#But i just love them in any shape and form

[bbokicidal]

[SKZ] Being their stylist

Could you imagine? God, I'd die.

Notes: I've heard rumor that you've gotta be married to be an idol stylist because,, obviously they don't want dating shit happening but we are DISREGARDING THAT HERE. i couldn't find the recolored vers. of seungmin & innie so... oh well ig. Genre: Fluff Pairing: OT8 x NB!Reader Warnings: Extra fluffy cuteness I guess

Chan:

Sits so patiently and tells you to take your time

You're his favorite stylist. He loves when you're the one who does his makeup so sometimes he requests specifically you

You're just so gentle with him and it feels like he's really being pampered

He loves the way you make his eyes so smokey for stage looks

Keeps his posture good in an effort to impress you

Does that little :] face with his eyes closed because you're just so pleasant to him

Minho:

Falls asleep every time you do his hair

You tell him to keep his head up only to figure out he's sleeping so soundly and you just don't have the heart to wake him when he's on such a tight schedule lately

Jeongin has a LOT of pictures of you bending at funny angles to style Minho's hair while his head is tipped back or to the side

(And one of you pretending to kiss his cheek as he's mid-waking up)

He wakes up feeling so pretty every time you style him

Sleeps with his mouth open like an idiot (me too)

Changbin:

Likes to make you laugh while you style him in outfits

He poses each time you put him in a new jacket and maybe it's just an excuse to flex in front of you oops who said that

He's giggling right alongside you until he accidentally rips a shirt open

The buttons fly right off and he screams, covering his bare chest as you burst into laughter at how silly he sounded and how he scrambled to cover himself up

You get him a new shirt but he's extra careful after that and his ears are beet red

He'll never forgive himself for embarrassing himself in front of you

But he's also an idiot and will forget about it, and probably does it again the next day because he can't help himself

Hyunjin:

Likes to ask what you're doing while you do it

Has not a CLUE what you're talking about when it comes to makeup but listens intently anyways because it's interesting

Any form of art is interesting to him and that includes makeup !

His brows furrow and he nods and he stares at you while you talk which can sometimes be intimidating

Also kind of sucks at sitting through makeup because he's so talkative with the boys

He's also very loud but he tones it down when he talks to you and uses a softer voice with you

Is very happy to listen to you explain makeup to him but also ,,, tell him what contour is again?

Jisung:

He likes to give you complete freedom when it comes to his outfits

Put whatever you want on him; mens, womens, any clothing you think would look good

You were the one who put him in that grey cropped long sleeve a while ago and people went CRAZY so since then he's trusted you with everything

He loves the outfits you make!!

And the ones you wear because he totally checks you out ALL the damn time!!

Sometimes he even asks if he can take pieces home so he can incorporate them into his daily wear and if he does, he tags you in his insta pics - to which you have to tell him 'I didn't make this, tag the brand!!!' and he just laughs

Felix:

Please tell him makeup tips, he's so curious and he wants to start doing his own makeup too

Sometimes he does, for airports and stuff. But that's just a cushion and some powder

Tell him what color eyeshadows look pretty with his eyes, tell him how blush placement changes the shape of his face and the tone of his look

He's going to be asking questions and, if he has access to one, looking at the details up close in a handheld mirror he keeps hold of

It's intimidating to be honest but he's so smiley and chatty with you that your nerves fade away pretty quickly

He also just thinks you're really really gorgeous so he might use it as an excuse to look up at you more. He's examining the makeup you're wearing, that's all !!

Seungmin:

He's got this horrible habit of staring at you through the mirror while you do his hair

He loves the haircut, don't get him wrong, but it looks like he's feeling everything BUT that because of the way he sort of glares

Well - not glares. He just has this RBF that is untouched by anyone else in the world

If you look at him, he looks away and scrolls on his phone, but shortly after he's back to staring

You're just really attractive is all. And he likes your hair, too - so maybe some day he'll take inspiration from that if you allow him

Also the type to fall asleep while you cut his hair because the spray bottle and little scissor cutting sounds are just so soothing

Jeongin:

Is very compliant when you do his makeup

He sits still, he's patient, he only turns his head away when he knows you're changing something up on the table

He keeps his head up and knows when to close his eyes, when to look up, when to part his lips for balm and tint

Very well behaved, one might say

But it's because when you're doing the other's makeup, he's paying close attention. He's always watching you and trying to find ways to impress you without actually making it obvious that that's what he's trying to do

He starts bringing you your favorite snack because he notices it sitting on your makeup table while on tour

He likes to talk to you while you do his makeup but he's a little bit shy about it - he's not openly chatty like Felix or Hyunin

And the day he calls you his favorite stylist you swear your heart almost explodes

Permanent Taglist :

@dwaekkicidal @possum-playground

@thatonedarkskinnedsiren @oc3anfloor @theyadorevalerie

@jeonginsleftcheek @pixie-felix @hwangjoanna @skzophreniic

@silly250

[batfsm]

She’s watching and blackmailing, just like Barbara and Kate. She isn’t blackmailing Bruce though, she’s got a whole lot of that, more than his actual kids because Leslie tells her things from his own childhood and won’t say a word to the kids about it, but the kids themselves.

Especially Jason, Damian, and Tim.

Tim, she just does it because she wants to. Jason and Damian? Everyone knows that they love Batman, Bruce, but barely show it. So when they get deaged, after they are wrangled and tired, both cling to Batman and refuse to let their siblings have him.

They actually push Cass and Tim off, startling people who never saw Cass, and making Tim cry in shock when he scrapes his knee. BUT they are also the first to check to make sure Tim is just in shock, let their dad clean Tim’s wound, and then clamber back onto Batman.

(Steph has blackmail of this while others don’t because Bruce automatically wrapped his cape around his children when Tim and Cass fell off. He just forgot that Barbara has access to his cowl footage as he fussed over his son.)

Hood and Robin are now clinging to Batman, Red and Orphan/Black Bat* are on leashes but Red is getting a piggy back ride from Nightwing, who doesn’t have a leash but is fine as long as he is carting Red around, and Signal is the one, trying, climbing a lamp post now. Until Orphan/Black Bat* picks him up and gives him a piggy back ride.

(Batman has three more leashes with him, he just didn’t use them at first. Technically he has eight all together but he will never let thet be known…until Gotham sees him use them all and then give a leash to Batwoman to hold that has Oracle on the end while he wrangles Spoiler with his six children.

(They’re all adults/normal age when he does this by the way. Gotham finds it funny as heck. Jim would have gotten Barbara’s leash but it would be too easy to figure out Oracle if he held her leash. (She’s wearing a domino and her hair is in a hood.)

(What Gotham doesn’t tell the Bats is that they all know who Oracle is, including the Rogues and normal villains. They just pretend not to know because Oracle helps everyone in some shape and form.)

The only one who doesn’t know, will never know Oracle’s identity, is the Joker.)

(Batgirl is retired as a hero and won’t be used until Athanasia as Helena takes up Black Bat, Matt takes Robin, and Terry becomes Batman.

(Damian and Tim have other hero names now, bird ones that aren’t Flamebird, that’s Jason who retired Hood, but are connected in a way to Robin**. Duke stays Signal and Cass becomes Batwoman.)

*I can’t decide who Cass is right now but Orphan isn’t used by anyone in the family anymore when the younger generation takes over.

**I don’t have any good ideas for their new names.

The batkids get deaged one night and now Batman has to round up six toddlers, by himself, in the middle of Gotham.

Good news? He's prepared and ready for anything, including this.

Bad news? Someone manages to get pictures of Batman struggling to hold three child leashes, coaxing a fourth child down from atop a lamp post, while holding onto a fifth child who was koala hugging him tightly.

[yourstrulynameless]

The subject for today!

[Reference: Animation Memes]

Omen’s hands. Specifically, his “claws”

that he doesn’t [always] have.

Okay immediately off the bat I’m gonna clarify that any writers or artists that give Omen claws out there, I have no beef with you. This is an analysis and I love clawed Omen as much as you do.

So I’ve stared very well at Omen for drawing and analysis purposes. One of the biggest things people tend to hyperfixate on is his claws. Most of the time they are depicted as sharp and monstrous (ESPECIALLY in fanfics). In canon, this is not the case.

In these pictures they actually seemed to be filed down to purposefully be blunt. Notice how straight the tips are especially in the third and fourth image.

However, even Riot depicts his claws as sharp in some art works like these.

There’s also a third type of depiction where he has almond shaped nails.

Now, I know we all love a sharp claws Omen. But for this post I’d like to advocate for blunt nails Omen. Why? Because I think there’s an interesting meaning behind it if that’s the case.

Think about it. Not only would that mean biologically his body is still ‘alive’ enough to have that function (despite not having the capacity to consume things at the same time), but more importantly emotions wise he’s taking steps to ensure he’s not hurting others or himself.

I’d also like to note that he does seem to wear a thick or at least double layered kind of gloves. Meaning his nails would be useless anyway in combat. He is hiding and filing away at a “monstrous” part of himself. He is trying to keep himself tamed.

It would be easy for him to just continue his bandaging over his palms and call it a day, we know full gloves aren’t part of Protocol’s rules because other agents have fingerless gloves. Omen chose to have thick gloves.

You could argue that it’s part of him wanting to cover up his skin entirely and that’s valid, but take note that either way he’s using them to hide his monstrous self.

There’s also another interesting point to be made regarding the fact he doesn’t just flat out cut them. He keeps his nails at such an intentional length that his gloves were formed based on it. Which means again, he wants it this way.

He wants to keep his nails long, but he doesn’t want them long for violent intent. Perhaps he keeps it that way more as a reminder to himself that he isn’t normal. Every part of him is now shaped to be a weapon. From his phantom skin, to the tips of his nails.

Or idk, maybe he’s just slay like that. Honestly up to you guys what you do with this information. I just thought it was interesting :]

[stantanly]

Hii, sorry if it may be a little annoying, but I love how you draw anatomy anatomy!! maybe you can make a tutorial? or maybe some advice! thanks anyway ;)

oh of course my friend, NOW im gonna be honest i dont have a secret technique or anything nor have i studied anatomy extensively...its more just little things ive picked up over the years, but to sum up what i do:

observe -> simplify -> memorize and apply!

OBSERVE a reference, your own body, real life, I also highly recommend observing other art if looking at real life references gets too intimidating! I personally found it easier looking at how others drew bodies, to give me a sense of direction when I'm not sure where to start with a real picture.

SIMPLIFY what you're observing into shapes, personally i don't use any specific shapes like boxes or circles like i used to...I just create a vague shape that makes it easiest for me to get the general form down. also i highly suggest not making everything a circle, angular shapes are more helpful to me bc it's easier to put them in different perspectives.

MEMORIZE, it's easier for me now bc most shapes of the body I have memorized, i often look at my own body for reference, note down things that you notice about your own body, check out how your muscles move in the mirror and apply them to your art!

for any video references, David Finch has sooo many great tutorials for anatomy. Here's a playlist of all of his tutorial videos!! (the male torso one is essentially what I'm doing 80% of the time..)

don't get too caught up in what's anatomically correct, not to say you shouldn't know the basic proportions before you try to bend the rules. However i find that It's quite common to disregard the real anatomical form in an art piece if it looks more aesthetically pleasing to do so!

[streamafterlaughter]

Soundtrack to Disaster

Chapter XVIII: At The End of a Dead-End Street

masterlist | playlist | pinboard | prev. | read on ao3 | read bee's diary

songs for this chapter: let’s start degeneracy by microwave, love is embarrassing by olivia rodrigo, end of beginning by djo, dead horse by hayley williams, stone by born without bones 

chapter tags: angst, hurt/slight comfort, confrontations, drinking, smoking, just a whole lotta drama! happyISH note to end, but don't get too comfortable!  | fic tags: angst, hurt/(eventual) comfort, (eventual) smut, slow burn, enemies to friends to lovers, Eddie Munson x Fem!OC!Reader, Modern AU | REMINDER: THIS FIC IS RATED EXPLICIT. 18+ mdni.

a/n: i debated on putting a djo song in this fic for awhile and i think it’s just necessary atp. Also this song works for the theme so, continuity and realism be damned! In this universe steve and joe both exist. Because i said so. 

DISCLAIMER: I do not consent to having my work fed to AI engines, or reposted in any way, shape, or form on other websites. Unless otherwise stated, my tumblr and ao3 are the only accounts that feature and contain this work, and any replication was done without my consent. Please let me know if you see my work elsewhere Reblog to support the author!

taglist (open!): @children-of-the-grave @five-bi-five @kellsck @faggotinie @xplrnowornever @taccobelle @micheledawn1975 @mewchiili @dreamerjj @losingmygrasponreality @munsonburn3r @justalotoffanfiction @bl0ssomanddie @eddiesgirl1944 @longlivedelusion 

--

It’s been almost four days, and you’ve been left on read for three of them. Luckily, Steve and Robin couldn’t hold a grudge after you kicked them out of the bar, so you’ve found yourself over, far too early for their party. 

“So,” You flop down next to Robin on her couch, crossing your legs underneath you. She sips her matcha latte, waiting for you to continue. “How are you doing?” 

“Oh, me? I’m great. My best friend disappeared for like four days with the boy she claims to hate leaving me to wonder if she’s been murdered! But I'm fantastic!”

“Robin. You have my location. I was at home, or working.”

“All alone, I’m sure.” She’s teasing, but you can sense an edge of bitterness.  

“Don’t tell me you’re suddenly mad at me for hanging out with Eddie.” You can’t possibly take upsetting another friend right now. 

“What? No, of course not! I love that you guys are talking again, it makes my life a lot easier knowing you’re hanging out with someone that clearly cares about you. Almost as much as me.” She winks, and you giggle with her. “Who’s mad at you for hanging out with Eddie?”

“Chris was. Or, he was mad at Eddie for hanging out with me. Maybe both? I dunno. Just, not really sure what I’m supposed to do about that.”

“Who says you have to do anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Bee, no matter what you do, someone, somewhere is gonna be unhappy about it. Might as well do what makes you happiest.” She scoots closer, leaning her head on your shoulder. “You hanging out with Eddie means Steve is gonna owe me fifty bucks in about a month’s time. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

“You made a bet?!” You pull away from her to look her in the eye, to make sure she’s not kidding. 

“Oh, like. In high school. When you stopped talking, I bet you’d be friends again one day. Steve was pretty sure you’d never be able to forgive him.” 

“Does Steve really think I’m that stubborn?”

She shrugs. “There’s a lot he knows that I don’t. I didn’t meet you until our sophomore year, and I didn’t even talk to Steve until we were seniors and he’d graduated. Turns out I still know you better, though.” She grins smugly, and it makes you beam. 

“You are my best friend, Rob. Seriously, never forget that.”

“Couldn’t if I tried. Now, full disclosure, there’s a B side to our bet.”

“Oh?”

“We made an addendum, if you will. When Eddie showed up at Chris’s party.”

“And what was that addendum?” You can feel your face getting hot. 

“When you two start dating.”

You blink at her. “Excuse me? When?”

“We also have money on which of you will initiate the first kiss.”

“Robin!”

“Bee, please. You cannot be that blind!”

This isn’t happening. “I have no clue what the hell you’re talking about.”

She raises her hands in surrender, despite your pleas for her to continue. “Never mind. I’m sorry, that’s not fair. I shouldn’t be making bets on my friend’s personal life.”

“No, you really shouldn’t!” You sip your coffee grumpily, turning back to the New Girl episode you’d started mere minutes earlier. 

“You guys are kinda like Nick and Jess.” Robin muses. 

“Shut. Up. You know what? You don’t even have to worry about it. I told him I didn’t want to be friends anymore.”

Her laugh ceases abruptly, eyes widening as she registers the weight of what you said. “What? Why?”

But before you can answer, Steve comes out of the kitchen, purple and orange paper streamers taped to his fingers. ��Hello? Would you two stop yapping and help me with the decorations?” causing you and Robin to burst into giggles. 

—

Steve’s Halloween parties are known in town for being the spot that weekend. If you don’t at least make an appearance, it’s not worth mentioning what you did do. 

You haven’t been to one since high school. You didn’t have the energy, and it wasn’t worth the trouble to pretend. But for some reason, you feel obligated this time. So you dawn the jade green dress a second time since purchasing it, heart feeling heavy in your chest. 

“Dude, you look insanely hot.” Robin gushes, helping you tie the corset. “Eddie’s gonna die.” You frown, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “What, you think because you texted him that he’ll give up on you? You’re funny. And way too naive for your own good.” She knots the ribbons of the corset before stepping back. “Tada!”

You do look insanely hot, you can’t argue that. The dress seems to float as you walk, twirling around you in a way you can only describe as romantic. You’ve dawned a pair of elf ears you’d found at the Spirit Halloween in town, and a pair of strappy sandals you’d thrifted last summer. 

“The problem is I still don’t know how I upset him. I was supposed to be the one throwing a temper tantrum!” It’s silly, you know that, but you’re so tired of being the last one allowed to feel a certain way. “It shouldn’t have even been a big deal.”

“Did you mean it?” Robin asks, adjusting her own costume of Natasha Lyonne's character in But I’m A Cheerleader, complete with fluffy hair secured with a headband. 

It’s a loaded question. “To an extent,” You shrug, gently spreading pink glitter across your cheeks. “I probably could have explained myself a little.”

“Okay, so tell him what you meant. That boy would die for you, whether you wanna believe it or not, I’m sure he’d be willing to listen.”

“Rob, I don’t need that pressure. I don’t owe him anything after the shit he and my brother pulled. The fact that I gave him a chance at all is a feat.” You spin to look at your best friend, who’s already examining you with a pair of sad, bet losing eyes. “I’ll pay you out whatever you lose to Steve, if it will get you to stop pouting at me.” You cross your arms over your chest, and she mirrors you.

“It’s not the money I’m upset about, though that for sure doesn’t alleviate the sting. I was rooting for you guys. I still am! Even if, at least right now, that seems a little delusional. I have faith.” She smiles smugly at you, and before you can retort there’s a knock on her bedroom door.

“Ladies! Party starts in thirty, which means I need your help curating the playlist, like, now!” Steve calls from the other side, and you chuckle. 

“Yes, Mom! Be right there!” You yank the doorknob and step into what you’ve lovingly called the Harrington Haunt. The walls are plastered with cheap store bought decorations: caution tape, sticky window hangings meant to look like bloody hands, things that definitely won’t hold up past tonight. Every flat surface holds a bowl full of a different snack: kettle corn, M&Ms, pretzels, Steve has it all. You make your way over to where he stands, hand on his hip while the other scrolls through his music library for songs appropriate for the evening. He’s dressed like John Lennon, with circular glasses and a black turtleneck. 

“Gimme that.” You quip, snatching his phone from his hand. “Worry not about your playlist curation, Stevie. I’m here to rescue you.” Mostly, you just want to make sure there’s a healthy mix of pop for the locals in with the weird shit you’ll likely sneak in. 

“Thanks, Bee, however will I repay you?” Steve rolls his eyes, but he nudges you to show he’s only kidding, that he does truly appreciate the help.

“Keep Munson far, far away from me tonight, and we’ll call it even.”

Steve frowns, clocking Robin’s look behind you. You don’t bother arguing, you’re sure they’re going to do nothing of the sort. Looks like it will be up to you to maintain sanity tonight, without the help of your matchmaking duo.

–

By 9:30, the apartment is filled with your friends, acquaintances, and people you’ve probably met before but can't place. Music floods through the speakers, one of your personal favorite songs that the general audience seem to be enjoying. So far, you’ve been lucky enough not to see Eddie, unsure at this point if he’s even here. He wouldn’t pass up such a valuable opportunity to sell his product, though, so you assume he’ll be here soon if he hasn’t shown up already.

“Bee?” The question comes from over your shoulder, and you turn around to meet the eyes of none other than Scotty. “Shit, that is you!” Without warning, he pulls you into an unreciprocated hug, pinning your arms to their sides. He’s dressed as a pirate, complete with a stuffed parrot on his shoulder, and a tattered eye patch over his left eye. He smells like booze, and you flinch when he rubs your back. 

“Scott. Hi.” A polite response, but not one that opens the door to further conversation. 

“Listen, since I’ve got you,” He starts, completely disregarding your visible discomfort. “I wanna apologize for standing you up. That was really lame of me, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since. I feel horrible.” His voice is even, like he’s rehearsed these lines to spit back at you.

You shake your head. “No big deal, man. I forgive you.” Mostly, you just don’t feel like causing another scene with him.

“You wanna dance?” The song is faster, and you weigh the risk of dancing with him in your head. “Okay, sure. Yeah, let’s dance.” He beams, taking your hand in his and leading you to a space in the den where guests are gyrating, grinding on each other as the rhythm shakes the walls.

He’s a perfect gentleman, surprisingly enough. He doesn’t get on top of you, only holds you by the waist as you turn your back to him, a more PG version of what your fellow party goers are doing. “You look good, by the way. Great costume.”

“Thanks, made it myself.” You smile politely as you sway your hips, doing your best not to grind into him too much, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. “Lovin’ the pirate, too.”

“Ha, thanks. Had the shirt already, figured I would build off that.” 

The conversation doesn’t stray from small talk, much to your relief. When the song ends, he leads you back to the couches, flopping down next to you. You’re still talking when the air around you shifts, someone moving too close into the already crowded space.

“You are fucking unbelievable.” His words raise the hairs on your neck, and Scotty jolts from his seat on the couch. You dare to look up at him, and immediately regret it. His curly locks have disappeared, hidden under a slicked platinum wig. He’s done Spike insane justice, down to the chain around his neck and his nails painted black. He looks hot. You can feel yourself blushing. 

“It doesn’t concern you, man.” Scotty puffs out his chest, attempting to make himself look bigger. “We’re just havin’ a friendly conversation.”

“Yeah, while your girlfriend sits on the other side of the room crying because she thinks you’re cheating on her.” Eddie nods, gesturing to the melancholy girl leaning against the kitchen counter, red solo cup in her grip. Her makeup is running, and you catch her eyes glaring at you before she quickly darts them to the floor. 

“You have a girlfriend?” You look back to Scott. “Why the fuck did you ask me to dance?”

“Yeah, Scotty? Why’d you ask her to dance?” Eddie echos, head tilted with mock curiosity.

“It wasn’t anything like that! I just wanted to, y’know, apologize for that date.”

“Uh huh. Then why is your girl crying like you kicked her puppy?” Eddie challenges, and your heart stings. You’d never wish that kind of pain on someone, much less volunteer to be the cause of it. 

“I- uh,” Scotty stutters.

“Uh, uh, uh. That’s what I thought. Now, get the fuck outta here and go beg for her forgiveness before I smash your face in again.”

Scotty opens his mouth to speak, but catches your eye first and you shake your head. “Trust me, he’s not kidding. I’d go while I still can.”

He gives you a curt wave, scurrying away from Eddie and back to his– probably now ex-girlfriend– leaving Eddie the room to take his spot. 

“What, didn’t get enough of making me miserable at the bar? Gonna ruin my night here, too?”

Eddie only snickers, running his hand through the plastic hair of his wig. “Guess so. Look, I wanna talk to you.”

“Funny, because I really have no desire to speak to you.” Not a true statement, not even close, but he can't know that. “Especially not with so many witnesses.”

“You ashamed of me suddenly?”

“Can’t be ashamed of something I have no involvement with.” You deadpan, staring uncomfortably into his eyes. He skipped the contacts to match Spike’s ice blue eyes, instead looking back with his own chocolate brown ones that always make you softer. 

“Okay, somewhere private then?”

“Not tonight, please. I just wanna have a good time with my friends, I really don’t need you spouting off some bullshit about why I had no right to be upset with you.”

He shakes his head. “Whoa, no, that’s not at all what I was gonna say. You really think I’m that much of an asshole?”

You shrug. “I don’t really think anything. I don’t know you that well, Eddie.”

Your words tug a pout from his lips. “You know me better than anyone else does.”

“Nah, that’s Chris, and believe it or not we don’t share a brain.”

“Chris only knows what I tell him. You know me like the back of your own hand, even if you don’t realize it. You know the things no one else does.”

It makes you angry, the way he’s talking to you. Standing from the couch, you turn back to look at him. “I used to know you, sure. I knew you when we were kids, but you haven’t been that guy in years. This Eddie, the one in front of me, is not the one I called my best friend.” It hurts to say, hurts worse to watch his face fall as he hears you, really listens to what you’re saying. 

“So, that’s it then? You’re just giving up?”

You pretend you can’t hear him, refusing to look back as you walk across the room, the music now a loud buzzing in your brain. 

When Robin catches you by your still sore hand, you flinch. “Hey,” She’s cautious, letting go and watching as you massage your knuckles. “How did that go?” She nods to where Eddie is, sipping his beer on the couch as a girl in a rather revealing nurse costume sits on the arm next to him. 

“About how you’d expect.”

“So, he’s pretending nothing happened?”

You shrug. “He asked to talk somewhere private.”

“And you said no?” 

You nod, and she backhands your arm. “Ow! What was that shit for?”

“You need to talk to him, like, now.”

“Or what, Rob?”

“I don’t know exactly, I just know he’s a lot more fragile than he leads on.”

You look at him again, and the girl has migrated into his lap. “Yeah, he seems really worked up over it.” 

“He’s still a man, Bee. Sometimes they have a funny way of coping with heartbreak.” You can barely hear her, still watching the pair of them, both so beautiful in low light as she whispers something into his ear, making him laugh. Your chest tightens. 

“Yeah, okay, whatever! Can you get me another drink, please?”

“Anything for you, darlin’.” She yanks open the cooler next to her and pulls out a cider, but doesn’t hand it to you yet. “Just, please promise me you aren’t gonna let this ruin your night.”

Sighing, you make a move for the drink but she yanks it out of your reach before you can grab it. “Okay! Fine, I will not let Eddie Munson’s bullshit ruin my night.”

“Good girl,” she hands you the can, “now drink up! I signed us up for karaoke.”

“You what?!”

–

“Alright, my friends!” Steve takes the mic from its stand next to the TV, putting on his best host voice. “We’re about to begin the torture that is late night karaoke. Luckily, it’s Friday night, and most of my neighbors are in this room anyway, so please feel free to suck as badly as you want! First up, we have Robin, who is performing Love Is Embarrassing by Olivia Rodrigo!” With a sweeping gesture, he welcomes Robin to the front of the room and hands the mic off. She stands there, shy suddenly, grasping it in both of her hands as the music starts. Luckily, she’s quick to melt into the music, dancing to the beat until her cue to sing appears on screen behind her. 

To show your support, you sing along with her from the side of the crowd, bopping along with a group of girls that seem far too into Robin’s legs to be paying any attention to her voice. 

She finishes, and receives a polite applause from the people still watching while others run to put their names on the list. A few more people go first, singing their drunk little hearts out to pop anthems, one obscure enough metal song, and Steve’s eerily close version of Djo’s End of Beginning before once again taking the mic to announce the next performer. 

“Now, this one is one of my personal favorites. She doesn’t come to these parties often, but when she does you know you’re in for a treat! Please join me in welcoming my best friend Bee, and her rendition of Dead Horse by Hayley Williams!” He beckons you with his hand to the front, waving you forward like he’s bending the wind. You groan as Robin shakes you by the shoulders, trudging to the front of his living room like you have weights tied to your ankles. Steve presses the button to start the song, and you close your eyes to center yourself. You’re feeling relatively buzzed, safe enough to perform in front of these other drunk people, but when you open your eyes you’re immediately greeted with the one reason you didn’t want to be the center of attention.

Eddie has moved from his spot on the couch, no longer attached to the sexy nurse, now standing in the corner sipping what has to be his fifth beer while Gareth nods to the music beside him. He’s focusing on you, eyes unmoving as you sway along to the intro of the song. You challenge him, forcing yourself to look directly at him as you sing, 

“Every mornin’ I wake up from a dream of you holding me

Underwater.

Is that a dream or a memory?

Held my breath for a decade, dyed my hair blue to match my lips.

Cool of me to try,

Pretty cool, I’m still alive.”

You start to groove, losing yourself in the words of your favorite artist. By the end, you’re full on dancing, having grabbed Robin by the hand and yanking her into your orbit to dance with you, and she does. For three minutes, you’re having fun with your friends, Steve joining you in the “Ya, ya, ya, ya”s at the end of the song. When you finish, you take both of their hands and force them to bow with you, and the room floods with whistles and cheers. When you find the spot where Eddie was standing, Gareth is standing there clapping for you, but his taller friend is nowhere to be found.

“Okay, it looks like we have a new sign up!” Steve brings your attention back to him. He’s holding the sign up sheet that’s just been handed to him. “Oh, you guys are in for it now. Everyone, help me welcome one of the most talented musicians I know up here, and the kid you all wish you were nice to in high school, Eddie Munson!” The applause is scattered, hesitant, and you groan as he takes center floor. He’s removed the wig, his unruly curls tied in a low ponytail on his neck, still decked in the trench coat and combat boots. 

“Thanks, Stevie. No originals tonight, we charge extra for that. Instead, I’d like to sing a cover of one of my favorite songs, and something vastly different from what you’re probably expecting.” The song begins, and you can immediately recognize where this is going. You can’t help but watch, though, despite desperately wishing you’d left the room. 

“You’re cold,

Like a stone,

How did you get that way?

How did you get that way?” 

The song builds, and Eddie grows with it, voice becoming hoarse as the singing becomes more desperate. It’s a song you know, a favorite of yours even, and you don’t remember telling Eddie that. He’s singing to you, and anyone with eyes has noticed the way his eyes bore into you. 

“This is bullshit.” You mumble, not meaning for Robin and Steve to hear, and make your exit onto the back porch while Eddie still sings, 

“There doesn’t have to be a problem

For you to call me, for you to talk to me…”

–

You’re smoking a second cigarette when the screen door slides open behind you. “Got a light?” 

You refuse to turn around, instead thrusting your lighter out behind you for him to take. He does, and you hear it flick a few times before he lights his own cigarette and hands it back to you. “You got some pipes on you. How come I never knew that?” Eddie steps to lean on the railing, and you move just far enough away so his shoulder doesn’t brush yours. “Woulda asked you to sing back up for me years ago.” You can’t help the scoff that comes out in response. “What makes you think I’d want to do that?”

“Nothing, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have tried to convince you. You’re good, Bee. I mean it.”

“Yeah, when I’m drunk, maybe. Only time you’ll ever see me singing for other people.”

He chuckles, taking another drag from his cigarette and ashing it over the ground. “You got a minute to indulge me in conversation? Or are you still avoiding me like I sent your brother to prison?” He has the balls to giggle as he asks it.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“I’ve been told. Is that a yes?”

“Not really! Why would you wanna talk now? Aren’t you drunk?”

He nods. “Obviously. That’s what it takes to get more than a glare from you. I just wanna apologize for the night at the bar. I know what I said wasn’t cool, I just… figured you could use a break, I guess.”

You take a beat to collect your thoughts the best you can, stalling as you bring the cigarette back up to your lips. Finally, you respond, “You were being a dick.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He tries to meet your eyes, but you stare straight ahead into the night. “What happened to your hand?” He nods at the hand closest to him, bruises yellowing as they heal.

“Punched a wall.”

“The wall deserve it?” He nudges your arm with his. 

“No, it was just all I had available.”

“Right. You picture me instead?”

No. You just needed to feel something physical, instead of the ache in your heart. “Would that shut you up?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then no, honestly. Just… needed to distract myself.”

“Bee,” He lowers his voice, like he’s afraid of being overheard. “Please, tell me what’s going on. I wanna help.”

“Eddie, leave it alone. There is nothing you can do to fix the way I feel. It’s been this way for as long as you and Chris have been friends. You guys have been a team since we were kids, since Chris dropped me and took you under his wing in my place because I was just his little sister. You both replaced me with each other, and clearly those years away haven’t changed that. I’m still Chris’s 'little sister,' a nuisance you’re forced to entertain until you just can’t put up with me anymore. Right? I’m right, aren’t I?”

Your question is met first with silence, Eddie tossing the butt of his cigarette into the lawn below before he turns his body to face you. “You could not be more wrong.”

“Enlighten me, then! What makes me so repulsive to you that, even after everything, you can’t just be on my side?”

“I am on your side!”

“No, you’re not! You’re hanging out with me out of pity, or fucking guilt. You have no actual desire to be my friend, you want to clean your slate so you and Chris can get back to doing whatever it is you guys do without me.” The cracks in your voice as you speak piss you off, and you have to swat at the tears forming in your eyes before they fall. “I don’t want your pity. I don’t need you walking on eggshells around me because you can’t accept what you did. I have every right to hate you, and I don’t know what it’s gonna take for you to understand that.”

“Just tell me you hate me, then.” 

You force yourself to look at him, meeting his own tear-filled eyes with yours. “I can’t. I don’t know why, but I still want you in my life. Even after everything. I just want you to want that, too.” 

He doesn’t say anything, but takes your hurt hand in his own rough one, thumb stroking calming circles over the space between your thumb and pointer finger. “I don’t know how to do this. I’m not usually the type to fight for someone. I’m used to people leaving. I don’t really… know how to ask you to stay.” He’s talking to your entwined hands, not able to bring his eyes up. “I probably don’t deserve it. But I do know, more than anything, that I want you in my life. However much you’ll allow.”

And how are you supposed to say no to that? He brings your knuckles to his lips, placing a tender kiss on the worst of your bruises. “But, if you say the word, I’ll go. I won’t beg, I won’t make it any harder than it has to be. Just tell me now, to my face, that you don’t want me.”

You don’t. Whether it’s the liquor, the weed, or just pure adrenaline, you’re not sure, but you let it take over, stepping towards Eddie as he releases your hand, and wrap your arms around his neck. He hesitantly places his own on your waist and you fall into his grip, burying your head in the crook of his neck as he wraps his arms around you fully, tightly, like he’s scared you’ll disappear. 

“Please don’t. I don’t think I can handle you leaving again. Just give me some time.”

Eddie rubs your back soothingly, and you let the tears fall silently, though he can probably feel your ragged breaths. “‘M not goin’ anywhere, sweetheart.” 

–

The rest of the party is spent in better spirits. You converse with old friends over drinks, shouting to accommodate for the loud music still flooding the house. Eddie is practically glued to you, arm around your shoulders as you talk with your hands to someone you used to have class with. 

“So, how long have you guys been dating? I know you were friends in high school, but I didn’t think you were together!” Her name is Suzie, or something. You had biology with her your freshman year, and she remembers Eddie from his general reputation.

“Oh, we’re not together.” You stifle an awkward laugh, and pretend to miss the way Eddie’s face falls the tiniest bit. “Just uh, friends.”

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume anything. You guys just seem so inseparable.”

“You’d be surprised.” Eddie quips, and maybe-Suzie makes an “Ah,” noise, like she’s been there before. 

“Alright, everyone. That time of night has come,” Steve has taken it upon himself to kick his guests out. “You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here! It was lovely seeing you all, but get to goin’! Really not in the mood to hear shit from the landlord about cars parked on the lawn. If you do not have a safe ride home, please come talk to me so we can get you set up with an Uber!” He flings his door open, and wishes everyone a good night as they file out. Your old classmate gives you a wave, and makes her own way to the door.

“Be honest, you have any idea who that was?” You turn to ask Eddie.

He shakes his head. “Not a clue. Made me wanna pretend we were dating just to make it interesting.”

You frown at him. “Don’t push it, Munson.”

He raises his hands up in surrender, and you already miss the warmth of his arm around you. “Sorry, sorry. No pushing.” 

“Hey, love birds!” Robin shouts from the living room, and you groan as Eddie beams at her. “Clean up crew starts in fifteen minutes, so get your shit in order before then, yeah?”

“Sir yes sir!” You mock, and Eddie throws his elbow out to salute her. She snorts, rolling her eyes before saying, “It is unbelievable how stupid both of you are.”

You think you know what she’s implying, but one look at Eddie shows he has no clue. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t worry about it. She just says shit.” You will yourself to move, pushing up from the couch before offering Eddie your hand. “C’mon, let’s go put this disaster back together, huh?”

And he takes your hand, using it as leverage to get off the couch. “Lead the way.”

[cogentsummoner]

Hiii!

First off, Ch10 was so good omggg!! I was laughing so hard at Smite being like erm actually, you’re committing a crime even though he’s literally the most feared villain in Japan and I’m sure he’s done FARRR worse than breaking down your friend/partner’s door to look after them besides like they said ‘no harm done’

I seriously love your writing and your AUs so much!! I can’t wait for Ch11!

I was wondering if you might be open to writing a little drabble (I think that’s the right word?? Sorry I’m not good with terms) with Smite and Yagi (I know they’re the same person but since the reader at the current part of the story uploaded still thinks they’re separate you could do both, or either it’s completely up to you!) comforting with the reader in the soulmate AU? Or just villain!Toshi if you’d rather completely up to you ofc!

Obviously you don’t have to if you don’t want to, I wouldn’t want you to feel pressured to in any way but I absolutely love your writing! Thank you so much for blessing us all with your amazing fics! Hope have a great rest of your week ^^

i'm so glad you enjoyed chapter 10! thank you for reading! and yeah, i can do something like that. i've actually been thinking about writing something like this for a while, so this is dedicated to everyone who just needs the mental image of smite pampering them after a rough day at work.

There was still a rush of giddiness that swept through All Might every time he used the key you'd given him to your apartment. It was proof- real, tangible proof- that you wanted him there. You were, quite literally, inviting him in.

...Sometimes he got so excited that he accidentally smooshed the key out of shaped in his giant hands, and he'd needed you to use your Quirk on it.

He took a minute before opening the door the check himself over- the more comfortable he was around you as Yagi, the more he had to remind himself to make sure he was in the right form. He'd almost walked through the door in his frail form far too many times already.

"Pumpkin! I bought dinner!" he called out. When no response came, he frowned. Your work shoes were by the door, and your bag had been thrown on the couch. Setting down the bag of takeout he'd gotten on the kitchen table, he began to look for you.

He quickly found you in your bedroom, laying face down on your bed, still in your work clothes. You were snoring faintly; the sight would've made him smile, normally, but your brows were furrowed, even in your sleep.

"Pumpkin- pumpkin, hey, it's time to wake up," he said quietly, shaking your shoulder just a little bit. You woke up almost immediately, an irritated grunt leaving you as you turned to look at him.

You looked like shit, to be honest, and the disgruntled look on your face wasn't helping. You sat up, a huff leaving you. Your hair was disheveled, and you looked exhausted.

"Day was that bad, huh?" he said sympathetically, rubbing his thumb across your cheek comfortingly. You let out a long sigh, and nodded. "...Do you want a hug?"

When you nodded again, he picked you up gently, wrapping his arms around you- you were almost entirely swallowed in his embrace, and seemed very, very content with that, pressing your face further into his chest.

As he held you, he played absentmindedly with your hair. "I got your favorite takeout for dinner," he said quietly, and tension leaked out of your body.

"-hank you," you mumbled, almost entirely muffled by his pecs.

"Why don't you take a nice, hot- well, shower I suppose. You really need to get a bathtub, pumpkin," he commented.

You made a noncommittal noise and said, "When we move we can find somewhere that has a tub. Maybe we can even find one big enough to fit you."

"... When are we moving?" he asked, confused.

You looked up at him and blinked. "You know, when we move in together? Like most couples do?"

Oh. Oh, you were- you were thinking about a future together. About- about being a normal couple, about living together-!

Maybe he teared up a little. Just a little!

You wiped his tear away with a tired smile. "It really is cute how excited and emotional you get over us just being a normal couple."

"Stop," he huffed, his face turning red with embarrassment. Clearing his throat, he said, "You- you should take a nice hot shower while I heat up dinner."

You came out of the bathroom a little while later, in your comfiest pair of pajamas, looking a lot more refreshed. Before you could sit down at the kitchen table, however, All Might picked you up in one hand, and both of your dishes in the other.

You giggled at his antics, and he delighted in the sound.

"I was thinking... dinner and a movie tonight? Whatever you wanna watch, pumpkin," he said, setting your bowls down on the coffee table, before setting you down on his lap on the couch.

Your smile this time was a little less tired, and you leaned up to press a kiss to his mouth.

"Thank you, bunny. You... you're really sweet, you know that?" you said as you snuggled against him.

His cheeks flushed red. "I just... I just want to make you happy," he mumbled, almost shyly.

You rested your hand on his. "You do."

...Maybe he teared up a lot that time.

taglist: @lets-zofifi-stuff, @crimsonflameproxy, @actuallysaiyan, @silvershadow1711, @like-a-clock, @kennys-partner, @duckywithahat, @andriannag

[lrithill]

Of Black and White (Art x gn! reader)

Hi everyone,

This is a fanfic I started writing after having a  bad day at university and realizing I desperately needed Art to... comfort me.

And honestly, I just realized how incredibly therapeutic writing can be, because it genuinely made me feel so much better. I was actually laughing and having a good time while writing it.

Summary: After a day that shatters you more than you dare admit, you come home, unsure how Art will face your sorrow. What you find is terrifying and beautiful: a love too deep for words, and a future as fragile as a candle trembling in the rain.

Warnings: Extreme fluff, free pizza (for reasons), violence (but in a joyful context), the deepest kind of romance, crying (both from sadness and happiness), true love.

I wanted this to be a gender-neutral reader fanfic so that everyone could feel represented.

I tried not to mention anything that could hint at the reader's gender.

I hope I did it right—it's my first time trying!

It's hilarious how you can literally see the evolution of my mood throughout this fic—it starts off all sad and gloomy, and then slowly climbs its way back up into my usual style, full of humor, romance, violence... cozy violence (yes, I’m calling it that).

I started this as something silly and quick, but as always... it had to evolve into a nearly 5,000-word emotional one-shot. I was honestly moved by the ending—like, wow... feelings happened.

So I ended up crying agaaaaain…

The title "Of Black and White" is not merely about colors, but about the fierce contrasts that shape the story: happines and sadness, love and pain, light and shadow, life and death.

Also, this was possibly the hardest fanfic I've ever written so far, because it was really challenging to write this more "human" version of Art without making him too OOC (though at the beginning I totally took some liberties, because I needed the fluffiest fluff ever to exist).

PLUS, I spent like two weeks just thinking about ONE SINGLE PARAGRAPH that was absolutely RUINING MY LIFE.

And trust me—you'll know exactly which one it is when you read it. It was insanely difficult.

I mean, it's already hard enough to pull something like that off in my first language... now imagine trying to do it in a language that's not even mine. Holy Christ.

But honestly, with Art, it could never have been any other way.

Those lines had to be precise, razor-sharp...

They had to go deeper inside than Art’s dick ever could (and that says a lot).

(I don't want to spoil anything, but I'll just say that every gif I use is for a reason).

It was a strange day. One of those days that can’t quite decide whether it’s the last breath of winter or the first yawn of spring. A dry, howling wind—as dry as the desert—scratched at your eyes and filled your lungs with burning sand.

And yet, in the shade, the humidity soaked you to the bone, as if sadness itself were trying to bloom inside you in the form of mushrooms.

But you’d be lying if you said that was what was bothering you. Your irritated eyes, your tight chest, your uncomfortable body... they weren’t complaining about the outside world—but the inside one.

And you realized—with a kind of cruel irony—that this dissonant weather was the perfect mirror of your emotional wreckage: a chaotic storm hammering at your temples.

You were heading home in a rush, with the urgency of someone who doesn’t want to be seen. You didn’t want to run into anyone, and if you had… you probably wouldn’t have noticed—because you didn’t have it in you to lift your eyes from the ground, let alone meet someone’s gaze.

Well… maybe one gaze.

You’re not a serious person. You don’t usually get angry at anyone, much less hurt them—you don’t want to.

And that person… He isn’t used to seeing you sad, to feeling you distant, to the silence of a shadow without arms—you have no idea how he’s going to react to all this. Will he become your emotional support clown? Will he laugh at you? Will he vanish for days like you’re some sickly plant that needs to be left alone to recover?

You stormed into the building like a burglar. You opened the door with the kind of anxiety that wants to phase through matter. You climbed the stairs—those endless stairs. Everything was a gray blur—no edges, no contrast—a tasteless fog you swallowed without thinking. A grayness you longed to turn into something more legible: a balance of black and white.

And finally, your front door. You made a beeline for your room—craving your pajamas, your bed, a splash of fresh water to rinse away the tears, anything that would feel soft against your skin.

You greeted Art in passing, who was half-asleep on the couch—probably recharging before heading out to cause his usual nighttime chaos. He barely managed to let out a groggy “Honk!” before you vanished upstairs without looking back.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to see him…

It was that you didn’t want him to see you like this.

And that… that is what truly unsettles him.

Art is used to your greetings being full of kisses and laughter, with hugs and playful shoves. You, who speak to him like a well-tuned violin; you, who drown him in affection as naturally as breathing. And he—who is all flesh and expression, who loves through the body, who needs those gestures like a dancer needs music.

So, he slowly sits up, stretching and yawning in an exaggerated  motion. He sniffs the air, trying to detect any traces of menstrual blood in your scent—just in case it might explain your behavior—but no. Nothing.

It’s another kind of scent that reaches him—familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

He rolls up his sleeve to check the time on his invisible watch and nods with confident flair.

“Cue the sad music… it’s time for the clown to step into the spotlight. ”

Art climbs the wooden stairs, careful not to make a sound, dodging every creaky board—he knows them by heart, like a spider that knows each thread of its web.

Upstairs, your bedroom door is slightly ajar. He peeks in cautiously—scouting the terrain before making his entrance. He sees you lying on the bed, turned away from him, silently sobbing into a pillow, your arms coiled tightly around it.

An invisible knife cuts through his heart at the sight.

He can’t help but collapse dramatically against the wall, gazing up at the ceiling, one hand clutching his chest. Not because he’s sorrowful—but because he’s offended. 

Offense. Pure, undignified offense.

“What does that pillow have that I don’t? And why haven’t I turned it to ashes yet?”, he thinks, hurt.

But he collects himself. He’ll deal with that plush lover later—with all the fury a pillow fight can offer.

He slips through the door quietly—just wide enough to let his lean body in—and closes it back to exactly how it was, careful not to disturb the soft, shadowy cocoon you’d created.

He kneels by the edge of the bed, and—for one fleeting second—the thought of honking right into your ear crosses his mind. (Intrusive thoughts… are strong). But he resists—he’s clearly fighting for your affection against a dangerously cuddly rival.

Instead, he gently lets himself fall beside you, doing his best not to disturb you. His arms carefully wrap around your waist; you feel his chest against your back, his breath brushing softly across your shoulders. The sensation is warm, soothing, intimate… and it makes you blush, pulling an involuntary first smile from your lips.

His hands go searching for yours—as they always do—to interlace your fingers. Needing your warmth, your touch... connection.

When—

BAM!

To hell with the pillow.

Art runs into it before he finds your hands and hurls it against the wall at the speed of light—with all the jealousy and rage the world has ever known. Had there been a window, it would’ve landed in the neighbor’s house.

“I’ll pluck every feather from your body later,” he thinks, with the kind of anger he saves only for those foolish enough to touch you—already sentencing it to a slow, velvety death.

You look at him, stunned, blinking at the sudden, unprovoked assault.

His expression softens instantly when your eyes meet his.

Now his hands change course, reaching for your hair, gently brushing back a few strands from your face... just so he can really see you.

And he stays there, silent, watching you: Swollen lips, red eyes, tears still sliding down your chin...

It’s a face he’s seen a hundred times—on other people, in other moments, usually under flickering lights or right before a final scream—but somehow, seeing it on you... it’s like the first time. It doesn’t amuse him like it usually would, he doesn’t want to make it worse… in fact, he doesn’t even want to keep looking at it.

He leans in and kisses you—softly.

Sloppy kisses—silly, clumsy, innocent… One after another; like summer rain.

You feel his lips brushing yours gently—soft, playful. Kisses landing on your lower lip, at the corners of your mouth—like butterflies. His tongue peeks out timidly, just enough to graze you, never to intrude.

He’s not trying to seduce you.

He’s trying to comfort you… and somehow, he's doing a surprisingly good job.

His mouth finds the salty trail of a tear and follows it, drinks it, erases it. He cleans the droplets on your chin with trembling lips as if they were little stalactites—like he’s trying to absorb the pain directly from your skin.

You think about speaking. About telling him how grateful you are for this—how much his presence, his gestures, his way of loving you… actually calms you.

But you choose silence instead—letting your body say it all. Letting your fingers, your breath, the gentle movement of your mouth over his, speak for you. Letting your body language talk to him the way his talks to you—you speak the same language, the kind that doesn’t need translation.

Because in this moment—strange, warm, intimate—you both know there’s nothing more to say.

You bring your hands to his face—and gently—guide him, laying him down beside you. Never stopping the kisses… never breaking the spell.

Now you’re both fully lying down, on the same level. Eyes closed—though every now and then, Art sneaks one open to spy on your face (he still can’t quite believe how much you like kissing him).

Your bodies curl into a human nest, arms and legs tangled comfortably in a tight, warm embrace, full of tenderness—no urgency, no hunger, no desire. Just love.

Art pulls back slightly and takes a deep breath—releasing it in a sigh that can only mean… peace.

You caress his face with one hand, and with the other, you gently guide his hand toward your lips—kissing his fingers, his knuckles, the back of his hand, his wrists… You feel the fine hairs on his arm rise, and how that wave travels upward, upward, like your kisses were a gentle electric current.

There’s a soft, innocent smile on his lips now, and a light blush blooming on his cheeks—he can’t help it.

Then, he moves his hand away from your mouth.

Your brow furrows, just a little, puzzled.

But the confusion turns to wonder in an instant.

Because you see what Art is doing.

He lifts the pinky finger of his right hand. "I"

He crosses the index and middle fingers of both hands, then opens them wide. "love"

He points at you with his index finger. "you"

You don’t know much sign language—yet. But you had asked Art to teach you some important things.

And this—this one in particular—was one of the first you’d wanted to learn.

It’s the first time you see him doing it for real. No rehearsals. No jokes. No distractions...

And something in your chest melts sweetly.

Your eyes well up with tears—and this time, they’re tears of joy—and Art looks even more confused.

He watches you in silence, tilting his head with that trademark perplexed expression. His eyes scan your face with that curious look he gets when he doesn’t understand what’s going on—when he’s starting to suspect he might be the sane one in the room.

“Why do I always make people cry?” he wonders, proud of himself in the most frustrating way possible.

Then, as always, he decides the best way to handle discomfort… is to make it his own.

He throws himself at you with ridiculous theatrics and pulls you into a tight hug. So tight your face ends up smashed against his chest, barely able to breathe.

He starts repeating the “I love you” gesture again in sign language… but now in the most utterly chaotic, clumsy, exaggerated way possible—his hands flailing like a mute, stuttering ADHD octopus.

His movements are visual mayhem. Adorable mayhem.

And that—that pulls a laugh out of you, scattering the tears.

Art always seems like an emotional disaster, and yet he has this incredible ability to make you feel better—even when he has no idea what he’s doing. (A good clown, after all—if we ignore the whole “murder” thing—could probably brighten up a birthday or two.)

You try to mimic the gesture too, as best you can, but Art’s hugs aren’t bear hugs, they’re bear traps.

So all you can do is... shout.

“I LOVE YOU TOO! I LOVE YOU TOO!” you yell against his chest, hoping your ribs survive.

Your ribs will survive.

But your heart—most certainly—won’t.

That night, Art came back at a surprisingly reasonable hour—It was exactly 12:00 a.m. on the dot.

He rang your doorbell—as usual—covered in blood like a walking clot. He was in a great mood, even more than usual.

Art, unlike the rest of us mortals, always finishes work with renewed vitality—and, well… reduced vitality from others.

He kissed you carefully, trying not to get too much blood on you—though let’s be honest, nothing was going to save you from the butt slap.

He headed straight to the shower, no detours, which was… another sign that something was off.

Art’s just happy to see me happy again, and he doesn’t want to mess it up, you thought.

It had been a long day, and the only thing you truly needed now was something easy and comforting to eat.

So, in an act of pure wisdom, you decided to order pizza.

Art is sitting next to you on the couch when the doorbell rings:

DING DONG!

He doesn’t even need a second to think. His head snaps toward the door like a hunting dog that just sensed the delivery guy from miles away.

He throws you a knowing look, a mischievous little grin over his shoulder as he walks by. His eyebrows bounce playfully, his tongue shamelessly licking his lips.

I always have to be the one to order, but honestly? Worth it, you think to yourself, never taking your eyes off him.

"50 SECONDS IS YOUR RECORD!" you shout from the couch, stopwatch in hand.

Art strides toward the door with purpose, plants himself in front of it, and before opening it, does a few breathing exercises like an actor prepping for a major monologue.

And then...

CREEEAAAK...

He opens the door—slowly, dramatically. The hinge wails like a portal to hell. The door groans so loud, so cursed, it sounds like it’s haunted by its own misery.

On the other side, the delivery guy stands, smiling with the pizza in hand. But that smile lasts approximately 0.2 seconds.

Because facing him is not Art’s "few friends" face—it’s his "DEAD friends" face.

*In my language, there's an expression used to describe someone who looks unfriendly — we say they 'have a face of few. friends' That's where the joke comes from, because Art doesn't just have the face of someone with few friends; he looks like he killed them. I couldn't find a close way to translate it into English, so I'm explaining it here.*

“C-cash or… card, sir?” the poor guy whispers, holding the box out with visibly trembling hands.

Art looks up, feigns deep thought and then—

ZAS!

In an impossible quick motion, Art pulls his hands from behind his back and stabs the pizza from below, impaling it with something that is neither cash nor card.

“Big knife… or BIGGER knife?” his eyes say. 

The delivery guy goes paler than Art’s face. He watches the tomato sauce drip and suddenly… empathise—sees himself in that pizza’s place.

He drops the box—now skewered—and bolts down the stairs like a bat out of hell.

Art wipes away a tear from laughing too hard, soaking in the chaos.

“HONK! HONK! HONK!”

He curses out his mother through the horn, watching him run down the stairs, watching him completely lose it on the way down, watching more than one open fracture stick out, watching with absolute certainty that he won’t be making it to the hospital.

Finally, with the pizza in hand, he shuts the door and lifts the lid. The smell of melted cheese fills the room, blending with the lingering aura of natural terror and fresh trauma, setting the perfect mood for a romantic dinner.

Art sets it down on the table and plops beside you, sliding an arm around your shoulders—radiating the pride of an elite psychopath who plays competitively "Bring food, or become food.”

He looks at you like he just pulled off the stunt of a lifetime.

Which, to you, he absolutely did.

You’ll never have to pay for delivery again (though yes, you do need to rotate food places every two weeks to avoid investigations—but hey, free food is free food).

“48 SECONDS, BABY!!!!” you announce, stopping the timer, and clap your hands. “Gold medal for the champion,” you say, pretending to place an imaginary medal around his neck.

Art gives you a high five, already munching on a slice—still impaled, of course, because using hands is way too basic for him.

But now comes the interesting part—the reason Art was so cheerful when he arrived.

The movie you were watching suddenly gets interrupted by breaking news.

You glance at Art—who’s wearing a picture-perfect expression of surprise, his mouth forming a flawless "O." He turns to look at you, keeping that same face, as if he had absolutely no idea what’s about to be said.

📢 BREAKING NEWS — MILES COUNTY DIARY📢

"At 10:38 p.m., two bodies were found on the outskirts of Miles County, next to a video camera. The investigation team has confirmed that the footage shows the presence of Art, the infamous homicidal clown. Authorities are urging residents to stay indoors, lock all doors and windows. The following images contain graphic violence. Viewer discretion is advised. This material may be disturbing for some audiences. Watch at your own risk."

"What is this, Art?" you ask, genuinely confused.

Art simply points at the screen, smiling wide, eyes sparkling with excitement—he’s only missing a tub of popcorn, though the pizza works just as well.

"I love how they say ‘stay indoors, lock all doors and windows,’" you say, chuckling. "Because obviously I’m going to do all that… with my homicidal clown already inside."

You both burst out laughing at the irony.

The footage begins—Art raises a finger to his lips, signaling a “shhh”.

The recording starts with a jarring camera shake, as if someone had hit “record” by accident… or abruptly. The image wobbles for a few seconds before stabilizing, revealing a deeply unsettling scene:

A man tied to a chair, duct tape wrapped tightly around his torso, wrists, and ankles. He’s in a dark room, lit only by a single harsh, yellowish spotlight hanging above his head, casting a long, trembling shadow on the wall behind him.

“Please… I don’t want to diiiie,” he pleads through clenched teeth, looking straight into the camera.

Art swings the camera side to side, shaking it as if to say “no”—so even the audience gets the message… though he hasn’t shown himself yet.

He walks up to the man and gently strokes his hair—as if to comfort him—bringing the camera in close to capture his bruised face and glassy eyes—with dilated pupils. It looks like Art injected him with something to keep him awake.

It seems there are wires at the base of his neck—subtle, almost hidden—, as they trail behind his head.

“Wh-what do you want from me…?” the man whispers, trembling.

Art then pulls out a knife and shows it to him—the man freezes, eyes locked on the blade.

Art passes the knife slowly near his Adam’s apple, not quite touching it.

“I have a wife… she’s pregnant…” the man blurts out, trying to appeal to some flicker of mercy.

Art finally turns the camera toward himself for the first time. He makes an exaggerated pout, clearly heartbroken by the situation, clearly full of sympathy, clearly… performing.

“You’ll never know what love is!” the man spits at him, desperate and furious.

Art pauses.

He points to himself with a skeptical face…then points to the man’s face… then back to himself again—like a sarcastic seesaw, a pantomime of disbelief.

As if to say:

“Are you sure about that?”

Then, he lifts his hat and—

TADA!

He pulls out a photo of you. He doesn’t show it to the camera, but he holds it up to the man with a reverent gesture. So proud and happy.

He turns the camera back to his own face, now wearing a smug, satisfied smile. He kisses the photo with a dainty little “mwah”, presses it to his chest where his heart is, and tucks it safely away again.

Without warning, he points a gun at the man.

The man freezes in pure, bone-deep terror.

Art hands him a piece of paper, neatly folded.

But the guy’s wrists are still tied, so Art very helpfully proceeds to stab one of his hands repeatedly, destroying it completely before leaving it free enough to hold the paper.

The man screams in agony—his hand now practically useless, bones poking through like shattered twigs.

Art just laughs—though you don’t hear it. But you see it: shoulders shaking, chest bouncing, tongue poking out playfully from the corner of his mouth.

He steps back a few paces, angling the camera to get a perfect wide shot, making sure to capture every second of the show.

The man is trembling. Crying. Begging. Bleeding. 

Art makes a very clear gesture with the gun.

Read.

The man swallows hard, sobbing, and begins to read out loud the handwritten message from the killer himself:

“You are the sky stretched over my hell, the bloom that rose where my body fell, the nightmare I long for, night after night, the fall I crave, more than the flight. I no longer know if this is a curse— for every drop of blood forgets its path, and every stream, no matter how dire, leads back to you through pain and desire. It must be a curse—this aching delight, that makes me weak and steals my fight. It makes me fear what I never did: not monsters or death—but feelings I hid. I fear to die—drenched in endless black. I fear your death—I'd bleed the heavens to bring you back. Treachery’s the sin most deeply damned— a sin I never knew, until today. And now I’d drown, with pride and grace, in Cocytus’ cold, in death’s embrace— for you have made me turn on me, and crowned me my worst enemy. You were my first delicious mistake, and you’ll be the final breath I’ll take. So I ask you now—divine, unholy— Will you marry me, my one and only?”

*In Dante's Divine Comedy, the lake Cocytus is the ninth and final circle of Hell, an immense frozen wasteland where traitors are punished. This icy region is marked by the extreme cold caused by Lucifer's wings, meant to punish betrayal.*

You're completely absorbed in the recording.

And that last line—that line—snaps you back to reality like a bucket of cold water… or cold blood.

Your soul slams back into your body, and for the umpteenth time today, your eyes well up with tears.

Because when you turn your head…

Art is no longer sitting on the couch.

He’s not there.

He’s no longer beside you.

He’s kneeling on the floor… with a small black box in his hand, holding a beautiful ring that looks like it was forged in the most intimate corner of hell.

In his other hand, he holds a bouquet of ghost flowers—pale Monotropa uniflora. 

Their waxy, translucent stems trembling like glass on the verge of breaking—white, ethereal, eerie, spectral… yet real. 

Just like him.

Rootless things that bloom in the dark, feeding on decay, and yet… so full of beauty. He offers them with care, as if they were precious, impossible things. 

The recording is still playing, but nothing’s happening—As if even past Art is holding his breath, waiting for your answer.

“Oh… Art…”

You can’t find the words. Your throat tightens, but an undeniable smile blooms across your face.

“Yes. Of course yes! I’ve never wanted anything more in my life… I LOVE YOU.”

You kneel down to hug him, not even looking at the perfect ring waiting for your finger… honestly, nothing seems more perfect right now than your… husband.

Art sets the box and the bouquet gently on the table and lifts you up in a hug that sweeps your feet off the ground.

And he kisses you like it’s the first time—which, in a way, it is.

The first time—as spouses.

The recording flickers back to life: romantic music begins to play, a soft waltz worthy of an enchanted, bizarre wedding.

Of course Art planned this. Of course it went flawlessly.

You start dancing without thinking, without speaking… just floating.

The moment couldn’t be more dreamlike—you never imagined, as a child, that your proposal would look anything like this—but honestly… it’s unbeatable.

On screen, the other Art appears again—he’s applauding, blowing kisses at the camera, wiping away an invisible tear.

He signals to the man beside him, gesturing for him to clap as well—as if he knows—as if he can somehow see what’s happening right now on the other side of the screen.

While you and Art keep dancing, video-Art—visibly satisfied—, takes a step back.

With a final bow, he steps away from the man and pulls out a small detonator. 

He smiles wide, eyes darkening with a slow, delicious malice.

Your Art points to the screen, urging you to watch.

Video-Art presses the button and—

For a moment, nothing happens.

And then—

BAAAAM 

The man’s head explodes in a monstrous fireball, accompanied by homemade fireworks—a burst of color, violence and celebration.

His brains go flying, scattered through the air like confetti. Blood gushes out like a fountain, a crimson rain of eternal love.

Video-Art jumps with joy, twirling under the blood shower—it turned out exactly as he’d planned.

He holds up a finger in a 'wait a minute' gesture, then casually walks off, as if he's gone to get something

The music keeps playing.

Then he reappears, now dancing with… another headless body?

(Maybe the first take wasn’t good enough).

And the scene continues.

Music and blood.

Dance and delirium.

Death and the corpse entering and exiting frame with hypnotic steps.

And you, without thinking, keep dancing too—dancing with your own sweet death.

As you kiss him, as you caress his face, your hearts beat in sync—chest to chest, as if trying to merge into one.

Art reaches for the box again from the table. His eyes are glowing, eager to see how beautifully the ring fits your hand.

The ring he made himself.

He shows it to you, and this time, you finally take in every detail that the rush of emotion had blurred before.

It’s elegant—it’s perfect. Exactly the right proportions for your finger.

Tiny jewels are embedded in the ring: obsidian and pearls, mirroring his own colors—as if his essence had crystallized inside the ring.

His, on the other hand, is not nearly as ornate—you could say he poured all his effort into yours.

Or perhaps, for him, it was enough to have something that simply matched you.

And then you see the inside.

And on the inner band, there’s a detail so deliberate it actually frightens you—frightens you with how carefully Art prepared this moment.

Etched with almost reverent precision, something leaves you breathless:

Your names.

Together.

Engraved like a prayer—or maybe an eternal curse.

There’s no way to tell which.

It’s beautiful. And it’s yours.

You start to slide the ring onto your finger… but Art stops you.

He takes your hand gently, and he’s the one to slip the ring on, watching with deep satisfaction as it fits perfectly.

Of course it does.

He made it for you—maybe that’s why he was always staring at your hands with such devotion.

"I love you, Art. Forever," you whisper, admiring your hand—now complete.

Art kisses your hand in response, his eyes glowing with emotion.

"Your turn," you say with a soft smile, holding his ring now.

He offers his hand a little shyly, and you kiss it gently, reassuringly. You feel his whole body relax beneath your touch.

You slide the ring onto his finger, and yes—it fits perfectly too.

And then your hands find each other—fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces finally reunited after a long, winding search.

You look at each other, you smile and… for a moment, you see someone else. Or rather, you see something in him you’d never seen before.

There’s the faintest gloss in Art’s eyes, like something unspoken stirred him.

You’ve never seen him cry—and he certainly can’t remember the last time he did… if he ever did at all.

But you didn't get the chance to read it, to piece it together—to make sense of it.

Because, suddenly, the light fades—

The video ends at that exact moment—as if past Art had sensed a tear slipping out, and decided to protect himself in the future by cutting away just in time.

The music fades.

The tv-screen goes black.

And the room is left in total darkness.

There’s nothing left now… but this:

The kisses.

The embraces.

The darkness.

The silence dance.

The presence.

The warmth.

One for the other, forever.

The next morning, you couldn’t stop thinking about everything that had happened.

You’re not even sure Art fully understands what marriage means (besides owning a perpetual hostage)—and maybe, yes; it was impulsive.

But then you remember… Art lives every day on the edge of death.

That thought always brings a quiet, heavy sadness that settles in your chest, and you can’t shake it.

Because deep down, you know your relationship won’t last forever.

Not because the love will fade—but because he will.

Quite literally, any day could be his last. 

And he knows it.

Maybe that’s why he didn’t want to lose the chance to marry you—before he ran out of time to do it.

Before the day comes when you no longer have to worry about blood-soaked clown shoe prints to clean.

Before the day comes when he stops showing up at your door.

Before the day comes when there's nothing left of him but the quiet.

Before the day you realize he's already gone.

Thank you for reading all the way to the end.

You could say you just read a little piece of my soul—I truly poured my feelings into this, especially into Art’s poem.

I adore writing poetry, and even if it’s not exactly perfect, I believe I managed to express everything I wanted to in the best way I could.

While I was writing the ending, I couldn’t help but shed a few tears, because at that point, it wasn’t the reader speaking anymore—it was me, thinking about everything I had written and why.

I think I hadn't fully realized that someday, I’ll have to say goodbye to Art for real—that I’ll never see him on the big screen again.

But that’s necessary, and it can't be any other way.

This character truly is so special, and even though I want him to have the most brutal, torturous death in the whole franchise—because he absolutely deserves it...

I’m not ready to watch him die.

Also, this is what the bouquet of ghost flowers kind of looked like:

[ro-ro-bbbi]

Hobie and gwen are besties and they're so cuteeee 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️🏳️‍⚧️

They would have so many silly fake arguments and fight and then they cuddle and kiss eachother's noses and play together and make songs together and make fun of eachother's crushes and they bond so much bc they're both queer and they have very serious conversations about gwen's dad and her peter and her whole 'no friends' thing and hobie's family and his canon events and he being touch straved and all the trauma that he has that we still don't know about and they have actually arguments about her lying to herself and isolating herself and believing miguel's bullishit and maybe after she made peace with her father she would go back living with him but hobie doesnt agree bc he scared and he doesnt like george bc he literally pointed a gun to her head and he saw how many of his friends have been killed or hurt by the police or by their own parents and he wont let that happen again and he cares so much and he is so protective of his lil drummer and gwen loves him so much but also just wants a father and they would have so many nicknames for eachother and-

[adamnablelittledevil]

Wanting to cheat and skip to Jaime and Brienne chapters and then reread them over and over again is going to be the death of me. WHY DID THEY PUT COCAINE ON THESE CHARACTERS I'M TRYING TO BE A GOOD GIRL AND READ EVERYTHING PROPERLY.

[amid-fandoms]

the way we celebrate every little milestone and anniversary these two have, from the day dan started shooting his shot to the day they became facebook friends to the day they met irl to the day they moved in together etc etc we truly live on a special phannie calendar cause why do i forget my family’s birthdays more than phanniversaries

[helsensm]

What do you think of the Shaolin bros in the old tl? Which of their designs is your favorite

Love them with all my heart! Nothing is better than the childhood friends trope (ok, maybe found family is a little bit better XD), who are being boys, pals, bros, idiots together. <3 We need an animated series about them growing up and training together, I swear...

My fav version of them would be the one in mk11, because there we have cute past boys AND hot revenant boys? for the price of one?? is for me? 👉👈😳

Liu Kang’s design is very iconic and never really changed much in the old tl, but with Kung Lao I also want to mention his cool black-blue-red outfit in mk9, Shaolin Monks and mk Legends. 👌😩 Love how his mk1 Outworld armor is kinda the homage to that.

And although it’s not about the old timeline, but I think that 2021 movie shaolin bros are very nice too! More… soft than their predecessors, but their bond warmed my cold and empty soul. 😌

[titan-wolfdog]

The fandom will have to forgive me but I cannot get over the idea that Nemesis and Artemis are exes, like full-on exes. Tried to be together and Artemis broke Nemesis' heart and that's why Nemesis is so apprehensive to dating Melinoë.

Just, first of all, that whole ''You wouldn't give to one of us body and soul'' quote IS DEFLECTING! Did you try to do that, Nem? Did you try and fail? Melinoë asking permission to Artemis if she can be closer to Nemesis, too. I cannot ignore that. It sounds like two close friends where one is going on a date with the other's failed relationship. Fucking hell, I wouldn't even put it past those two that the reason Nemesis and Artemis didn't work out wasn't exclusively because ''Goddess of celibacy'' yadda yadda, but because it's obvious Nemesis' feelings for Melinoë run much deeper (and also, if Artemis had broken her heart, she would HAVE tried to get ''even'' but nothing has ever been mentioned as far as I'm aware, so it was most likely mutual), while THEIR situation was, that, a situation.

Nemesis doesn't want to see her. She doesn't even seem irritated, but FRUSTRATED, tense!

Artemis also doesn't want to see her or even say hello, to arguably one of the closest allies. Granted, she's socially awkward and we have known this since Hades 1 but come ON.

Do they still fuck once in a while? Probably! At least the whole ''She needs company, I need company. She needs solitude, I need solitude'' dialogue seems to hint at it. Unless they just sit together in uncomfortable silence or exchange the odd word or two, which is funnier and also sadder.

This also makes me think just how, awkward, it is for Nemesis to try to date her EX'S ''younger sister'', she has a type and it is witty huntresses.

[coachbeards]

in that order

[theusernameiwantisntavailable]

i demand timbern for the ask game /jk

How dare you come into my asks and demand that I talk abt my favourite ship after I reblogged a ship ask game! /jk

I think it goes without question that I ship it lol

What made me ship it?

When I first got into DC (Tim Drake) the only Tim ship I was really aware of was timkon due to its immense popularity. I ended up really liking it (and still do!) but every now and then I'd see posts of people dunking on timber (mainly because they were bitter abt Tim not ending up with Kon). I decided to look into the ship more to see if it was really as bad as people made it out to be

And next thing I new I had a new favourite ship and favourite character lol (Bernard Dowd they could never make me hate you)

2. What are your favourite things about the ship?

There are so many thing I love about them. But I think one thing that doesn't get talked about enough was how Bernard knew Tim before he knew Robin. Yes technically Tim was still Robin when they first met, but that got upturned relatively quickly and I think they spent more time together without Tim having Robin then vice versa. So many people in Tims life that he's close with knew the mask a while before they knew him (which is a fascinating relationship in itself) and E grieves is one of the few times we see Tim without any sort of mantle. I think that there's something special about the fact that Tim, with all his identity and attachment issues around his superhero identity, ended up with one of the few people who knew him (even for a short while) as just Tim Drake.

3. Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

The fact that they have less content then other ships that have been around for decades longer is enjoyable. It means you get to fill in the blanks

I feel like with ships that have been around for so long there's less room for ambiguity to fill up. Everything is already there for you, which is fun don't get me wrong! But having the freedom to be creative and come up with ideas in a way you couldn't otherwise is part of the fun

[microwaving-tesilid-argente]

oh to have a patron god who unconditionally loves you to bits.....

//

[ipona]

ACOTAR is truly proof that fandom in general has vastly changed from when I got into online fandoms some odd twenty years ago. You've got two hot, morally gray men, who hate each other, perfect narrative foils, with opposite night/day-esque aesthetics, a complicated history and potential for countless friends to lovers to enemies to reluctant allies back to lovers again fix-it fics. They have loads of suggestively charged dialogue, and throughout the series they keep. coming. back. to each other, seemingly unable to let go.

And you mean to tell me that not only is this faaaaar from the most popular ship, it's actually pretty controversial outside of its own niche sub-fandom?