d wanted them for a while anyway so I figured there’s no harm.”

“Give ‘im an inch...” He sighs, pointing to the black bar bridge piercing at the apex of his nose. “Somehow talked me into this shite.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah? I think it suits you.”

It really does. You can’t see most of his nose form under the mask but the arc of it leading up to bridge is strong, the piercing settling into the space nicely.

Simon breaks the silence. “You about done?”

“Almost. Just gotta check the ATM against the book real quick.” You nod.

He stares down at you for a moment, glancing out the semi-opaque window, now black with the night sky. There aren’t many street lamps on this side of town. You can only see a very faint glow from the one down by the car park.

“I’ll wait.” Simon settles his wide frame into Kyle’s usual chair.

“Oh! No you don’t have to! I’m sure you’re tired-“

“Wouldn’t feel right leavin’ you alone in the dark.” He cuts you off.

“It’s not a far walk-“

He scoffs. “Definitely not leaving you to walk alone.”

You sink your teeth into your lip, debating briefly on arguing. Based on his comfortable lean and crossed arms, it’s probably best to just let him walk you home. He looks so wide like that, veins prominent across his forearms. Fuck, you gotta find a boyfriend or booty call or something in this city. Anything to stop the temptation to stare at your hot coworkers.

It doesn’t take long to finish up your final chores. You turn all but one light off, wiring down from the bright overheads glaring at you all day. You glance over at Simon a few times while locking up the ATM, his covered face lit up by the light of his phone.

He leads you out of the shop once you’re finished, locking the door behind you and trying it a couple times to be sure. “Which way?”

“Uh, down here. It’s only twenty minutes.” You murmur, feeling guilty that you’ve kept him out extra late. You shove your hands in your hoodie pockets as you walk, the only sound on the street made up of your footsteps and some distant cars.

“What falls but never gets hurt?” Simon asks suddenly.

You frown. “Huh?”

“What falls but never gets hurt?”

You squint at him, trying to decipher anything from his face in the low light. You get nothing but a calm, warm gaze resting on you.

His eyes crinkle in the corners again. “Rain.”

“Pffft-“ You choke, caught off guard. “That’s such a lame pun.”

“Oh? I’ve got a better one.” Simon says, a smirk in his tone. “Why’d the mother clam scold her children?”

You chew your lip. God, you’re too literal to be clever enough for stupid puns and riddles. It doesn’t help that your head is spinning from this brick shithouse, incredibly attractive and intimidating man spitting popsicle puns at you.

“They were being shellfish.”

“Oh fuck off!” You shove at his arm playfully without thinking. He gives, let’s you push him slightly before you stiffen. “S-sorry! I don’t-“

“Nothin’ to apologize for.” The corners of his eyes crinkle deeper. Yeah, definitely a smile. You answer it with one of your own.

[i-upset-to-dead-65]

How I imagine Snow's progression of being reminded of Lucy Gray throughout the Hunger Games trilogy

1. Katniss volunteers. How cute. She has no chance of living past the bloodbath. Her name sounds familiar.

2. Katniss scores an 11 in training. So what she shot an arrow at the game makers. Well, that 11 will put a target on her and she's no match for the rest.

3. Peeta reveals he is in love with Katniss. What an interesting angle. Definitely some kind of ploy. Viewership will be up, as well as sponsors. Interesting to see how this plays out.

4. Katniss is trapped by the careers and Peeta. Aw, look, she dropped a hive on her boyfriend. Looks like she doesn't like him after all.

5. Katniss allies with Rue. Odd, and a terrible choice for an ally.

6. Rue mentions her pin, a mockingjay. The connection is made. Katniss, that swamp potato dug up by Lucy Gray and her mockingjays that still infest the districts. His dislike for Katniss grows.

7. Rue dies and Katniss sings the Meadow Song to her. A jolt runs up his spine. That old song, sung to Maude Ivory by Lucy Gray. It's still around in District 12 and now it's on national television. Snow knows how much the Capitol loves singing tributes.

8. The new rules are announced. This will be interesting. Of course, there's no way Peeta will live long enough for there to actually be two victors.

9. Katniss and Peeta are in the cave, and Peeta begins to recover. The huge influx of sponsored gifts is concerning. Katniss will hopefully die at the Feast trying to get medicine.

10. Peeta makes a full recovery. That wasn't supposed to happen, but the Capitol loves it.

11. Cato dies. Seneca didn't think they'd get this far. Time to revoke the rule change. Katniss will kill Peeta or vice versa. These children barely know each other, and in the Games they resort to their basic human nature of violence. Oh look, she's even pointing her bow at him.

12. The berries. The double victory. Seneca Crane is a dead man. They have outsmarted the idiot game makers. Snow is once again reminded of his cheating in order to help Lucy Gray win. How well that turned out for her in the end.

13. After the games. Snow is certain they are putting on an act to survive and meanwhile, defy the Capitol. Peeta is good with the crowd and is quick witted. So much like Lucy Gray. Katiss is impulsive and heartfelt. So much like Sejanus.

14. Snow learns Katniss hunts in the woods, he possibly traces her lineage, and he finds out everything he can about her. Snow takes measures to quell the rebellion brewing and control Katniss and Peeta throughout Catching Fire.

15. Katniss's wedding dress burns away into a Mockingjay dress. That damn bird again.

16. The force field gets blown out, and tributes escape. Snow recalls when the 10th Hunger Games arena was bombed.

17. Katniss's first propo is televised in the districts, declaring herself the Mockingjay. He should have killed all those birds when he had a chance.

18. The Hanging Tree propo airs. He'd almost forgotten Lucy Gray's songs. How could this girl, now, know them? The song was banned, Lucy Gray was dead. She was dead, right?

19. The rebels in District 5 sing the Hanging Tree while blowing up the damn. Chills run up his spine as he watches the live feed. A crowd of an indiscernable number flood the walkways to the hydro dam. They're singing a song they didn't know yesterday. A song no one knew until now. A song that was as dead as Lucy Gray. Except, she wasn't dead. How could she be, if her song is still sung? The dam blows and the lights go out in the Capitol. Snow half expects the ghost of Lucy Gray herself to appear before him.

20. The war is over. The Mockingjay has won. She appeared from nowhere, echoing the songs of Lucy Gray like the birds themselves. Well played, Lucy Gray. Well played.

[dazaiandhislovelybandages]

Hey could u do something about ghost being a dad to a son. I always see him as girl!dad but Icl I imagine him to have boys

Thank you xx

Just another day, just another night {Simon "Ghost" Riley}

A/n: ngl, I always see Simon as a girl dad too but he would be an amazing boy dad as well. Anyways, thank you for requesting and I hope you like it.

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Trigger warning: mentions of Ghost's past

Not once in his life had Simon thought that being woken up by a four year old boy jumping up and down on your shared bed would bring him joy.

He had returned last night and even though you had stayed up waiting for him after he called you as soon as he landed on the base, of course your son couldn't stay up that late. He had thought about asking you to wake him up just for five minutes but the thought was instantly scratched from his mind when he realised that putting him back to bed would be a nightmare.

Simon wanted to groan from how tired he was but didn't. He felt your body slightly moving next to him and he quickly opened his eyes, picked your son up in his arms and got out of bed. As much as he wanted to spend the entire morning in bed with just you and your son, preparing a small surprise breakfast for you seemed more appealing in his mind.

"Number one rule for being a proper man, buddy," Simon placed the tiny -compared to him- boy on the counter. Your kitchen was pretty small so he wasn't worried about him falling since Simon took up most of the space. "Always cook for your partner." He ruffled the boy's head and got down to work.

Looking at your son at first, back when he was nothing more than a baby in your belly, made Simon tear up. Would he even be a good father? Could he be a good father? Those two questions roamed in his brain, keeping him awake most if not all nights. But as soon as the baby boy was born and he held him the first time, all he could see was a spitting image of himself along with a few of your traits.

And soon enough, whenever Simon deemed that you needed to rest, which was technically everyday, he would pick up your son, head to the living room and turned on the tv. It wasn't until a few days later when you woke up from a nap and walked to the living room that you realised that Simon and your son were watching Premier League together.

It was a funny sight, your son curled up in Simon's arms happily waving his hands while your husband explained the rules to him. And now, four years later, your son would make you watch Premier League with him whenever Simon wasn't there and then he would call his father -only if the mission allowed some sort of communication- and they would talk about football. Not that the little boy's words made much sense but Simon understood him anyways.

"Waffles!" The little boy tagged on his dad's shirt. Simon stopped and looked at him, slightly confused.

"Did your mum buy that waffle maker?" He asked, raising an eyebrow. He was planning on buying you one as a small gift but it appeared as if you had bought one already. The small boy nodded. "Let's make waffles then."

[24hrsoda]

i love ghostbat as a couple but i also like to imagine them with a very complex relationship. one that traverses the line of normalcy in friendship but they aren’t in a relationship.

they’re extremely close, however, much to the dismay of all of bruce’s friends and lovers.

there is no such thing as privacy to either of them. no intimate moments with bruce that won’t be interrupted by khoa. they’re best friends and it’s everyone else’s problem because the second the two of them are in the room together it’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

one could be proposing to bruce wayne but the second ghost-maker shows up he is more absorbed in what khoa has to say than what else is going on at the moment.

[a-dauntless-daffodil]

You will not headcanon Charlie as wearing tap dancing shoes by default- yes I will

Fine. you are not imagining Vaggie the dancer being light on her feet and almost soundless when she prowls around in her flats- yes I am

The hotel guests are NOT being simultaneously tormented by the constant clicking of Charlie being heard clear across the hotel, and on the flips side, the constant jump scares of suddenly finding a glowering woman with a spear coming up noiselessly behind them-Yeasss the are~

Ok. so what does a hotel menaced by tap step charlie and soundless step vaggie LOOK like???

Alastor's the best at hiding how freaked out or annoyed he is, but not enough to keep HIMSELF from noticing how he clutches his microphone in a death grip whenever Vaggie suddenly slips silently past him spear first- Charlie's tapping is worse tho, hours later he'll be up in his BLESSEDLY sound proof radio tower and somehow STILL hear that INFERNAL tapping again anyway, and then he looks down, and it's own hand tapping on his sound board, and for the one millionth time he wonders if this is all really worth slowly losing his sanity over

Niffty times her kills to the sound of Charlie's distant tapping and when she gleefully tells Charlie about this at some point Charlie almost starts crying over the dead bugs. A few times Niffty's caught sight of completely noiseless Vaggie out of the corner of her eye (heh) and the two ended up crossing spear / needle point on reflex. It becomes a kind of friendly greeting for them after a while. Sometimes they even fence each other for a bit while parkouring / scuttling over the furniture. Charlie caught them doing this once and was Not Pleased (but it's for FRIENDSHIP so...)

Pentious likes Charlie's tapping and clickedy clicking. He hums and bobs his head along to it while working on his next totally not a destructive weapon machine, sometimes while the egg boiz do a little dancing the background between handing him things. Vaggie's silent patrols left him literally scared stiff at first but then they started to feel reassuring and by the end he's reaction to getting jump scared by her is to snap into a crisp salute and stay like that until she moves on

Angel Dust pretends to like Charlie's tapping just to annoy Husk. Husk knows it's bullshit but is usually too run down from his current hangover to really argue effectively, and for all that yelling at his dumbass crush hurts his head it at least downs out the damned tapping- which is what Angel was aiming for anyway. Neither of them EVER get used to Vaggie haunting the hotel like a silent spear carrying ghost. Swearing or shrieking are how they handle Vaggie encounters when alone- mutual clinging and terrified hugging is what happens if she spooks them when they're in glomping distance of each other. Vaggie will never let them see how she smirks as she slips away afterwards. Vaggie might be hunting them specifically, on purpose, just to trigger more vaguely romantic haunted house huskerdust moments. it's solidarity. probably. partly, anyway

Charlie does get jump scared by Vaggie sometimes (re: ep 1) but the switch from "heart pounding due to shock" and "heart pounding bc she looking at her gf <3" is very smooth and Charlie kinda loves the happy adrenaline rush of sudden girlfriend appearances, which is why Vaggie never tied noise makers or bells to herself, which she offered to do once after spooking Charlie but no, Charlie thinks being gf haunted is cool and FUN

Vaggie loves that Charlie's shoes make the tapping sounds. She loves being able to stop whenever she wants and listen and either know exactly where Charlie is in the hotel and her current mood (stiff anxious pacing / happy skipping / thoughtful foot tapping / actual excited dancing / literal giddy tap dancing), or, if things are too quiet, that's Vaggie cue to pause what she's doing and go check on her suspiciously silent gf (just in case charlie is Sad)

Cherri Bomb's reaction to all this is explosive. as in, she mistakes charlie's tapping for the ticking of one of her bombs and runs around trying to find it while it seemingly also runs around the hotel just head of her, usually ending in Cherri throwing a bomb in frustration (she was just trying to make a short cut she SWEARS), or Vaggie surprises her at just the wrong time while she's working on a bomb in the hotel lobby (it's a communal area ok she should be allowed to do her hobbies there as long as she cleans up afterwards- plus there's more room in case of a blast radius) and yes, if Vaggie startles her, there usually IS. A blast. Radius. along with quite a bit less lobby left over afterwards

[evilminji]

Okay, you know how City Spirits are a thing?

And Superheros both Die, Un-Die, Re-Die, Dimensionally Sorta Maybe Die But Then Don't, and also never Died in the first place? And probably do at least a portion of that in Medical? While ALSO hanging out, quantumly maybe Dead, maybe alive, in their Super Cool Clubhouse?

Which is ALSO exposed to space rays, the entirety of The Magic Club, weird alien Technology, aaaaand whatever they decide to store on it??

:T

I'm just SAYING...

For as long as dwellings Of Significance have existed, there have been house spirits. They are the IDEA of the house. The SIGNIFICANCE of it. What makes it HOME. The weight of the halls that turn into Halls. And The Watchtower? Is KNOWN to enough people, to have SIGNIFICANCE.

It's a HALL where Heros Live. A Place Of Safety. It GAURDS.

It is also inanimate. Steeped heavily in every sort of energy, be it magic or science, and multidimensional fuckery imaginable. But? Not SENTIENT. Yet.

Until of course... this new fangled Anti-Ghost Shield comes out. By the new and recently no-longer on the run (from the Goverment they're at war with) Dr.'s Fenton! Why were they are war? Don't worry about it!

They Won.

:)

Unrelated! Never threaten their kids. They WILL find you. Not a threat, just informing!

:) :)

The security guy they sent to the expo was from Gotham, unfortunately. So he found the couple to be completely normal. They? Should not have sent Thomas. He was hired BECAUSE his parents were Mad Scientists in the making. Batman was steering him away from a life of crime. Thomas could judge "normal" from "deeply unhinged" if it belly danced infront of him, in the seduction dance of a thousand, deep fried, mackerel.

It's his version of face blindness. Great with technology though! And the shield worked a treat. Even promised to be both ethical AND programmable! Not harming the ghosts it pushed out unless they try to force entry AND allowing them to program in exceptions. Allowing Heros such as Deadman to freely enter!

Is it a little janky looking? Yeah. But if it works, it works. They add it to the systems and flip it on.

One small and immediate problem. There is now a small knight shaped child in the engine room. She was NOT there a second ago. She has controlo of the ENTIRE Watchtower, claims to BE the Watchtower, and knows all their names. Knows a disturbing level of information about every employee on the Tower.

Oh and apparently "No one is leaving."

No one panic! Just unplug the... she has swallowed the ghost shielding unit into a wall. Slightly panic.

Panic lite.

Luckily, no one is willing to throw the first punch at what appears to be a small child. So the JLA Dark have a chance to literally run over.

They demand to know who's bright idea it was to add... "ectoplasm"? Was THAT the energy source? Oooh. Their departments probably in trouble. Later though, the hero's are trying to negotiate with a small child. Who is apparently a ghost.

It's not SAFE, she's insisting. Everyone has to stay HERE where she can protect them. From the nebulous threat of Bad Guys. They LEAVE and come back HURT. She is UPSET and everyone is going to STAY! Forever!

Not good.

Then Thomas pipes up, like the oblivious asshole he is, that he should PROBABLY call the engines makers. They did mention something a long these lines might happen.

WHAT.

You think, Thomas? Might be a good idea, maybe? Just a bit? YES FUCKING CALL THEM!

(All right, all right! No need to YELL! *ring ring* 'Ello? Maddie? Sorry to catch you at dinner-)

So now? There is a glowing college student, who was escorted here by a WEREWOLF, who just? Tore open reality? To some green, swirling hellscape? And popped through like "sup, sorry I'm late. Was in a council meeting!" And judging by the ficking CROWN and the various quietly panicking magic users, he probably didn't mean student council, and just?

Guess he's hear to talk to their newly sentient Tower.

Question! Asks Thomas, of the fucking Ghost King because of course he does, are they Dads now? Or if they already have kids, Dads AGAIN? Do they have to come up with a baby name?

.......oh dear lord, the Ghost King looks like he has to think about it.

What are we gonna tell our SPOUSES!? "Hey honey, guess what I got at work today! A NEW CHILD. They're a space station!"

@hdgnj @nerdpoe @ailithnight @the-witchhunter @hypewinter @mutable-manifestation

[pickedpiper]

Normally I talk about headcanons I’ve seen from other people or just make one up as like a way to ask a question but there’s one headcanons I’ve come up with on my own:

Vader’s hair can curl up on its own whenever she’s upset, the hair is completely straight by default and she can change her tentacles into hands whenever she wants

[faeriekit]

Things Long Gone

for a phic phight prompt from @armed-with-knitting-needles

Edward Lancer woke up the same way he did every morning.

He rolled out of bed. Brushed his teeth. Changed into a button-up and a tie, and slacks he wouldn’t hate throughout the course of the day.

He made his coffee like he did every day: he stuck his thermos under the machine, waited with a slice of toast until the coffee maker stopped pouring, and capped it in one smooth motion that shook its contents until everything was relatively mixed inside. No sweetners. No sugar. No milk.

Great. Ed went to grab his keys…

…His keys weren’t on the hook.

He blinked, hand frozen in its attempt so reach what wasn’t there. His. Where were his keys? He’d had them yesterday.

…He was pretty sure he’d had them yesterday. Hadn’t he gone to see Lizzy and the new baby? His sister had been so excited to show Charlotte off to her new uncle. Ed had been excited to go.

…Whatever. Amity Park was relatively walkable; as long as he dashed, he could get there in time.

So, off he jogged, into the hot, early morning, sweating and puffing as he went.

*

Ed made to the school entrance just as the bell rang for first period. He sighed, struggling for air—but at least he’d be able to swap in for Mrs. Keppler’s math course this morning. Man, he felt as if he’d run every class at this point. They might as well make him the—

Something invisible SLAMMED into his face.

His nose crunched. Ed swore in every classic title he knew, stumbling back and grabbing at his nose—ugh, and his fingers were coming away wet. He had to go see the nurse, or, more likely, the hospital. He was later than ever, but he’d have to—

He tried for the door again. Again, something stopped him.

…Ed frowned. He rapped against the invisible boundary with his knuckles. It was probably ghosts, again, but this was unusually…static. Benign?

“Ed, good heavens! What happened to your face?”

Ed turned around, nose slowly beginning to swell up in his hands as Ms. Cathleen Rylant stalked up the walkway to the school. “G’Morning,” he grunted, unable to summon the capacity for proper pronunciation. “I…seem to be blocked from getting into the building.”

Cathleen frowned. Her shoulder bag was pulled higher onto her thin, elderly shoulder: a nervous gesture. “I’m sorry to hear that, Ed! Is there anything…”

“Do you mind testing it for me?” Ed tried, carefully cupping the blood he could feel from dripping down onto his dress shirt. “If it affects you, or is unique to me…”

There were a few ghosts that targeted individuals. Ed had some surety that the genie ghost had gotten him to ‘call out from school’ today—there was a text today, and he would not put it past

“Got it,” the elderly science teacher offered sweetly. Cathleen was a gift, truly. “Was it…?”

Ed smacked a hand against the barrier. There was no visible sign of it—no distortion, no ripple, no change in color.

“Got it.” Cathleen—and her much more fragile bones—carefully put a hand out, expecting to be able to put her weight on it.

She just barely caught her balance before falling onto the concrete step. Ed reached out a hand to help her, and, of course, ended up with bruised fingers for the trouble. He swore.

“Huh,” she said. “…Well, I’m late for first period anyway; want me to tell Yuuko what’s holding you up?”

Ed sighed. He reminded himself that informing their principal would be best, considering the circumstances… “Yes, please. Thank you, Cathleen.”

“No problem, Ed.”

And Edward Lancer sat on the front step of the school, back leaned against nothing, and waited to see what could be done for him.

He took his hand away from his nose to reach for his coffee.

…His blood wasn’t red.

Ed’s blood went cold.

Wait. Why had—

—Screeching tires, metal SLAMMED into its final place, snapping, cracking, the lights cutting out, a choked last breath—

…Ed’d had his car yesterday. Why didn’t he have it this morning?

“I’m imagining things,” Ed muttered to himself. He wiped the green blood onto the back of his clean plants and resolved to wait for Principal Ishiyama.

*

Mr. Lancer was still outside the school by the time lunch rolled around.

“So he’s just…hanging out?” Sam asked around a mouthful of vegan-and-cruelty-free sushi, staring from their place under the tree at their teacher and his crowd of educational professionals.

Danny shrugged. He swallowed a bite of ham-and-baloney. “Looks like,” he observed. They watched as Mr. Lancer proved, again, that no matter how hard his middle-age-professional bulk heaved and pushed, there was no getting past the entryway into the school.

“…Huh.” Sam took a second bite. Across the yard, Mr. Lancer slipped on the invisible barrier, and everyone got closer to help pick him off the ground. “Any idea why this is happening?”

Danny put his sandwich down. He didn’t say anything.

Sam turned to look at him. “Danny?”

“…I saw an accident on the way home with Dad last night,” Danny offered quietly. He picked a little speck of nothing off of his sandwich. “The two cars were bent in half at the bottom of the ravine. There were rescue trucks and police all over the other side of the highway; cars were backed up for like four exits behind it. One of the cars looked like Mr. Lancer’s gray crapbox, but it’s not like I could get a good look…”

Sam went quiet. Danny stayed quiet.

They watched as Mr. Lancer explained, again, for the nineteenth time, that he couldn’t get into the school, and didn’t know why.

“…Oh,” said Sam. She set her chopsticks down.

“Mmhmm.” Danny swallowed. “Uh…looks like Mom’s updates on the ghost shields are working, though.”

“No kidding,” Sam echoed absently.

Eventually, lunch was over. When they went back inside, half-eaten lunches packed back up to take home for later, the distant figure of Mr. Lancer was still outside the school door, hoping to be let back in.

[olahelal]

Hello everybody ,

I really appreciate your last help and need for you to be beside me till end.

It is the right time for you to do good , All of you know the results of the genocide war on Gaza ,which stall every dream we had stated away .

I lost my home ,every thing is destroyed by Jewish army and had been stealled.

My daughters are suffering, my second daughter Razan was born with one kidney and she is sensitive for nonclear water and needs for private nessisities ,there are noo food to be eated in north Gaza were my family live.

Can you imagine that my little girl Yara she have 3 years only ,she still remember the Jewish soldier with his gun directed to her face directly,she still cried everynight she remember them.

Every sent you donate has big effect for my family .

Please make your efforts for help my family and arrive my goal to bring them to me a abroad.

Thank you very much.

For more details show this post:https://www.tumblr.com/olahelal/757165747900432384/donate-to-help-me-save-my-family-and-bring-them-to

For GoFundMe link directly:

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[sant-riley]

AAAAAAA IDEAAAAAAAAAH

Hi! I'm new here! I've come to bombard you with the idea of a parent of the reader's(most likely dad) showing up to the base out of nowhere.

Secret admirer,

-🐍

Omg I have my first ever emoji anon, Hi!! And yes absolutely I love this. I'm gonna try and be neutral with the parent in question so it's open to anyone :)

P.S idk how I used to format this shit I'm not checking Lmfao

[Task force 141 reacting to your parent/s showing up out of nowhere to visit]

If we're taking into account that this Simon and the og Simon have the same backstory,, its safe to say he doesn't have fond memories of his dad, though he has some for his mother.

Depending on your relationship between you and your parent/s, Ghost is either gonna point blank tell them they're not welcomed here. While Price IS above him, he isn't afraid to pull the intimidation and rank card to get them to get the hell out of there. Ghost was abused by his dad, God fucking forbid you were EVER treated poorly and he finds out.

However, even if your parent is kind, he still is uncomfortable by them being there. It makes his chest feel heavy watching you interact and it just brings up bitter memories he much rather not think of, so he won't linger around and instead go to the gun range and wait it out. He cares for you, and unfortunately, it won't ever really transfer over to your parents. Best he'd do is a stern nod and be on his way.

Soap, however, is very happy to introduce themselves and your parent swoons over his accent and likes him immediately, even if they're not the greatest of parents, Soap will make it a point to put his best foot forward and ask them if they'd want a tour.

If your mom is present she immediately likes him and isn't afraid to give you a look with an eyebrow raise saying "why aren't you dating him?". Don't get me wrong, though. He's not afraid to make smart comments and then joke it off. He's protective but not in your face kinda way.

He's definitely the type to sigh with relief when they're gone, complaining about small things he disliked about them to you openly (a lil bit of a hater but his mom raised him to not be rude to his elders okay.)

Doesn't matter who your parents are, Price intimidates them. He's the captain, and from what you've told them, he is extremely good at his job and he's a no nonsense leader, but you also mention that he's kind and he'd never leave one of his own behind.

Price talks EXTREMELY highly of you, he isn't afraid to clasp a hand on your shoulder and smile that stupid smile of his while he looks down at you in admiration.

It'd be most likely that he himself would have invited your parents without your know how, he has the ties and the authority but trust and believe if you expressed any discomfort with it, he'd rectify it and send them on their way.

Your parents may not like how particularly you close you are with such an older man but it's obvious he cares so much for you and your safety, so they take peace in that.

Gaz is probably the most easy going out of the 4, casually making conversation and if your parents are the type to play match maker, he's their #1 choice I'm not sorry, it's the truth.

Gaz sings your praises, mentioning time and time again that you've been such a good help on base and a good comrade and friend and he will thank your parents for raising you. (Imagine him taking off his hat and holding it to his chest or tipping it what if I swooned)

You KNOW he's invited to family dinners if he's ever in the area, or if he has no plans for the holidays, he's welcome at the family home. (You tell him later that he doesn't need to feel pressured but he just ruffles your hair and asks what kind of alcohol your family prefers)

[brabblesblog]

𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖇𝖊𝖗 𝖞𝖊 𝖓𝖔𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖋𝖔𝖗𝖒𝖊𝖗 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘.

Chapter 16: What's left of kisses? Wounds, however, leave scars.

A sequel to Whither is thy beloved gone? (AO3)

After the events of ‘Whither is thy beloved gone?’ Lord Astarion Ancuńin and his consort wife navigate their relationship anew. The ghosts of the past - his, hers, and theirs - threaten to unravel everything they’ve worked for.

Astarion and Ban attend the debutante's ball.

Professionally edited and collaborated on by my dearest friend <3 @editing-by-night

Read on AO3.

Masterlist

Art by Naaty

For a smutty render go to the AO3 link :P

She sat at the table, watching the debutante pass by. Corrinne glided by in a massive pink tulle gown - a showstopper, for sure, Ban thought - a gaggle of her friends trailing behind her.

The party hadn’t been too bad, all told, the food decent and the wine palatable. Astarion had disappeared sometime during the proceedings, arm in arm with Meiros. She’d been introduced to the master of the mirror-makers’ guild, had shaken his hand and smiled politely, but the man had seemed keen on holding negotiations with her husband alone. Astarion had shot her an apologetic look and left, but hadn’t protested at all, which was odd.

It was not an uncommon occurrence - some of the people they dealt with did not mind having her present, but inevitably some did. The first time someone had asked for Astarion to keep his spouse waiting outside he had seethed, about to launch into a tirade, when she had grabbed his wrist and told him to just go along with it - it would be quick, and it would be easier than offending someone they needed to cozy up to.

He had given her a long-winded talk that evening. She sipped her glass, smiling ruefully at the memory.

“What is the point,” he thundered, “of all this effort to mark you as my equal, if at the first sign of resistance you give in?”

She watched him tug off his shirt, tossing it away with a little more venom than he normally would. “I just think that some of the time we have to let them have their way. Easier than arguing and potentially losing out on-”

“I don’t care!” Astarion marched to her, placing his palms on the tub and leaning over where she was soaking. “We are to be wed soon. I would not have those morons think you’re…” he gestured with a hand, “you’re still some…”

“Consort? I mean, we still do use that term, at times.” Not in private, not in most circumstances, but in certain circles, yes.

He exhaled. “Consort, fine, when we must. Some plaything of mine, absolutely not.” Crimson burned into her, his anger evident, with lingering traces of guilt as well. She covered the hand grasping the tub with her own.

“Consorts can wait outside for their lords, Astarion, every once in a while. It’s fine.”

He deflated, eyes softening. “I’d still want to at least insist on your presence being invaluable to me.”

“If those people want me out of the room, saying so would merely make you seem weak.”

Astarion tugged off his trousers and underwear, grumbling to himself. He stepped into the tub and sat down, still glaring at her. “I’ve half a mind to invite whoever asks that of me to a party, lock all the doors, and…”

He let the thought sit, a small smirk dancing across his lips. She laughed. “Do that, and we’ll have all the nobles of Baldur’s Gate on our tails. Don’t.”

“The request you plan to make, if you do make it, can easily be done,” Meiros said, tapping his hands on the mahogany desk he was seated at. Astarion was pacing back and forth, rubbing his chin. “If I understand correctly - this is for your wife, is it not?”

“Which is why I asked you to request to meet me alone,” Astarion answered.

Meiros nodded. “Roderich hasn’t been the most active member the past few years, something his fellow guildmates and I are frankly pleased about. When I found out you were marrying a Glasscraft, I had assumed I would never see you outside my door, so imagine my surprise when you showed up.”

“And I suppose no one has seen any Glasscraft other than Roderich himself?”

“You’d be correct. There was only ever him. Oh, he used to say he had a loving wife at home, and two wonderful children to take over his business, but,” Meiros shrugged, “as I said. He stopped showing up to guild events. He’s still well-known, of course, with his gaggle of old, loyal customers, but we all assumed he was working on some new secret method or some such. When I heard about Barcus’ advancements in the mines, I thought Roderich might have already gotten his hands on that material.”

Astarion stopped pacing to lean on a chair, hands wrapped around its back. “Last time I purchased a mirror from him he was still harping on mercury being the best.”

“Then he is woefully behind.” Meiros stood up. “Well. If you do wish to push this through, I would be more than delighted to fulfill your request. I’m sure most of the members would have no complaints, either. A pleasure doing business with you, Lord Ancunín.”

The men shook hands.

Ban saw the side door open and Meiros walked in, followed by Astarion. The talks seemed to have gone well; they were chatting animatedly. She watched as he waved his daughter over to be introduced. Corrinne flounced to her father’s side, or at least attempted to - the rather large skirt bumped people’s legs as she passed - and finally arrived in front of the two men.

The girl’s eyes widened as she took in Astarion, and Ban smirked inwardly. He kissed Corrinne’s hand and her face flushed beet red. Ban leaned back, enjoying the show, sipping her wine absently; with Astarion’s mind unlinked from hers, it merely tasted dull.

It was fine. She knew her husband was accustomed to shallow admirers, and Ban was used to people who’d look at him, look at her, and deem her unworthy of him - just like Corrinne was doing now. Ban caught that furtive glare aimed her way, the quick up-and-down movement that told her the girl was sizing her up and found her lacking, and the satisfied grin on her face as she turned back to Astarion. Nothing new, nothing surprising, and nothing he couldn’t handle.

She found herself scanning the rest of the room, more than a little bored. She noted Meiros talking to another guest, gesturing towards Astarion. Likely he was discussing whatever their meeting had been about. The other guest looked intrigued, and Ban pondered again what her husband could be up to with the guild. She continued her visual roam around the party, finding nothing else of note taking place.

As her eyes made their way back to them, her husband’s eyes locked onto hers, and she raised her glass in greeting, amused. She was about to lean back and continue watching when she realized that Astarion hadn’t moved - was frozen, in fact. The pinched eyes, that slight part of his lips, and the furrow of his brow told her all she needed to know. In the same instant she recognized it, she felt his mind prod hers.

There were no words, just a flash of memory - from mere seconds ago, gauging by the expression on his face.

Corrinne laughed, bending over to do so, making sure Astarion received an eyeful of her rather ample bosom. She grabbed his shoulder. “Oh, sorry, Lord Astarion. I didn’t mean to. It’s just these shoes…” She made a show of falling off-balance, likely a little more drunk than she ought to be, and he automatically caught her elbow to steady her. The size of her skirt meant that to do so Astarion had to lean in somewhat, and she took the opportunity to step closer to his body, the skirt bunching up between them.

Meiros had already walked away, talking to a passing guest. Corrinne shot Astarion a coy look; Astarion - and through him, Ban - felt her thigh press between his legs, hidden by the voluminous dress. Corrine ran her hand from his shoulder to his neck - Ban felt him shiver - and then dragged her nails down his chest to his hip. The thigh pressed against him harder. “We could sneak away for a few minutes, handsome,” she purred. “I don’t think your wife would mind.”

The effect was instantaneous. His thoughts flicked through old, haunting memories, his grip on her tightening incrementally. There was a boiling rage, a near-overwhelming urge to snap Corrinne’s neck - held back solely by the fact that he needed to be in Meiros’ good graces and the presence of the countless guests at the party.

“I am not interested,” he ground out, a sneer pasted on his face, “regardless of whether or not she would mind.”

Ban felt his impotent rage shifting into panic, held at bay and hidden behind the veneer of his cold dismissal. His breathing hitched, pulse picking up, posture stiffening; something that Corrinne seemed to have interpreted as interest, despite his words. She kept talking.

Ban’s eyes snapped back to him. He was still staring at her, expression blank, holding Corrinne’s elbow while she chattered away. Ban’s hand instinctively closed around the hilt of the sword she wasn’t carrying, bile rising in her throat. She felt warm all over, enraged, but in a way she’d never felt before. The feeling was completely foreign and it took her utterly by surprise, but it also felt like it was something that had always been a part of her, lying dormant until this moment.

She stood up.

As she began cutting her way through the crowd, Meiros wandered even further away, heading for the guest’s table. Thanking the gods for that small blessing, Ban reached Astarion’s side. She cleared her throat, leveling a searing glare at the vapid young woman and then at her hand, still caressing Astarion’s hip. “Kindly take your hand off my husband, if you want to keep it attached to your body.”

Corrine looked down at her, nose wrinkling. “You must be Missus Ancunín,” she said, offering a dainty hand, the same one she’d been touching him with. She had not backed away from Astarion, her body still pressed against his.

Ban did not take the proffered hand. “Indeed I am, and that’s my husband you are clinging to. How… unbecoming. You must be drunk, so I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt,” Ban replied coolly, “because I assume, were you in control of your faculties, you wouldn’t dream of offending your father’s guests in this manner. I’m quite sure your father would take a very dim view of you accosting his business partner with that thigh, Corrinne.”

She blanched, blinking furiously. “I- um…”

“Put your leg down, and take a step back. Unless you want me to either tell your father you’ve just groped a married man, who has important business dealings with him, or you want to wake up bloodied and broken on this ballroom floor. Either way,” she smiled pleasantly, “I’ll be the one going home with him. He is not yours, Corinne, and never will be.”

Through it all she could feel Astarion slowly calming. He slipped his hand away from Corrinne, trembling ever so slightly. As Ban finished speaking and Corinne stepped back, he finally moved, taking a step towards her.

Ban took his hand. He seemed to look at the ring on her finger for a long moment, then turned to the debutante. “Corrinne. Have a wonderful evening.” The words were completely devoid of emotion, and Ban felt a chill run up her spine.

She linked her arm through his and led the way, him trailing silently. Ban searched for somewhere private to take him. She spied a door, slightly ajar, and made a beeline for it, slipping in and shutting it behind them the moment they were inside.

It was a small study, and she immediately located an armchair. Her eyes returned to her husband’s face. He looked lost and a little scared; his eyes were blank, as if he wasn’t even in there.

“Are you okay?”

He blinked, then his expression snapped into one of chilly indifference. She noted it, the way his jaw clenched and was forcibly relaxed. “Fine,” he said, the falseness clear as day. He tugged at his sleeve. “That was nothing new. I’ve had my fair share of advances, and that was one of the most amateur attempts I’ve ever seen - to be expected of course, given her youth. One would ideally press their thigh in a grinding motion, not ram it straight up,” he scoffed.

She guided him towards the armchair. “Sit, Astarion.” He did so, but his mouth kept moving, a desperate attempt at feigning nonchalance.

“Of course I could have simply told her not to, or pushed her off, or threatened her - a million options, really - however, offending her father would not have been ideal for our plans. I-”

She knelt in front of him and grasped both of his hands. “Look at me. Take a deep breath, and just look at me.”

He trailed off, chest rising and falling far too rapidly for her liking. “I said I’m fine.”

“You are fine. You’re safe.” She kept her hands on his, avoiding touching him anywhere else, unsure what he could tolerate at the moment.

“Safe,” he repeated. “A fine sentiment, but we never really are, are we?” His shoulders finally sagged, the proud arch of his brow falling as his eyes fell shut. “It’s been more than a year since I’ve been… his, but it still haunts me as if it were merely yesterday.”

The trappings of power, of riches and decadent luxury - none of it mattered when he was faced with the memories of endless hands on him, of thighs pressed between his legs, of needing to slip deep into his mind to escape. It had been one thing to let the twins touch him and sit in his lap to maintain his facade in front of the other vampire lord - it was quite another to be randomly accosted and treated like property when he least expected it.

Ban looked at him, pained. “You were a slave for centuries, my love. It will take more than a year to recover from that. Things will get easier, but sometimes something will remind you of… before, and then it will come back. But I’ll always be here, to help you, to protect you when you need it.”

He smiled, leaning forwards to touch his forehead to hers; she sighed in relief.

“You’d think I’d remember that, but it always catches me off-guard.”

“It does so for me as well.” He sighed as she spoke and his breath fanned over her face. It was slowing, thankfully. “Can I…” she trailed off, and he opened his eyes. He gave a small huff of assent and her arms wrapped around him, pulling him into a tight hug.

“You never have to ask, but I find myself grateful that you do.”

He was nestled between her breasts, eyes wide open. The slow ruffling of Ban’s hand through his hair was comforting, although the strands tickled his eyes. He shifted, placing his chin flat on her sternum. Ban returned his gaze.

“Decided you want to read more?” she asked.

“Wasn’t much help.” He rolled over, but grabbed the book anyway. It had been laying facedown on the page he’d given up at. “But I suppose I could give it another shot.” He propped the book on his chest as he leaned against the headboard.

She glanced at him. “I trust your conversation with Meiros went well, at least?”

He grunted, flipping to another page. She waited for a response - none came.

“And?”

He flipped another page, far too fast to actually be reading it. “And things are proceeding as planned. Like I’ve said, Ban. Let me handle it.” There it was again, that edge in his voice.

He hadn’t spoken much after the party. They had gone home, and bathed, but he’d been mostly silent throughout. She’d given him his space, scrubbed him down and allowed him to wash her as they usually did, but then they’d gone to bed and he’d immediately buried himself in his book with nary a word in her direction.

She bit back the urge to simply ignore his distress and leave him be. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Crimson eyes flicked over her for a second - she noted the way his gaze raked over her features, another tell - and he exhaled. “The novel is trite, dry, and the heroine dully heroic.”

Ban covered her face with her hands, choking back a frustrated groan. Do better. “That’s not what I asked, and we both know it. This… isn’t about Corrinne, is it? Or if it is, there’s more.”

Astarion snapped the book shut. It was uncommon for her to see his ire nowadays, much less to be the object of it, but there it was. He exhaled through his nose. “You loathed it when I prodded you. Must you do the same?”

The response died in her mouth. She wasn’t sure how to address it - in the past, stoking the fires of his anger had been a thoughtless thing, fighting back with barbed words second nature - but not anymore. Not that she didn’t feel the petty desire to do so rising in her throat, but she couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

She thought for a moment, choosing her next words with care. “Just as I’ve learned to try to open up to you, I hope you will do the same for me.” Taking the book from his hands, she set it down and leaned over. “May I?”

At his nod, she laid over his chest, her head settling against his heart. “You don’t need to. I just want you to feel better,” she murmured.

He was quiet, reaching over to pick the book back up again. The minutes passed, one to ten to thirty, the only sound the occasional turning of pages and the scratch of his fingers against paper, his breathing, and the painfully fast heartbeat thrumming beneath her ear.

She waited.

“No use feigning sleep,” Astarion finally drawled. “You’re mad, aren’t you?”

“Frustrated. Concerned. Not mad.” She felt him shift, his muscled chest rippling under her as he placed an arm under his head, the book still in the other.

“Now you know how it feels,” he said under his breath. As he did so his pulse hammered harder, and Ban decided enough was enough. She placed a hand on his chest, beside her face, watching the ring glint in the moonlight.

“Does that give you some sort of satisfaction? Because I’d understand if it did. But I’d prefer we talk about it.”

That took him by surprise. His eyes locked onto her, wide. She met them without hesitation, watching his expression soften as he finally gave in.

“One - I have no idea who I married a tenday ago, because I’m not exactly sure it’s the Ban I knew.” He laughed humorlessly. “Two - it might be silly,” he looked away, “but I’d thought this would all be… if not over, at least… lessened.”

He set the book down by his side and wrapped an arm around her. “I’m no idiot. I am aware it doesn’t ever truly fade away, but today it caught me unawares.”

“I can’t blame you for that. You haven’t had any encounters like that in a while, nor should you have to expect them in the first place.” The hand on his chest closed into a fist. “If it were not for her father I’d have beaten her where she stood.”

He shrugged. “That’s… not my concern at the moment.” Ban sighed - she had been right. There was more.

“Then what is it?”

She watched his lips part, fangs peeking as he licked his lips nervously. “I worry that in a century, or in five centuries, this will still happen. That it will keep happening again and again, in moments when I least expect it. I will freeze as I did today. It will feel like nothing has changed, no matter how much time has passed. I may never fully…heal.” He took a deep breath, her head rising and falling with it, his heart racing as he finally spoke the fears he’d been haunted by the past few hours. “You’d be spending eternity bound to a pathetic, broken, man.”

Ban shook her head; she couldn’t help taking offense. “I fell in love with you the way you are. Why worry about that? Do you think I’m still that selfish, that I still require you to be a certain way to love you? Because - well, I understand and I’m still working on it, but truly?”

“No. I merely pity you for having to deal with it. I thought the wedding would…” a growl ripped through him, “...would at least fix something.”

“A wedding doesn’t guarantee everything will be sunshine afterwa-”

“Well it should!”

She flinched. He tightened his grip on her. “I worry about how this will affect us, in the long term.” He raised her hand to the light, admiring the ring on her finger. “Affect our marriage. I could not forgive myself if I lost this simply because I couldn’t let go of the ghosts of the past. I worry that I will whittle your patience down into nothing; that with each incident I further drain the wellspring of your heart dry.”

“Astarion.” He let her hand go, eyes snapping back to her face. “Listen. When I made my vows, they were made for both the good and the bad. I love you. All of you. That includes this, and whatever other worries you have. I love you-” she poked his chest, “and everything that comes with you, ghosts included. Maybe it will take a century, or five, or maybe it will never fully heal. But either way, I will be here, and I will help you, and protect you, and love you through it all. No matter how many Corinnes come our way.” She poked the tip of his nose. He wrinkled it in response, apparently still unwilling to let his pique go.

“There will be many, Ban. There will always be more. Men and women, everywhere we go. Unwelcome as it is,” and there it was again, the way his eyes scanned her face, “they will keep coming. They will keep seeing you as a trivial obstacle in their path, and they will be wrong, but they will think it and try all the same.”

“And that bothers you, because…”

“Does it not bother you?”

It was her turn to look away. She was silent for a beat. “It does. A lot.”

“Oh, it does?” His mouth showed the beginnings of a small snarl. “You seem wholly unfazed by it. Ban, always the picture of indifference, even as some woman-”

“I wanted to rip her head off! Is that what you want to hear?”

He froze, then the edges of his lips curled into a satisfied smirk. “Precisely that, yes. You never understood, thinking it was the mere desire to own you that ruled me.”

Ban shifted, resting her chin on his sternum. He took a deep breath. “I made mistakes. I sought to keep you in a way that was twisted. But some of it…” he seemed to have finally cooled off, softly stroking her cheek, “...some of it I still feel was valid.”

“Halsin.”

Astarion nodded. “There is… was, a lot of indignation due to the fact that you brought me to his camp, without feeling it necessary to tell me why, or anything else at all, for that matter. That you didn’t respect me, or us, enough to communicate.” He bit his lip, and she shook her head.

“I won’t be mad, or punish you. Please. Keep going.”

“I thought you wished to rekindle whatever you two had, whether it be for a tryst or for something more serious. At the time I said you were not mine to hoard in such a manner, but…”

She felt him tense underneath her, and nuzzled his chest encouragingly. He ran his hands through the back of her hair in silent gratitude.

“You understand that some of what I felt was warranted, do you not?” He searched her face, and she reached up to cup his cheek. “Please.” He shut his eyes. “Tell me you do.”

“I do. The idea that you could be taken from me, even unwillingly… It made me so angry. Just seeing her touch you… I think it finally sank in.” She cleared her throat. “I understand that taking you to Halsin like that was uncalled for, and you deserved better. I handled it especially badly, given the fact that he and I…”

He flapped a hand. “That we have talked about. It was the visit that I’ve never dared bring up.”

“You worried that I’d leave you over it.”

“That, and that you wouldn’t understand.” He opened his eyes again, met hers with a sad smile. He ruffled her hair. “You’ve spent so long bristling under men who sought to own you that you never learned that belonging to someone can also be a beautiful thing. I have been yours throughout our time together, and it has given me nothing but safety, care, and love.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You… that was legitimately the last thing I expected to hear from you.”

“I spent two centuries learning what it meant to be someone’s property,” he reminded. “Cazador owned me. I belong to you. There’s a vast difference. And you? You are mine.” The last word was growled, and Ban felt heat pool between her legs. He lifted her hand, the one with his ring on it. “Belonging to you is no curse, binding myself to you no hardship. That is what I wish for you to comprehend - that my jealousy is not monstrous, as misguided as my first times feeling it were.”

“You want what we have to be respected. By me, by everyone.”

“And for you to see that I don’t wish to own you, but I do want you to belong to me and only me.”

Ban considered this, considered the venomous fury that had risen in her at the sight of Corrinne pressed against her husband. That rage, the split-second urge to sink fangs into her neck and drink her dry, or break every one of her bones… It had been powerful. It had come after the initial concern for Astarion, of course, but it had been there, surprising her with its intensity.

To belong. Still a bit frightening to her, but she could not deny his words - could not deny the way she’d felt tonight, nor deny the ring on her finger.

“I’m sorry, my love,” she said, the words slipping out with ease, to her relief. “I couldn’t understand it, or even imagine how it would feel, until today.”

Astarion’s tension ebbed, the lines on his face easing as he exhaled. His hand drifted away from her to pick up the book. “Thank you. I think I shall rest easier knowing that.”

“You’ll still be reading, though?” She nodded at the book.

“I’m afraid sleep will come with far less ease than it usually does tonight. Not your fault,” he added quickly.

“Then I’ll keep you company.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, then began to read the book, flicking back a few pages to where he’d actually last understood what his eyes were running over. As he did Ban settled against his sternum, the now-slow beating of his heart lulling her into sleep, much as she fought it.

As she lost the fight and her eyelids drooped shut Astarion watched, amused. He didn’t move her, eyes moving back to his book. It helped that she understood, but he couldn’t help the small pang of worry that niggled at his mind still.

The rite had not fixed him, nor had his marriage. Would time really do so? A foolish thought, he knew, expecting all of his wounds to be healed by a simple ceremony, but part of him had… hoped. It had been largely absent in his mind until today’s painful reminder, and he wished he could have ripped that girl apart for her insolence. Instead he had frozen, mind searching for his wife’s, seeking solace.

He flipped to the next page. None of the words made sense.

And if time failed to heal those wounds, would it one day push them apart? He could almost taste it for a brief moment, the vision filling his mind-

Ban, in her armor and with her weapon slung over her shoulder. Servants hurrying out, bags and bags of her clothes and belongings carried to their carriage. He could see himself on his throne, the house already cold and tomblike, as if it was already mourning her departure. He would have his hands gripping the armrests, digging in until they cracked, resisting the urge to drag her back in, because he refused to do that ever again, even if losing her again would kill him. But every fiber of him would want to.

He would let the flowers wilt, let the palace fall into ruin. He would rot, because there would be nothing else for him, and nothing would matter but her memory. He would wander these empty halls and wait, deluding himself that she’d be back, because she’d come back once, hadn’t she? Perhaps he would seek an end to his misery. Create spawn, unleash whatever chaos he could, hoping someone would lop his miserable head off his shoulders. Perhaps she would. Or perhaps he would find her, beg for her return. She would do so again wouldn’t she, she wouldn’t leave, please, never again-

“Astarion.”

He flinched, looking down at her. She rubbed his chest.

“You were breathing hard. I could hear your heart pounding.” She crawled upwards so that they were eye to eye.

“Oh.” He waved the book at her. “Exciting part came up. It wasn’t all drivel after all.”

She raised an eyebrow, and he exhaled. There would be no way to fool her. “Too many thoughts,” he finally said. “Too many fears, ones that I’m afraid even the sweetest words cannot assuage. There’s no scrying the future, after all.”

“No.” She shook her head. “We can only really see today. And today, you are mine, and you are loved.” She pressed her lips against his, a chaste, gentle kiss that he couldn’t help but deepen. His hand fisted in her hair, gripping hard. The other wrapped around her waist, pressing her against him, his hips grinding against hers, the intent clear.

“Promise me,” he hissed, “that I will always be yours.”

She nodded, but that wasn’t enough. He pulled at her hair, tugging her head back. “Say it.”

“You’re mine,” she growled, slowly moving lower as the hand on her hair guided her downwards. There was a catch in her voice as she said it.

“Don’t hold back,” Astarion snarled, pulling the sheets off them. He could see the simmering anger behind her gaze, held at bay for most of the night, for his sake. “I don't need you to be proper. Show me who I bel- fuck.”

She had grasped his cock, given it a long, slow stroke. His expression softened as she licked along the shaft to the tip. She licked off a bead of precum, savoring the salty, tangy taste that was purely him. Her eyes searched his. “I wasn't sure if I should touch you. If tonight that would be welcome or not. But I'm glad you wanted to. I… I need it too.”

At that she swallowed him down, suckling his head, her tongue swirling in a teasing circle. Bucking helplessly against her, Astarion groaned, hand tightening in her hair. Her fingers stroked the rest of him, her other hand fondled his balls. It felt good - wonderful, even - and much needed, but-

He nudged her then got on his knees, cock proudly jutting out, glistening with her saliva, begging to be sucked. Ban thankfully understood, getting on all fours. He looked at her for a long moment, taking everything in - the swell of her ass, her muscled back and shoulders, her eyes filled with desire for him.

“My sweet Ban. Always eager to please,” he purred.

Her mouth took him in, deeper this time, the sudden return of warmth and suction causing his hips to jerk. He fucked her mouth, leaning back to support himself, hips rolling slowly, soft moans the only sound from his lips. He relished the feel of her swallowing around him, tongue laving its attention on every part of his cock. She was his, and he was hers. He tilted his head back, lost in the ocean of his desire.

Only she would be allowed to touch him like this, to see him like this, to love him like this. She wanted him - but not just that. Loved him. The real him. Not just his face, or his body, or his honeyed words. The true core of him. The good, and the bad, and the pieces he would show no one but her.

He threaded his fingers into her hair once more, enjoying the feeling of holding her while she claimed him. She brought one of her hands up to grip his hip and pull him further down her throat, her nails digging into the side of his ass hard enough to bruise. He let out a loud groan, her forcefulness driving him to the brink.

Hers. He was hers no matter what anyone else said or did, and the way she was swallowing him down right now - not even breathing, just burying him deep into her throat with an aggression he rarely saw from her - told him she also wanted to be reassured of that same fact.

“Show me,” he gasped, lost to the building pressure in his balls, thighs burning, “show me exactly who I belong to, who I give myself to, the only one who will ever make me co-”

She gave him one long, hard suck, tongue flicking against his underside, up to the slit of his cock, her loud moan vibrating against his cockhead, and he came apart, erupting into her mouth with one last hard thrust and a wild, needy groan. She swallowed, humming appreciatively as she did, intensifying his pleasure as her throat pulsed around him. She continued swirling her tongue around his length until he finally pulled out, gasping. Ban sat up, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, her eyes dark with possessiveness and satisfaction.

“Mine. I promise you that.”

He felt a pleasant shiver run down his spine. He was so relieved she finally understood.

The night passed in relative peace after that, with Ban asleep on his chest as he read. His mind was at ease, and the words on the pages finally made sense.

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐈𝐧 𝐁𝐞𝐝

pairing: pre outbreak!joel miller x f!reader, one sided tommy miller x f!reader

genre: angst, smut, romance, slow burn, mutual pining, secret relationship

series summary: After your grandfather’s passing, you find yourself moving into his home in Texas. You meet the Millers; Tommy, his older brother Joel and his daughter Sarah. With time, you and Tommy become close friends and Sarah visits you often. But Joel…Joel keeps his distance. The reason for this is due to one crucial fact you don’t know but he does; Tommy has a crush on you. Which means you’re off limits no matter what. But as your own feelings for Joel grow, things start to get more and more complicated.

word count: 4.8k

chapter summary: Your brother comes for a visit and of course, he wants to meet the Millers. Things with Joel come to a boiling point, threatening to pour over.

warnings: joel dissociating, family dynamics, criticizing of war, some angst, arguing, hints of grief, brief mention of parents being emotionally distant, explicit make out scene at the end

a/n: August is the reader's stepbrother, reader still has no physical descriptions. His face claim ended up being Oscar Isaac, ofc you don't have to imagine him that way, but I just wanted to let y'all know lmaodbf I was trying to think of what he should look like and it kinda happened

Chapter Seven || Chapter Nine

Your brother is already sitting on the kitchen stool when you walk in with silent, socked feet. He hears you though. Always does. Perking up, he turns with a smile. Your heart jumps as you notice a magazine in his hand, but  realizing it can’t be the one with Joel’s picture in it, you relax, making a beeline to the coffee machine. 

“You still like your coffee black?” 

“Yup. Just like my wretched soul.” 

You shake your head. Smiling, you grind the coffee beans, the sound breaking the peaceful silence of the morning. When you’re done, you turn to him and pour the coffee into the portafilter. You tamp it down. 

“Your soul isn’t black.” 

“Hmm?” He rests his cheek in the palm of his hand, his elbow propped up on the kitchen counter. A soft smile tugs at his lips, always amused by your rantings. “And what color is my soul?” 

“Golden. Sparkly, shiny.” 

“You’re just saying that because of my name.” 

“Why would Auggie remind me of gold?”

“That’s not what I mean and you know it. Idiot.” he grins. He leans over and squeezes your cheeks with one hand, hallowing them out. You let out a whine. “Come on now. Say it. Say my actual name and not the one you would call your sheepdog.” 

You push out your bottom lip, pouting, you glare at him. He laughs. 

“I’m not letting go until you say it.” 

“Fine,” you snap, your voice muffled. “August. There, happy? Now let me go, you menace.” 

“See, was that so hard?” he lets go and you stumble back. His strength always coming a bit of a shock. You draw your brows together, rubbing your chin. August rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you be normal and just call me Gus if you’re going to be lazy about it.” 

“Because it sounds like goose and I don’t like geese. And Auggie sounds cute,” you answer. The hiss of the coffee maker fills the kitchen and you take two mugs from the cabinet. “How’s mom and dad by the way?” 

“Not thrilled that you’re here on your own. Living with ghosts.”

Shaking your head, you place a red colored mug in front of him. Your parents had a habit of think you were drowning in melancholy. Which…was true, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be on your own. You’re about to say just that, looking at him but the thin gold chain on his neck reflects the soft morning hue and catches your gaze. Briefly, you stare at it, blinking. 

“You’re wearing it again?” 

August raises a sole brow, confused, that is until he looks down and realizes what you meant. He licks his lips and smooths his palms over the marble counter. 

“Well…no point in being mad at him anymore is there? The old man’s gone.” 

“He’d be happy knowing you still care.” 

“I always cared,” he snaps with a hint of annoyance. “Need I remind you that pops was the one mad at me. Not the other way around.” 

“He was mad because you were throwing your life away,” you level him a serious look and add. “You still are.” 

“I don’t want to do this first thing in the morning,” he groans. “You’re just saying that because you don’t like the idea of your big brother with a gun.” 

You fill his mug with piping hot coffee. Steam curls into the air. You start warming up milk for yourself, your back turned to him. 

“I don’t like the idea of my big brother being shipped off to war on a whim. It’s not a hunting trip. Don’t act like it’s not a big deal.” 

“It isn’t.” 

“You’ll die.” 

You suck in a sharp breath. You hadn’t meant to say it like that. He’s already aware that he can die. You close your eyes and keep them like that. The sounds of the kitchen fade into the background. The sound of a clock echoes in your mind. You remember the last time August was here, in this house. Your grandfather was alive then. The house was full of his voice and scent. Unlike your parents, who were somewhat distant, your grandpa hated the thought of August wasting his potential. Meanwhile, August was trying hard to prove that he didn’t have any potential to waste. You’re not even sure what your big brother does anymore. You stopped asking the day you and him buried your grandpa. 

It’s been the two of you for the longest time. Your mother remarried when you were four, August was six. Not having many friends, you were quick to leach on to him, and he seemed happy by that. He was your family, and you were his. Blood didn’t matter. And your grandfather, and grandmother, agreed with the sentiment, never separating the two of you. 

You remember when you were still in university, August didn’t tell you he was in the city. And one late night he was on your doorstep. Rain soaked through his shirt and his hair curled at the ends. Your heart breaks when you remember those times. He refused to tell you what happened that night. Later on, you learned he came to meet his mom. The exchange hadn’t gone well.  

You jump when you feel a set of hands on your shoulders. The sound of your name follows soon after, it sounds rushed like it had been repeated a couple of times before you heard it. 

Everything comes flooding back. The coffee. The milk. Your brother standing behind you. 

“Are you okay?” he asks. “Christ. Where’s your head at?”

“Shit—” you hiss, seeing that the milk had overflowed. You quickly turn off the stove. “Sorry, sorry. Must’ve zoned out.” 

“This is why I said I didn’t want to have this conversation first thing in the morning,” he grumbles, picking up a handful of napkins. “You need to stop worrying about me okay? I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I don’t want to constantly fight about this. I’m tired.” 

“Yeah, okay.” 

You realize your answer is less than ideal but it is what it is. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, fine. You’ll at least make him highly aware of how you feel about it. 

After cleaning the stove and finally making yourself a decent cup of coffee, you sigh into the mug. “So what do you want to do during your visit? Sightseeing?” 

He chuckles, “Why are you acting like this is my first time here?” 

“I don’t know. I feel awkward now. I probably need breakfast.” 

“You’re fine,” he answers, booping your nose. Your wrinkle your nose, a soft smile blossoming on your lips. “I’ve seen your paintings, they look good.” 

You nod, silently sipping your coffee. 

“Any plans on showing them off, or whatever it is that artists do—put them in a museum?” 

“Gallery.” you correct him. “And I don’t want to talk about it.” 

“Not so fun is it? Being questioned?” when you fix him a glare, he grins. “Anyway…I love what you’ve done with the room. About time something changed here.” 

You finally crack a proper smile and he quickly follows up with more series of thoughts. With a soft giggle parting your lips, you shake your head. 

“Which one was it that helped you?” he asks. “The brothers?” 

“Both helped. But the credit has to go to Tommy, he’s the one who came up with the idea.” 

“Wise man,” he hums, tongue moving over his teeth thoughtfully. “Was he the one in Desert Storm?” 

“Yup,” you answer unenthusiastically, popping your lips at the p. 

“When am I going to meet the famous Millers? I want to thank them for helping out my baby sister.” 

“Tonight. They’re coming over for dinner.” 

Another unenthusiastic response. It’s been almost a week since your date with Tommy, and since you’ve moved out from Joel’s and back into your own. You’ve seen Tommy a bunch after that, but the older Miller not so much. Guilt burrows in your heart. You might’ve been a bit too short with Joel, now that you think about it. His intentions obviously weren’t bad. But that didn’t really matter to you, did it? Your heart skips a beat every time you think of him. And you stared at his picture nearly every night since you returned. 

Meanwhile, despite seeing him almost every day whenever he came over to fix up the room, your friendship with Tommy felt…off. Some part of you thinks he knows about your feelings, and Joel’s. He never said anything about it. He hadn’t even mentioned the date, it was like business as usual. 

It was just a crush then. It has to be. You and Tommy were close, he was lonely, figured he’d ask you out. Nothing serious. You preferred to think about it that way. 

“What are we having?” your brother asks, drawing you away from your, not so fun, thoughts. 

“I was thinking chicken.” 

Joel holds a bottle of wine in hand and Sarah is holding a tupperware full of homemade brownies. Upon getting the invite, Sarah had been adamant about perfecting her recipe to bring over. Joel was not allowed in the kitchen. Deeming to be a jinx whenever Sarah tried to cook. He had no objections to that. He was more than happy to listen to his daughter hum in the kitchen as he watched TV in the living room. 

They walk toward your place with her arm crossed over his. Tommy is getting out of the truck just as they reach the porch. His younger brother meets Joel’s gaze briefly before turning his head, walking up to them. He ruffles Sarah’s hair, greeting them both with a small nod of his head. 

“Better get this over then,” Tommy mutters, reaching from between the father and daughter duo to knock on the door. 

But before he can, Sarah smacks his hand away. The gesture earns her a solid fix of Tommy’s glare. Joel’s shoulders raise, his eyes nervously flitting between Sarah and Tommy. He’d kept Sarah out of the loop. It felt like the right thing to do. Your dating life should be no concern to her. And as far as Joel was concerned, Sarah wasn’t ready to hear about his love life with another woman. 

“Sarah.” Tommy warns, the last syllable of her name bouncing off his grit teeth. “What do you think you’re doin’?” 

“You two have been so weird all week,” she chides, the crease between her brows similar to her father’s. “If you’re not going to be nice, you should leave.”

“Dammit Sarah, I—” he lets out a stuttering breath. “Fine. Just knock on the goddamn door.” 

It’s instinct. Sarah knocks on the door and at the same time Joel brings a hand down to Tommy’s shoulder. Hard. The younger Miller’s entire body tilts to the side and Joel squeezes, making sure that his fingers make dents into Tommy’s skin. Tommy tenses under Joel’s hold but doesn’t move, he doesn’t even look back at him. He just patiently waits until the door opens, warm, soft light pouring through the door. 

Sarah takes the first step, hugging you and handing you the Tupperware. You’re wearing a green dress that hugs your figure perfectly, his mouth floods with saliva. Joel already feels his cock twitching uncontrollably under his jeans. The way you smile is always so bright. 

But first things first. 

“Don’t you ever snap at my daughter like that again. You hear me, Tommy.” he says in a hushed tone, leaning into Tommy’s ear. Sarah already disappeared inside, and you’re patiently holding the door open for them.

“Your daughter?” he grimaces, taking a step back so the two of them are out of earshot. “You mean my niece? I didn’t do anythin’ Joel. Don’t get your panties in a bunch.” 

Tommy takes the lead. He kisses your cheek and mutters pleasantries. Without waiting for Joel, Tommy takes his shoes off, heads to the kitchen. Joel huffs, glaring at his brother’s back. 

“Is something wrong?” 

Your voice peels him away from his anger, his hands suddenly feel foreign to him. He robotically hands you the wine. 

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “Just brothers being brothers.” 

“O…kay then. Well in any case, welcome. Thanks for the wine.” 

If Tommy being mad at him isn’t enough, it looks like you’re still frustrated with him as well. You don’t look at him. And the smile you have on is nothing other than polite. It’s a small little curve. The type you would give to a stranger walking past you in the street. He hates it.  

Thank god for Sarah. At least she’s not mad at him. 

“Don’t mention it,” he mutters, purposefully brushing his arm against yours while passing you by. He hears you letting out a soft sigh. The hairs on his arms stand with delight at the sound. 

He enters the kitchen where the dining table is at. Tommy’s already chatting up your brother, and Sarah is dragging her fingers through one of your dried oil paintings. She likes the texture of it, he told him once. The brother’s eyes meet Joel’s and he already feels his muscles growing taut. Tommy follows the brother’s gaze and nods. 

Joel nearly jumps when your hand comes around his shoulder. The brother narrows his eyes. 

“This is Joel,” you say, giving him a gentle shove. “And you already met Tommy. Joel, this is August. My brother.” 

Joel takes in the brother’s appearance. He has sharp, angular cheekbones that give his face a chiseled look, and his intense gaze is accentuated by thick, dark eyebrows. His wavy, dark hair falls messily over his forehead. He has broad shoulders and a defined jawline. He exudes a quiet confidence that draws Joel's attention.

Swallowing multiple times, Joel quickly extends a hand. A weird sense of relief washes over him when August takes it, giving it a firm squeeze. 

“Nice to meet you,” he says, sitting back down. “I heard so much about you.” 

“Good things I hope,” Joel grins sheepishly. A blush crawls up from his neck to his cheeks when the other winks. Joel’s gut is telling him that August already knows what’s going on in his head and it’s unnerving. 

“They’re all good, don’t worry.” he smiles and pulls out a chair for Joel. “She tells me you two helped her with the room. Well, you have my thanks. I was a bit worried about her moving in here after…” he clears his throat. “I’m sure you know.” 

August utters the last sentence with his eyes fixed on Joel. He shudders. 

“Auggie, stop making me seem like I’m a damsel in distress. I’m not a child that needs to be taken care of.” 

“That you’re not,” August answers. “But everyone needs help sometimes.” 

You frown, “Says the man who never accepts it.” 

The rest of the evening passes by with soft jazz music in the background and all of them setting the table together, which isn’t a five-man job, but they do it anyway. Sarah is rather bubbly, talking about school and a boy she doesn’t seem to like. He takes a mental note to ask about that later. You listen with interest, checking the rice and mixing the salad. Tommy and August hit it off instantly. Which isn’t at all a shock to him. August laughs at something Tommy says while placing a plate. Joel looks around, his pleading eyes landing on Sarah and you in the kitchen. 

Neither of them notices him. He’s left standing awkwardly between kitchen and dining room. He rubs his sweaty palms on his jeans, gaze dropping to his socked feet. 

He doesn’t want to bother anyone, so he slips away to the hall. 

Maybe he should’ve asked you first, before going exploring. But he can’t really help it. Joel finds himself in the renovated room. It’s basically done, the room fully painted and bookshelves back in place. You even have a couple of easels holding your latest artwork. He stumbles inside, the conversations fading into the background. 

It’s hard not to feel upset. He isn’t sure what he’s doing wrong. At the time, not allowing you to say what you had swirling in your mind felt like the right thing to do. Joel doesn’t know if he could’ve held back if you confessed. Even though he was rather close to confessing himself, that was before Tommy took initiative. 

He observes the first painting. His initial thought is that it looks nice. There are a lot of colors in geometric shapes. He sees a lot of red and pink. Some blue. Some white. His eyes move up and down, and as it does, he slowly begins to realize the smaller shapes form a bigger one. It’s human. A naked one. He follows the vee of the adonis belt, the softened stomach. Suddenly it’s very clear to him that this is a man. Joel takes a step back. The face hasn’t been painted yet. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. A somber smile touches his lips. Sometimes he wishes he didn’t have any of those. Maybe he won’t fuck up so badly if he doesn’t. 

Joel’s about to leave when he sees it. The smallest stain on the front of the silhouette’s hip. Tilting his head, he steps closer. His skin tight over his muscles, his breath hitches.

It’s a bullseye. The tiniest, you blink you miss it, bullseye.

He leans closer, it’s definitely a bullseye. Smaller than his tattoo, but it’s the same shape, in the same spot. 

What the fuck? 

He lifts his gaze, eyes flitting across the round shape that’s meant to be a face—his face. Is this…supposed to be him? 

Shitshitshitshit

Joel jolts out of the room and stumbles into the small bathroom that’s on the first floor. He turns the faucet so hard that his fingers ache but he doesn’t care. He splashes cool water over his face until his breathing calms down. Then he flushes the toilet for some noise.

When he opens the door, his head is spinning. The walls wiggle and dance, the hardwood floor underneath his feet slips. Joel can barely stand. His fingers itch to have something pressed against them, something that can pull him out of the fog of his mind. 

He doesn’t look inside and silently closes the door, his eyes glazed over. He makes his way down the hall. His heart is beating too fast. He can barely breathe. Some part of him believes he’s making it up. That the tattoo wasn’t there, that it was just smudged paint. He’s not an artist. It wouldn’t be hard for his brain to make something up. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

The voices grow closer. He closes his eyes, lashes touching with his cheeks. He should’ve let you talk that day. At least then everything would be crystal clear. He hates not truly knowing. The heave of his chest forces him to open his eyes. 

Everyone is already at the table. You’re serving the food, putting a chicken leg on your brother’s empty plate. His space is reserved next to Sarah, right across from Tommy and you, August is at the head of the table. Only Sarah notices him. She looks up, brows pinched together as she mouths: are you okay dad? 

Joel nods and takes his seat. His vision finally clears. The scent of chicken and roasted vegetables wafts through the air, grounding him to the present. He feels the brush of Sarah’s fingers on his forearm, she still looks worried. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, reaching for the salad. With his tongue between his lips, his gaze follows your movements as you divide the chicken. “Everything looks amazing, tea. Thank you for having us.” 

“Yeah,” Sarah chimes in. “It looks great. I didn’t know you could cook.” 

You let out a snort and shake your head. “Why does everyone in this house think I can’t look after myself? What kind of image am I giving you guys?” 

Laughter follows, Tommy, says something but Joel doesn’t catch it. His mind still in the room with the painting. He eats silently. Biting into his fork and savoring the taste of white meat. He watches Sarah neatly wrapping the base of the chicken leg with a napkin before she starts eating, he rolls his eyes but smiles anyway. 

No one really discerns his silence. Which he concludes to be a good thing. The food is good and helps him settle down. His eyes flit between you and Tommy, a pleasant conversation taking place between the two people closest to him. 

Suddenly he sees Tommy in a tux, you in a white dress. The sun is bright and Sarah is the flower girl. He’s standing next to his baby brother, waiting to hand the ring to Tommy as soon as the priest finishes his speech. He stares at you from above Tommy’s shoulder. Your smile is wide. 

You meet his gaze and Joel fights the urge to jerk away. Your smile broadens into a grin, you wink at him. 

You look back to Tommy. His heart sinks into his stomach. 

If that ever happens, at least you'll still be close. Joel will forever have your eyes. He’ll get to stare at them as often as he wants to. Tommy doesn’t have to know. But that doesn't change the fact that Joel will still be lost, he'll still be lonely after Sarah leaves to live her own life.

He would always be searching for something more, something that he couldn't quite name or articulate. That yearning would remain, like an ache that refused to subside. He would try to fill that void with other things, other people, but it would never be enough. He would always come back to that sense of restlessness, that nagging feeling that there was something missing.

He’ll never be satisfied. 

Joel hands you a wet plate and you smile, patting off the access water, you place it on the dishrack. Soft steps come from upstairs. A door closes, and the sound of the shower softly adds to the ambiance of domestic bliss. 

Joel hands you another plate. 

It’s been a while since dinner came to an end. Much to your delight, it turned out to be a pleasant evening. August and Tommy got along swimmingly, which came as no surprise to anyone. With her stomach full and warm, Sarah was practically sleeping on the couch. Joel had to nudge her awake, and you offered to show him the spare room, but he shook his head and woke her up. Sarah was briefly confused, but she managed to make her way back with Joel. Tommy left a bit later, thanking you and squeezing your hand as he left. You were quite surprised when Joel returned ten minutes later, offering to help with the dishes. August had already gone upstairs to take a shower.

You hate doing the dishes so you had no objections to that. 

“I really should buy a dishwasher,” you say, breaking the silence. “Thanks again. You really didn’t have to.” 

His lips part with a low chuckle, his gaze fixed on the sponge that suds up the plate. “I’ve heard you complain more than I can count, sweet tea. There was no way I was going to leave you with this monstrous pile.” 

“My hero.” 

A comfortable silence stretches between the two of you, though you're not sure how that's possible. He's been avoiding you for a week and has been silent all afternoon. You're not even sure he talked to Auggie much, except for introducing himself. 

Some part of you doesn't want the stacks of porcelain to end. You internally curse at yourself for washing the pots and pans before dinner. This time, you take a bowl from him. It's slippery, and you nearly drop it, but his fingers curl around yours, tightening your grip before it can shatter against the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat. Joel's fingers remain on your hand, and a soft caress follows. Goosebumps rise over your body; it's so sudden that it tingles, a slight pain etching over your skin. Slowly lifting your eyes, you see that he's already staring at you. Joel holds your gaze, his eyes warm and inviting. A blissful sigh raises in your throat, threatening to spill, but you press your lips together.

Joel inhales, and on the exhale he asks, “Your date with Tommy must’ve been a good one, I reckon. You guys came back late.”

Blood rushes to your ears. You pull your hand back, like you’ve been burned with boiling water, soap bubbles fly into the air. The bowl slips back into the sink and you hear it crack but refuse to look down. Your heart is beating too fast, too hard—shit. Why is he saying this out of the blue? Rage pounds underneath your fingernails. You’re not sure why you’re so mad. And you’re not surprised Tommy didn’t tell him anything. Those two are constipated when it comes to talking. 

Your glare and his soft gaze clashes, lighting crackling in the still air. 

“Why are you suddenly mentioning Tommy?” you hiss out. Tears sting your eyes. “And it’s none of your business. If you want to know you should ask hi—”

“I saw your little art project.” 

Your mouth dries up, the rage replaced by a childlike terror. You pull your hand close to your chest. Breathing heavily. 

“What?” 

Joel takes a step forward, leaning into you and crowding your personal bubble. You’re glued to the floor. The blood rush loud in your ears. You feel so vulnerable that it hurts, your body trembling uncontrollably. 

“It was…me, wasn’t it?” he shakes his head. “What if Tommy saw? You can’t do shit like that when you’re datin’ him. You can’t just paint another man.” 

His voice is both hushed and forceful. You’ shake your head, attempting to blink away the tears. All the emotions you feel like a balloon in your chest waiting to explode. Your head drops. You stare at his chest. It’s moving with every rapid breath. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Excuse me?” Joel sounds flabbergasted. He takes a step back and stares at you—really stares at you with narrowed eyes, as if he’s seeing you for the first time. 

“I said,” you bite out through clenched teeth. You step forward and shove him in the chest, it does little to move him and his fingers wrap tightly around your wrists. You refuse to look at him. “Fuck. You. You don’t get to shame me in the ways I heal. The art I create. You’re the one who has a girlfriend. You’re the one that allowed me to get as close as I did, saying cryptic shit knowing that I had a crush on you! So yeah—” your eyes snap up, looking him dead in the eye. His mouth hangs open, shock etched between his brows. “Fuck you, Joel Miller.” 

His grip tightens, it’s rough and it stings. A shiver runs up your spine. “I’m not dating your brother.” you say with a sense of finality. 

“I didn’t know you had a crush on me.” Joel’s thumb moves down your wrist. His hardened gaze softens, the smallest of gasps escaping from between lips. “Asha and I broke up.” 

“You did?” 

Your world starts spinning, your stomach flips in your stomach. He nods. 

“The day you came to the garden. Before your date with Tommy. I broke it off.” 

“Why?” you ask, holding your breath. 

“Because I had someone else on my mind.” 

He’s fully stroking your arm now, the roughness of his hold gone. Textured fingertips move up and down your skin, sending shudder after shudder up your very being. Heat gathers between your legs, and you feel a dampness that makes you ache. Joel leans closer and you feel his hot breath fanning your cheeks, mixed with the lingering scent of beer. You hold your breath. The kitchen doesn’t seem to stop spinning. 

Without another word Joel tugs you flush against him, his firm chest pressing up yours, a tingle starting from your pebbled nipples and buzzing throughout your body. He sucks the air from your lungs. He groans into your mouth. You feel his hands skimming the frame of your body, dipping into every curve. Joel pulls and tugs at the fabric of your dress. You hear a small rip. You don’t care about it in the slightest. But he must’ve heard it too because a soft growl emanates from his chest. He tugs at the fabric again, the following noise louder. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, pulling it along with him as he parts. You let out a debauched whine and you swear he grins, the cocky bastard. 

His hands cup your ass, kneading it tenderly. You sigh into his mouth, your hands feeling numb and weak from where they rest above his chest. He lets go of your bottom lip, pressing his mouth into the swollen flesh before moving away. 

You gasp and let out a shaky bubble of laughter. “If this ‘someone else’ you speak of isn’t me this is about to get really awkward really fast.”

“Don’t worry that pretty lil’ head of yours darlin’,” his forehead touches yours, the skin damp. He breathes heavily, the tone of his voice oddly serious and deep. “It’s you.” 

a/n: THEY KISSED! FINALLY. I think this is the longest thing I've ever written without the characters getting at it immediately, it's been a fun ride lmaodfbfd

Normally, this chapter was supposed to have smut as well. But I loved the ending "it's you" so much that I decided it was a good way to end the chapter. But believe me, the next chapter is going to get as filthy as it gets. I already have it outlined. (feel free to hop into my askbox to tell me what filthy things you want to see them get to 🤭)

Thank you to everyone who is still with me on this little journey that started out with a mere thought after seeing a bts Instagram story, I never thought so many people would be eager to read such a thing and all of you have my appreciation. I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter, in all honestly I'm nervous as hell posting it. Hopefully I hit all the right parts.

Sending all of you many hugs and kisses 🧡

[sitp-recs]

15 fics with Harry pursuing unusual careers

I love the adrenaline and potential angst within the Auror partners trope as much as the next guy, but we can all agree that our mental health improves 10 times when we see Harry leaving the Ministry, embracing other possibilities and making his own destiny. This rec list hopes to celebrate those creative, disruptive, feel-good fics that are not afraid to come up with the most absurd positions and original job titles. They can be fun, smutty, depressing, hopeful or cathartic; there’s a little bit of everything in here and I’m hoping to bring some hidden gems into everyone’s radar, too. Happy readings!

Twisted Wizards by Enchanted_Jae (T, 3k)

Draco is just putting his life back together when Potter comes along and mucks it all up again. Job: storm chaser

The R. Correspondence by noeon (T, 7.5k)

While working on the Bagshot papers, Draco makes an important discovery for British Wizarding History. Now if only Harry can keep him alive long enough to enjoy it. Job: private security consultant

Per my last letter (I hope you choke on it) by @fluxweeed and @lastontheboat (T, 10k)

Or: the one where Harry has writer’s block and Malfoy isn’t helping. Job: writer

Home County, orphaned (G, 10k)

Harry is an architect and the reluctant part-owner of his own firm. Malfoy works at The Ministry but doesn’t actually have a proper job title even though what he does sounds as though it’s pretty important. Job: architect

A Working Title by mindabbles (E, 12k)

Another in the long line of absurd biographies finally drives Harry to a desperate act. How desperate he doesn't know until his ghost writer shows up at his door. Job: Daily Prophet columnist

An Improbable Bout of Summer Madness by acari (E, 16k)

Draco had planned a quiet, peaceful summer holiday with his son. The last thing he expected was to find Potter here, in Draco's little Cornish retreat. Making fudge in a shop? The idea was too ludicrous for words. Job: fudge shop owner

The Strongest Affinity by @eidheann (T, 17k)

Trouble finding a wand for Scorpius leads Harry and Draco to something they never imagined. Job: wandmaker

Phoenix Repair Services by carpemermaid (E, 20k)

Draco hires a suspiciously private wizarding handyman to fix his kitchen when he returns home to find it destroyed. He expects a middle-aged wizard with greying hair and a pudgy gut to show up. Instead, he gets Harry Potter—with a utility belt and a charming smile—who is more attractive than he has any right to be. Job: Handyman

The Snitch-Maker by Omi_Ohmy (T, 21k)

Draco is content with his Snitches, with the tap tap tap of his hammer, and the tiny gears and sharp scent of metal in his workshop - until one day Harry Potter appears, asking for help to solve a rash of Snitch-tampering in the Quidditch world. Job: QUABBLE official (Quidditch representative)

Silhouettes in Sunsets by Pie (T, 22k)

Draco Malfoy was a Gringotts accountant by day and a luthier by night, making musical instruments that sang the language of the player’s heart, language audible only to the ears of his soul mate. Harry Potter was a struggling quill pal to the children of war and the owner of Hedwig’s Owl Emporium on Diagon—haven for future pets, owls retired from services and orphaned chicks. Job: Owl Emporium owner

Better To Burn Than To Fade Away by Ren (E, 23k)

Harry Potter is a legend in the world of broomstick racing. He's won almost every cup, trophy, and bowl – except for the historical London-Nome which has been on hiatus for the past several years. Now the London-Nome is starting again, and Harry will do anything to pull off one last big win. Job: broomstick racer

Doing the Lambeth Walk by @blamebrampton (T, 26k)

There are only three traditional choices for the cashed-up hero after victory. Harry Potter is too young to settle down and provide the wizarding world with a happy ending, and has too acute a sense of humour to spiral downwards into a spectacular flame-out. That leaves a life of good works. Job: Owner of a Social Housing and Care Centre

All Roads by @korlaena (M, 36k)

Draco hates his job at the Prophet. He hates it even more when he’s assigned to write an article on Harry Potter, who left the country three years ago after their falling out. Draco doesn’t want to face the truth about himself, but he’s stuck between Harry and his duty, and he’s out of options. Job: Magizoologist

Whimsical by strawberryrose (T, 42k)

In which Draco is completely out of his depth (until he isn’t), Harry builds something improbable with the help of his friends, and everyone bonds over food. Job: amusement park owner

What Shall Not Be Unearthed by @iero0 (E, 49k)

At the northernmost point of Shetland, surrounded by pointed cliffs, towers the Ootsta Lighthouse on a small isle in the middle of the open sea. Little does Harry know that he's not the only new lighthouse keeper. Draco Malfoy is as obnoxious as he always was, with his posh tone of voice and his luxury yacht jumpers. Job: lighthouse keeper

[dutiful-wildcraft]

141 Headcannons: Video Games

Here, have something silly!!

Soap: Never takes anything serious, always names his character something goofy. Protag has their own backstory? Not anymore. Soap is making one up. Crash bandicoot is now a career criminal hell bent on stealing crystals. Cranks all the sliders to the max in character creation. Gets insanely butthurt about losing pvp. It has come to fisticuffs over mario kart. He's the type to make Arthur Morgan bald and choose all the wrong dialogue options. He's a big puss when it comes to horror games.

Gaz: Likes to do speedruns for fun. If the game has multiple endings he will play through each one. Feels just a little bad for being mean in game. Studies guides to figure out all the dialogue options and what they result in. Loved 999. Enjoys fromsoft games and makes multiple builds for shits n giggles. Completionist, will play long after he doesn't like the game just to get the achievements. Falls into wiki lore rabbit holes for the obscure shit. Likes side scrollers. Makes the most diabolical levels in mario maker. Has been playing candy crush consistently since he was a teenager.

Ghost: Didn't play much until Gaz fixed him up with a solid computer for his office. Then mostly played bc Gaz and Soap needed a third guy for stuff. Plays completely silent when online with them. He's mindlessly gathering resources in their minecraft server. No build. Only mine. This was the gateway to his love of survival games. Alternates between The Long Dark and Rust. Half-life enjoyer (Imagine him playing The Hidden). is not phased by horror games at all. Stomps absolute ass in online multiplayer, hates campers (chronically camps). has stardew valley on his phone.

Price: Not a gamer, unless the rest of the team is playing. Then he'll jump in. Really likes racing games. Once played resident evil with Soap and got so enraptured that he lost hours of time, got freaked out and quit playing. Gets more upset than Soap when playing online shooters. (It's the controllers fault, he can aim better than that!) Really likes sitting in the room and watching the other play, he's a back seat gamer and just enjoys watching the story. Barks out directions or help throughout, “That way Soap, behind you!” “You missed ammo!” Plays words with friends with all the boys, will send reminders.