#i already own one from target that i don't wear enough but what if i had MORE

[maybe-im-dark]

Half the boyfriend, half the fun

The first thing Wade felt was cold. Not the gentle coolness of an autumn breeze or the refreshing chill of freshly fallen snow. No, this was a biting, numbing cold. His vision was blurry and his body felt...off. he tried to move but nothing happened. As he blinked away the fog in his brain and looked down at himself the realization hit him like a punch in the gut —his legs were gone.

"Crap!", he muttered in a raspy voice.

Slowly the memories returned. He and Logan had been on a mission, targeting a group of small-time criminals, who had holed up in the woods. Get there, take them out, get the cash, done. But apparently something had gone horribly wrong.

"Logan?", he called out.

No answer.

Panic flared as he looked around the wooded area. Using his arms, he began to crawl foward, twigs and pine needles digging into his stomach. Not caring for the blood trail he left behind. A few yards away he spotted Logan and the sight made his heart skip a beat. Logan looked just as bad, if not worse. Instead of being cut, his body was ripped off at one of the vulnerable intervertebral discs, that were not adamantium, torn apart brutally. One half of his metal spine was sticking out of his torso, glinting against the bloodied mess of torn skin, flesh and tendons.

"Oh, no, no, no!" Wade mumbled, dragging himself as quickly to Logan's side, as his upper half would allow. "Come on, peanut, don't do this to me!"

Logan's healing factor was strong, but unlike Wade, he couldn't regrow limbs. They needed to be attached to his body, for the wounds to start closing. Unfortunately Logan's lower half was nowhere in sight. Wade's mind raced. His belt was nearby, scattered in a pile of dried leaves. Wade rolled onto his side, grabbing it. Thankfully his Hello Kitty fliphone —small enough to fit into one of the tiny pockets— was in there for emergencies.

His fingers shook so badly that it was difficult to press the small buttons. As he went through the contact list, the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain set in. Today was really turning out to be a shit day.

The phone barely rang twice, before Dopinder picked up.

"Hey, Mr. Pool, what can i do for you on this fine day?", the cab driver's familiar thick indian accent greeted him.

"Cut the chit-chat, Dopinder! Shit has hit the fan and it's flying everywhere! Get to the coordinates i'm sending, stat!"

He hung up, quickly typing in their location and hitting send twice in agitation.

It didn't take long. Ten minutes later, Wade heard the distant screech of tires as Dopinder slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop. Dopinder hurried over, as fast as he could on the uneven ground. When he saw Wade and Logan, he looked as though he was about to puke, pressing a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, i know! America's next topmodel isn't in our future anytime soon! Now pull yourself together for fuck's sake!", Wade yelled. "You need to help me find Logan's legs. They're around here somewhere."

Dopinder nodded, his legs wobbling, as he searched the area. A moment later he returned, cradling Logan's legs to his chest like a baby. They were still inside the yellow pants and blue boots. And why would they have undressed him? Surely nobody was that sick. Wade pushed the distracting thoughts aside.

"Alright Dopinder", he instructed, trying his best to sound calm. "Attach them to his torso. He'll up on his own."

Dopinder followed the instructions, carefully pressing Logan's lower half against his upper body. Nothing happened. Logan's wounds remained open, his body still split in two.

"Maybe...maybe he's already dead?" Dopinder suggested, looking uneasy at Logan's unconscious form.

"No, he's just passed out", Wade said. Then quietly to himself: "I hope he stays that way. I'd rather he didn't have to see this sight himself."

The wheels inside Wade's brain turned as he wracked his brain for what to do next. "We need to prevent his body parts from dying off! Ice! We need ice! Dopinder get us to a gas station, quick!"

Wade grabbed Logan's legs and Dopinder hoisted him under one arm and Logan's torso under the other, rushing back to the car. Wade maneuvered himself onto the passenger's seat as Dopinder carefully laid Logan's halves on the backseat.

Then he sped off, ignoring speed limits, though to Wade the drive still felt far too slow. Every red light cost them precious minutes. Finally they pulled up to the first gas station and Dopinder sprinted inside.

Desperately Wade turned to look at Logan. His skin was ashen with deep shadows under his eyes, that hadn't been there before.

"Hold on, honey", Wade whispered, reaching out to gently stroke Logan's disheveled dark brown hair.

A tingling sensation ran through Wade, as he realized, with some relief, that small stumps were beginning to form below his hips. His own legs were regenerating, at last. At least something was working as it should.

Dopinder returned, carrying two large plastic containers and several bags of crushed ice. He filled both containers two the brim with ice, carefully placing Logan's upper half in one and his lower half in the other.

"This is sick! Just sick!" Dopinder murmured as he took in the sight.

"Quit whining and drive to the mansion!" Wade barked.

Dopinder swallowed. But...shouldn't he be in a hospital?"

Wade rolled his eyes. "Yeah and what are you going to tell the doctors? 'Oh the guy in pieces here is actually a mutant with self healing powers, that aren't working right now. If you could fix him up, please!' Newsflash: Most people aren't too fond of mutants! These anti-mutant-propaganda-posters all over the city aren't just for show!"

Dopinder opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again, nodding stiffly. He got behind the wheel and drove off. On one hand Wade felt guilty for going off on him. It wasn't fair. But on the other hand, he didn't give a fuck. Right now Logan's wellbeing wad all that mattered, everything else could wait.

"The gate's closed!" Dopinder said as they approached the mansion.

The school was an imposing building from the 19th century made of grey stones, its turrets and bay windows making it look more like a castle.

"Should we...announce ourselves?"

Wade shook his head. "Just drive right through!"

Dopinder floored it, crashing through the gate. The metal wings bend inward, scraping the sides of the car with a horrible screech as a shower of sparks flew across the windshield. Whatever. The professor could cover the damage; the old fart was loaded.

Dopinder parked, leaping out of the car. Wade wadled behind him on his tiny stumps.

"Help!" Dopinder screamed, pounding on the entrance door. "We need help!"

"Yeah, we have a medical emergency! Screw what Professor Egghead says, come out here!" Wade joined in.

The door swung open revealing Hank McCoy in a white lab coat over a beige cable-knit sweater and corduroy pants.

"Mr Wilson, i believe we made it clear, that you are not welcome here! And to have the audacity to insult the professor..."

"Come off it, cookie monster! Logan's badly injured and he won't heal!" Wade cut him off.

Hank adjusted his glasses, irritated. "Yes, yes. I'll take a look at him right away."

"Oh my stars and garters!", he exclaimed as he saw Logan's body halves in the ice-filled containers.

"Holy crap!"

Jean Grey had joined them, without Wade noticing. Not exactly ladylike to curse like that. Did Cyclops know his fiancée used such language?

Using telekinesis, Jean carefully levitated Logan's body parts, guiding them as she and Hank rushed back to the mansion. Wade followed as quickly as his stubby legs would allow.

"What are you gonna do? Will he be okay? Why...?"

The door slammed shut in his face.

Outraged, he turned to Dopinder. "Really? They're just leaving the readers with a cliffhanger like that? Well, to be continued i guess."

[ephemeral-winter]

oversized blue and white striped button down shirt save me... save me oversized blue and white striped button down shirt

[irisintheafterglow]

way hay, and up she rises! (opla!zoro x you)

summary: zoro leads the crew to an informant from his bounty-hunting days; they don't know his history with the pretty singer in the bar.

wc: 2.6k

cw/tags: swearing, implied fem!reader (wearing a skirt and makeup) but they/them pronouns used, basically singer/bodyguard trope, strangers to lovers, brief guy being an asshole (and protective zoro!), simp zoro, i love zoro, can you tell how much i love this man

note: do i imagine lucy gray baird when i think about reader singing in a bar? maybe a little bit. do i wish i could sing like rachel zegler as lucy gray baird? abso-fucking-lutely. i've been listening to a lot of random sea shanties lately so this is where that came from. hope you enjoy!

likes, reblogs, and replies are much appreciated!

“You’re sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Of all the times for you to doubt me, cook,” he says, catching the door with the toe of his boot and kicking it open, “I can say for certain, I have this under control.” His feet step through the doorway and he’s bombarded with jolly laughter, drunken singing, and a dancing fiddle. The patrons cheer with flasks and goblets in their hands, liquor splashing onto their neighbors when they slam their cups onto wooden tables. It’s warm like a hearth, not a hell, and the unkempt atmosphere wraps around him like a familiar blanket. Within seconds, he’s not a pirate anymore; he’s back to being a hunter. 

And there, swinging the edge of your skirt with a tambourine in hand, was you. The lantern light catches in your eyes in a way that makes them glow, enchanting him like a spell. You’re just as breathtaking as the last time he saw you, singing clearer than the stars shining on a winter night. When you speak, it’s like invisible ropes extend from your lithe fingers, grabbing each man by the ears and pulling them in to listen further. He’s no different, finding himself drifting toward your stage when a sudden hand tugs him away. 

“Hey, we’re going this way. Luffy found a table in the back,” Nami informs him over the controlled chaos of the bar. Her voice quiets as he follows her to a secluded corner, but her teasing was not lost to him. 

“Pretty interesting place you’ve led us to.”

“That’s one way to put it,” he replies blandly, still slightly awestruck from seeing you again.

“Got a crush on the singer?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he deadpans, sliding into the booth next to his beaming captain. He gladly accepts the bottle Usopp offers him, taking a swig without so much of a flinch when it burns down his throat and goes straight to his head. 

“What were you guys talking about?” Luffy pipes up and he doesn’t hide his grimace in time. “Did Nami say something to bother you, Zoro?” 

“Doesn’t she always?” An uneasy feeling settles in the pit of the swordsman’s stomach, one he could only explain by not having eyes on you. He was used to being here alone, where he could admire you without distraction. He knew he wasn’t ready for the crew’s interrogation about his history with you. “I just need something to drink.” 

“You’re already holding a bottle, if you’ve forgotten already,” Sanji reminds him. “Don’t make us drag your sorry ass out of another bar.” If looks could kill, Zoro couldn’t fathom the number of coffins the stupid cook would need. 

“Alright, alright,” Luffy interjects. “Zoro’s just been…stressed. We all deal with stress in our own ways.” 

“There are healthier ways to deal with stress than alcoholism,” Nami points out. “For instance, talking it out works wonders.”

“While I appreciate the concern, we’re here for information, not therapy,” Zoro states tersely, taking another gulp from his bottle. “We came a little early, so we’ll have to wait until the band is done with their set before we move in on the target.” His eyes drift back into your general direction, hoping there weren’t any guys giving you trouble. 

“Why can’t we just move in now? There’s enough chaos in the bar to be a distraction,” Luffy asks.

“Sanji and I could start a fight,” Usopp offers in response, holding up the cook’s wrist like he was ready for the first punch. “That worked last time.” Zoro shakes his head. 

“Too risky. The informant won’t say anything if we interrupt the music, especially if it’s a bar fight,” he replies, a fond look blinking across his face. “They’re a little…difficult, sometimes.” The pieces click together in Nami’s brain before he can stop her and the realization dawns on her in no time.  

“Your contact is the singer.” He shrugs one shoulder, not looking any of his crew in the eye and instead watching the growing crowd around your stage. “The singer you have a crush on?” Zoro’s head snaps back to reality and becomes all too aware of the heat growing on his cheeks. 

“I don’t have a crush on them,” he mumbles half-heartedly. 

“Aw, Zoro is in love!” Usopp sighs. “I always knew he had a heart.” 

“It’s not love. It’s just admiration, if anything,” he counters, but it’s no use. His crewmates were already on a roll. 

“I thought you said you had this under control,” Sanji recalls with a taunting smirk. 

“I do have this under control.”

“Your red complexion says otherwise,” the cook replies and Zoro’s frown deepens. It wasn’t part of his plan for the rest of his friends to find out about his relationship with you. In fact, accompanying him to the bar was not part of the plan in the first place. “Look, I’m happy for you. Honestly, I am. If you could do it, then I surely will find someone even better.” 

“That’s enough,” Nami cuts in before Zoro can unsheath a sword. He nods in curt gratitude, but she doesn’t let him off the hook. “However, as payback for not telling us about your little sweetheart, you’re gonna explain how you know them until their set is done.” 

“Says who?”

“Says us,” Usopp answers, holding up Sanji’s fist again and miming the cook punching him in the face. “Or, we’re gonna cause a scene and make them come to us first.” 

“You guys are impossible,” Zoro mutters under his breath. With a deep exhale, he establishes a single rule. “You don’t tell anyone about what I’m about to tell you, understand?” The crew nods. “Good, because if someone finds out about them, I’m gonna shave your heads while you sleep.” 

As with most people Zoro interacted with, you met him because of a fight.

“I didn’t need your help,” you had told him that night, resting your boot on a ribcage for leverage and yanking your sword from the dead assailant’s chest. “So, you can leave now.”

“I thought you said you had this under control,” he remarks, cleaning the blood from his blade and inserting it back into its sheath. 

“I do have this under control,” you reiterate with a glare. “It was just an off night.” 

“Pretty impressive for an off night, though your swordsmanship could improve.” His hand gestures vaguely at the half-dozen attackers lying at your feet, amateurs whose strength depended on their numbers. Numbers, which he'd helped you cut down when you didn’t show up at the meeting spot you’d agreed upon. 

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to insult me or compliment me,” you scoff.

“Doesn’t matter, as long as you keep talking,” he replies without missing a beat, following you through the backdoor of the bar and down a dusty hallway into what he presumed was a makeshift dressing room. “You could make a good career out of bounty hunting if you wanted to.” Closing the door behind him, he settles into a nearby chair and watches you tidy up trinkets on the vanity. 

“I don’t remember letting you come in here, much less telling you to have a seat.” Your guarded nature only intrigues Zoro more, but he’s more than willing to leave if you truly didn’t want him present. Something in his gut told him, though, that you secretly enjoyed the company. “And, no. I’m not interested in the violence of your world, only the information part.” 

“The information part you didn’t show up for,” he recalls with a scowl. You hum in fake sympathy at his displeasure. 

“And my sincerest apologies for getting attacked while on route to our meeting place,” you bite, shaking your head when he rolls his eyes. “Look, we’re here now, so just ask your questions and get out.” Zoro does ask his questions and you give him the answers he needs, but the lingering feeling of disappointment when he bids you farewell stays with him even after he collects the head you helped him find. So, with the reward money sitting heavy in his pocket, he returns to your run-down little bar the following week. 

Without the pressure of fulfilling a hunt weighing on his chest, he catches himself enjoying your performance a little too much. It was mesmerizing, the way you danced across the stage and blew kisses to drunken audience members. Zoro even found himself smiling when he was able to catch your eye. 

“I take it the hunt went well,” you say in greeting when he appears in the doorway of your dressing room. It’s after your band’s last set and you’re visibly more relaxed than the previous time he saw you. Instead of barging into your space, he simply leans a muscled shoulder against the doorframe, arms crossed and observing you remove your makeup. 

“It did. Your little tip about the maid worked wonders.” 

“She’ll always turn a blind eye if it means a little extra money.” 

“She also knew the place better than the maps I was reading,” he adds. “I wouldn’t think to talk to her if it weren’t for you.” You dismiss his compliment with a wave of your hand. 

“The Lady of the House’s true right-hand is not her husband, but the one that cleans up after him,” you muse with a satisfied smile. He’s still standing in the doorway, you notice from the corner of your eye. “You can come in if you promise to explain why you’re back again.”

“Consider the promise made, then,” he replies, shutting the door and taking a seat the same way he did the week prior. “I wanted to apologize for getting off on the wrong foot.”

“The Demon of the East Blue apologizing to me? What a world we live in,” you quip and he chuckles. “For the record, I wasn’t mad at you. Well, not entirely.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Yeah, I was mad at you for interrupting the set to ask your questions, but I can’t blame you too much. It’s your first time here, after all.” He listens to your explanation intently, like there was no other voice he’d rather be hearing. “But for future reference, interrupting me while I’m singing will make other clients I serve a little jumpy.”

“They think you’re conspiring against them?”

“Exactly. I try to keep the same after-the-show policy with everyone, so if I give priority to one person, they’ll question my reliability.” He nods, your irritation suddenly making much more sense. 

“And when they question your reliability, they attack you outside the bar,” he concludes. 

“Mhmm, which was why I was late for our meeting. For that, I am sorry.” Your voice is softer than the candlelight illuminating the small room and he finds himself being drawn into you again, like a magnet. An idea pops into his mind, one that was sure to cost him a few hunts, but he’s sure you’re worth it.

“Ever think about hiring stage security?” 

“For a dirty-ass bar like this? Definitely not,” you laugh. “Maybe if I were playing for the general of the Marines, but here? That’s funny.” You thought that would be the end of your conversations with Zoro, but decided not to question his intentions when he showed up the following night. You spied him sitting in the same dark corner with a glass in his hand, watching you like you were the only being that mattered in his world. As the songs pass, your eyes find him on instinct and you’re rewarded with a rare grin that makes your stomach float. No sooner did you start your last set of the night, though, did a new client come storming into the bar. 

He was a Marine defector, one that was trying to make it onto some pirate’s ship before the government found him. In the second drawer of your dressing room vanity, you had a list of ships and ports that would guarantee him a smooth disappearance into the sea. He desperately needed the list and, being a new client, was clueless about your after-show policy. 

“Alright, give me the list. Let’s go,” he hissed once he reached the front of the stage, his words barely audible over the sound of your band. You attempt to smile and play him off as another drunk, but your amiable expression disappears when he tries to grab the edge of your skirt. “I’m not fucking messing around. Give me the fucking list.” As expected, your regular clients started to shift uncomfortably in their seats, looking at you and the greenie suspiciously. In their minds, you were giving special privileges to a new guy. “Stop being a bitch and give me the list.” The man reaches out to grab your skirt again when a strong hand shoves him away from you. 

“Get lost. They’re in the middle of performing.” You steal one glance at the swordsman in front of you, the one resting his hands menacingly on the hilts of his swords. His broad shoulders become a wall in front of you, impossible to pass without risking instant decapitation. The new client scurries away and you release a shaky breath, sending Zoro a grateful look when he’s back at his seat. Please stay, you mouth wordlessly. I’m not going anywhere, he mouths back.

He stays with you during your official meeting with the ex-Marine, arms crossed and stationed in the corner of your dressing room like a guard dog. When the meeting is over and Zoro’s all but thrown the man out of the building, he walks you home and waits until he hears your door lock before leaving. He’s back the next night, and the next, and the next, and all the nights afterward for nearly a year. You start to ask him about his past, his hunts, and his dreams. Little by little, you both start to take down your defenses and trust each other with vulnerability. He’s late, sometimes, when he gets caught in a hunt; but, you always end up finding him waiting for you in your dressing room. 

After he kisses you for the first time, you start inviting him in once he’s walked you home, impatiently locking your door before pulling him to your room. It’s little things that make you fall in love with him: waking up to find him hogging all of your blankets, resting on his bare chest and relishing in the feeling of his skin against yours, running a hand through his hair until he wakes up with a sleepy smile. He falls freely, hopelessly, and completely in love with you, too. 

He knows nothing has changed when you rush into his arms as soon as you see him in your dressing room. 

“Hey, songbird,” he mumbles while his arms lock around your waist. “I burn from missing you.”

“I’ve missed you more.” Your voice sounds muffled against his shoulder as your arms wind tightly around his neck. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, pulling you as closely to him as humanly possible. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Zoro felt at ease. “I thought I saw you walk in, but you didn’t go to your usual spot.”

“I know, I’m sorry. I have some…friends with me,” he says slowly, nudging the door open to reveal his crewmates eavesdropping from the hallway. You smirk knowingly, running the pad of your thumb over his cheekbone. “Alright, alright. Just say it–”

“I didn’t know you could make friends,” you tease and he prevents you from saying anything else by pressing his lips against yours. “Wanna introduce me to them?”

“Give me a second, baby,” he murmurs against your skin. “I need you to myself for a bit.”

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[bythepen98]

Doodles || Tomarry || Childhood friends/Growing Up Together au

(Ignore the not-so-time-period-accurate outfits)

Think of this as a timetravel au where Harry accidentally gets sent back to the past in Wool's orphanage at a young enough age where he barely notices the changes caused by the time displacement and thus grows up nonethewiser to his destiny as the Chosen One. Even when, objectively, his life at the orphanage could be considered worse considering the growing lack of food, his environment's state of decay and overall unrest happening outside the orphanage's walls, something about his situation felt right(?).

He'd always felt disconnected and out of place based on the few memories he still had from living with the Dursleys but now, it felt like he was home in a way. Like something finally clicked in his brain, his soul.

His instant connection to Tom helped cement that fact. It wasn't easy at first because the pull they felt when they first met was so strong that it scared Harry shtless and Tom, already half-full of resentment by this point, was horrified feeling anything to anyone that wasn't disgust. In the end, it didn't take long for them to meet halfway since they were still children and curiosity at the connection lured them in like candy; Harry wanted a special friend of his own and Tom convinced himself that Harry was worth his time because there was no way anyone ordinary could elicit such a soul deep response from him.

Tom has a mean streak and is more bloodthirsty than his charming facade would show but is honest about it with Harry. Although he doesn't have much to his name, Tom is serious about his self-imposed role as Harry's provider, giving him gifts (from the money he steals) during his birthdays and keeping him as warm and well fed as possible (by bullying the other kids into surrendering their share).

Sometimes, Tom....worries.....that his methods would eventually drive Harry - who has such an inherent goodness in him, so often kind to people who don't deserve it - away but what he fails to understand is that Harry's love and loyalty to the first friend he's ever made trumps any kindness he has for others. He'll never like needless violence and won't react if he was being targeted but all bets are off if he even a catches a whiff of plots against Tom. If he has to help hide a body or two in the future so that they won't be separated by something as inconvenient as jail or the law, then that's nobody's business but his own.

P.S. This Harry will probably go to Hufflepuff instead of Slytherin like in other fics. It just feels right. Probably should've drawn him wearing a yellow tie but only just got the idea as I'm typing this. Tom would rather eat slugs than go to the Hufflepuff common room but he's more than willing to entertain Harry at the Slytherin common room at every available chance. They have their own seat there and everything.

P.P.S. They also co adopt a tiny(??) baby snake when they realize they can both speak parseltongue and bring him along to hogwarts. Imagine being parents at the big old age of 10 to a possibly magical snake that may or may not grow past nagini-level size.

P.P.P.S. Future power couple in the making. Didn't think that far ahead whether I wanted Tom to go the political route or Dark Lord Voldemort style minus the horcruxes. Don't ask for me the details, just know that with Harry's help, Tom finds a way to prolong their lives without the consequences that come with using horcruxes. They may or may not discover that Harry is in fact a horcrux of Tom already but will never get the answer as to how it happened. Harry worries but Tom just chocks it up as the universe's way of paying him back for his shtty pre-Harry childhood. Ironically the type to believe in soulmates and destiny while Harry is a bit more skeptical on that front.

Alternatively, they could also decide not to do anything too significant -politically- at all and instead retire to the country side while doing research on as many branches of magic as they can. A bit laughable because of Tom's world altering ambitions and Harry's indulgent, enabling behavior but at the same time, anything's possible.

[gotham-daydreams]

Honestly (I know it’s typical yandere behavior) but instead of kidnapping, what if the batfam tries manipulating y/n into coming back to the manor? A lot of people forget that Bruce can be manipulative when he wants to be. Like each of them show up at Y/n’s usual hangouts, like they try to apologize but Y/n walks away and/or tells them off, “One apology isn’t going to erase the fact that you all neglected me!”

But each of them just pops in random places that Y/n happens to be to try to wear them down.

I'd say that jumping straight to some sort of kidnapping has become more common and typical of yanderes, honestly, which is part of the reason I'm putting it off- and also because of what you pointed out!

Some of the Batfam can be really manipulative and smart with their moves, and even more careful about what they say and how they say it to swing things in their favor. Bruce is also a very good example of this, as you've said! Though I'd also go as far as to say that Alfred can be as well but in a different way when compared to Bruce- and I feel like I've kind of shown that already.

Alfred from what I've shown does take a more hands off approach for the most part. Giving just enough of a nudge to get someone started (like Bruce), and or also conveniently place certain things that may or may not spark something, like what he does with Bruce, Jason, and Cass. Though he does also give a little more of a nudge at times as well, like what he does with Dick amd handing him the rest of the flyers for events that the reader wanted the Batfam to go too. And, well, we all see how that turned out.

As for Bruce, he'll simply insert himself into the reader's life as you've stated, and what can further his own manipulation is the family itself. Not to mention he has money, and even if it doesn't work on the reader, who's to say Bruce can't attach and pull a few strings on the people around them? I won't say much, but Bruce is definitely the type to where he controls the situation and environment itself, while Alfred does careful placements instead. Which both can be effective if they know their target well, and even if in this situation one does know the reader and their life better than the other, nothing says that little detail can't change.

What helps with how Bruce tends to be manipulative is that the reader has performances. Rather if their public of private, it doesn't matter because, again, Bruce has money. Lots of it. He could get in without even having to breathe.

Even if apologies don't cut it, there are always other ways to control certain things, and I keep pointing out how much money Bruce has- and honestly just a good portion of the Batfam because that could easily spell the end of it.

They could buy out the reader's apartment building. If they don't want to ruin the reader's career, they very well could easily ruin the lives of the people who dare to associate with them. They could cancel every performance or sell out each and every one just so that they could be the only ones that get to watch the reader perform.

Even without all of that! They could attend each and every performance or event that they know for a fact that the reader is going to, and basically force them into an interaction right then and there. They could even weaponize both their own popularity AND the reader's just to trap them, to overwhelm them, to keep them put so they can actually have a conversation- to keep them close.

There is lots that they could do, and even if the reader were to even gets ideas? What are they doing to do? What can they do? Run away? Leave before they're stripped of anything else or shown how vulnerable they really are without their family? Before they're further deluded into believing that one only people who'll ever see them, that'll ever hear them are the very people who start to show them how invisible they really were in the first place?

Best case scenario is that they manage to get away, but is that even possible? Who knows. Especially with someone as smart as Bruce Wayne on your ass.

----

Even if an arguably 'calmer' route is taken, with the Bruce and the rest of the Batfam trying to lure in the reader willing but without driving to the point or near insanity or collapse. I still feel like in a way they'd feel... infectious?

Like, as you mentioned- they'd appear around where the reader is a LOT, and I'd imagine it could get to a point where it feels like every waking moment, at least one of them is around. They'd make small talk, not being too pushy and if anything being careful, as if almost trying to be considerate of the reader's feelings- and that's what makes it so frustrating.

They're almost being reasonable- at least Bruce is with his endless amounts of patience, almost holding up a calm and collected attitude. The reader knows where he gets it from, seeing as it heavily reminds them of Alfred, but even if they appreciated it from Alfred in the past, with Bruce maybe they just can't help but hate it a little. It makes it so hard to hate Bruce when he's being cooperative and listening to the reader's wishes, giving them space and time when they ask for it (even if it's by telling him off), and listening to their woes.

He's actually being present now, and it's dreadful.

Ah! But excuse my ramblings! I love talking about these kinds of things if you couldn't tell, and I'd rather stop now before I spoil any potential ideas I might use in the future!

Regardless, no matter the approach taken, they are very determined to bring the reader home! Though I feel as if why a particular detail I'm going to include in a semi-later part doesn't last as long as it does is because the Batfam feels the need to fix things right now. They don't want to wait- already feeling as if they've wasted enough time without the reader, and we'll see if that gets across or not when that comes around :]

[hwanchaesong]

━⁠☞🍽️ Fourth Course: Partners in everything until you realize that you're nothing but his mere puppet in his very own acidic heist. 🥢

🎧: Olivia Rodrigo - Favorite Crime

wc: 826

genre & warnings: angst, college setting, bets and heartbreaks, cursing, hints of sex, break-up, etc etc

a/n: this is a part of The Sour Restaurant series. if y'all want, you can read the other album inspired fics of other groups here.

"Where are you going?" Yeosang asked, confusion written on his features when you suddenly got out of the bed, picking your discarded clothes on the floor.

He's alarmed to say the least, as he was expecting a cuddle session after your first night of intimacy with him.

So, why are you getting ready to leave?

When you don't answer him and continue dressing up, he repeats his question, only to be ignored again.

"Baby? What's up?" his frown deepens, now leaving the comforts of his sheets and picking up some clothes to wear as well.

"Isn't it obvious?" you huffed, putting on a shirt and looking for your bag so you could exit his apartment, "I'm leaving."

Yeosang tugs on your arm, pulling you close to him and stopping you from moving around.

"Why are you leaving? You can stay the night with me." he mumbles, his chest rumbling on your back and you hate how weak you are for him.

But you had enough. You have given him what he wants, you have given in to your desires, so now it's time for you to fix yourself. Maybe hear some reprimanding from your friend once they hear the story tomorrow.

Their voices echo in your head, pushing the knife deeper into your wounded heart.

"Don't get involved with that guy, Y/N. He's a player!"

"Save yourself from the heartbreak."

You would have listened to them, but where's the fun in that right?

Choosing to shield Yeosang from their bullets wasn't a wise thing to do, but you were in love with the man, leaving you no choice but to succumb to his charms.

"You wanted me to stay?" you scoffed, glaring at him and tugging your arm back, moving away from his body before you do something that you will further regret in the long run.

"Of course I do." he mumbles, sincerity lacing his tone and for a second you almost believed that he's been genuine with you.

He appears to be hurt at your attitude, but he doesn't deserve to act like a puppy who got kicked. The audacity to be in pain when it's supposed to be you, the one who should be grieving over murdered love that you are burying six feet under.

You hum, glaring at him with a meaningful smile that he couldn't quite comprehend, "Why? I mean— you already got what you want. Your mission is done."

He stands still and somehow, his breathing becomes shallower, his heartbeat spiking up as Yeosang slowly begins to understand your questionable actions.

You heard them. You fucking know everything.

Yeosang sits quietly in the corner of the classroom, listening to his friends talk about their endeavors and mundane problems in life.

"Oh Yeosang-hyung." Wooyoung called him, catching his attention and raising a brow at the younger in a silent question of what he needed.

"Is your mission going well?"

Yeosang's muscles have gone rigid for a second, remembering the purpose of why he courted you for so long.

But then again, he was ready to throw the stupid bet away.

Why?

Because he genuinely fell in love with you.

All the fake affections he shows, the 'I love you's', the countless nights of cuddling each other, random gossip and eating chicken in the middle of the night.

Everything is suddenly real, but then, what about his ego?

"Yeah." he answers absentmindedly, "I think I'll be able to do it tomorrow."

"Damn, looks like we have to throw in our money the day after tomorrow." Hongjoong laughs, fixing his position from the chair, "Didn't know that Y/N was such an easy target."

Yeosang's fists clenched, not liking the way you are referred to by Hongjoong. Still, he held himself back and forced a smile.

"I second that." Seonghwa butts in, giving Yeosang a pat on the back, "Advanced congratulations to you, my bro, for winning a bet successfully."

"Y/N, I can explain."

You held a hand up to stop him, shaking your head in disappointment. Mainly for yourself.

"Save it Yeosang. Besides, I let myself drown tonight despite knowing that this is nothing but a bet." you close your eyes, willing yourself not to cry.

At least, not in front of him.

"Y/N, baby, please." it was barely a whisper, a weak voice and meek begging but you're not about to give in.

You avoid Yeosang's hand that was attempting to grab you again, trudging towards the door of his apartment, ready to walk out of his life.

"Well, at least you have a new nerd in the notch of your belt. Congratulations, Yeosang."

Then you slammed the door shut, leaving Yeosang and his regrets, the pain of letting you go swallows him alive.

You did your best to love him with all you can, and even after all that, his hands remained soiled by your broken pieces. A crime that won't be forgotten and never be forgiven.

taglist:

@acciocriativity @iarayara @stolasisyourparent @shakalakaboomboo @nsixns @heartssol

[ghostlysoaps]

Creature/monster AU

Soft warning for mature language and themes

Soap is staring at him. This, in and of itself, isn't unusual. It's like their very own game of cat-and-mouse. Watching and waiting to get caught in the act, diverting their attention only after the other catches their gaze to keep. The switch occurs, and then it's up to each of them to decide how much blatant attention is enough.

Ghost grits his teeth under the relative safety of his mask but doesn't take his eyes off the road. He can't afford to with the headlights off even if he sees better in the dark than most – not with the loops and curves and potential threat hunting them.

"Are we going to talk about it?" Soap eventually asks, an hour and some into their mad dash to safety.

Ghost wishes he could parrot the question back at him while replacing the last word with "what.” It wouldn't work, he knows that. Playing the fool isn't Ghost’s strong suit and Soap wouldn't care to indulge him anyway. Not with the way his leg is bouncing, ears flicking, gaze as piercing as a knife between the ribs. A bloodhound who's caught a whiff of wounded prey. 

"No," is what he says instead, short, concise and brokering no room for argument.

"I think we should."

But then, Soap would argue with a brick wall on the off-chance he could win.

"Drop it, Sergeant."

Soap's face twists, canines flashing as he gives himself to irritation, eyes flashing gold.

"It was wearing my face while trying to coax ye into dicking it down, Ah'd say there's plenty to discuss."

"It was trying to get me close enough to wring my neck."

"Och, aye. Strange way t'go about it." The glower he levels Ghost with burns against the side of his face. "Sure there's nothing you wanna tell me? Might've helped dislodge that stick up yer arse if you'd let it–"

Ghost swerves abruptly, takes them off the main road to rest beneath a canopy of trees, on a path too overgrown to count as one, cutting Soap's questioning in half as the man yelps and slams a hand against the window to steady himself. The car slows to a stop and then one of Ghost's claw-tipped hands are on Johnny’s face, digging deep divots into the fat and muscle around his chin and jaw. He uses it to shake Soap's head from side-to-side. Not scruffing, but a show of displeasure nonetheless. One familiar to wolves. 

When Soap opens his mouth to protest, Ghost gives in to the urge to slot his thumb inside the warm cavern and draws a shallow line across it that quickly wells with blood.

"One more word," he snarls, "and I'll cut your tongue right out of your fucking mouth."

Soap stares at him, all wide-eyed and stricken, for a moment, just the one, before his lips stretch into a smirk around the digit in his mouth. He seals his lips over it, hollows his cheeks on a mean suckle, and then nips it with too-sharp teeth the moment Ghost pulls it out as if burnt, causing that lopsided smirk to broaden. 

"Shouldn't threaten me with a good time, sir."

"You're off your head." 

"I can smell arousal, y'know," Soap says, redirecting the conversation with all the gracefulness Ghost shows in his driving. "But not on you, can't ever smell anything on you. Drives me up the fuckin' wall." Soap shakes his head with a laugh, glances at Ghost from under his lashes. He's still smiling. "Sirens... now they don't need pheromones to get in yer head and root out yer darkest desires, an' they don't resort to shape-shifting into a specific guise unless there's a chance it'll work on their target."

"It didn't."

"I could tell by the bullet ye put through its heid. Dinnae even hesitate for a second."

Ghost's fingers flex at the reminder and Soap's eyes flit to them momentarily.

"You've a cold heart, Lt."

"Told you that already," Ghost rasps.

"Why me?"

And it sounds like begging, those two words, spoken in a beckoning call of their own, pleading for a truth Ghost is refusing to admit to anyone, least of all himself.

"You're attractive, Soap, that's all there is to it."

Soap deflates, sinking back into his seat with his face turning towards the window. Shoulders slumped, ears pinned back, as if he were a puppy expecting praise and finding a boot hurtling towards his side instead. It's jarring. Not wholly unexpected, but hell if it doesn't drive a blade straight through Ghost's aforementioned heart – something serrated and hooked sawing through his sternum to tear at raw nerves.

He should leave them there, within the rapidly growing chasm of distance he'd longed to create since Soap first bumped a fist against his shoulder.

"I knew it wasn't you."

It's the thinnest sliver of an olive branch, incapable of flowering with how slight and insignificant it is.

Soap takes it nonetheless.

"How's that?"

"Because your attempts at flirting are as bad as your jokes."

Johnny, incandescent with rage, comes back alive as if electrocuted and with slew of profanity to boot. He rants at Ghost for a solid half-hour, all ire and with no regard for propriety or rank, dressing him down as thoroughly as any drill sergeant back at basic. Anger is a good look on him. Joy is too. Emotions of any kind as long as they're far from the empty vessel Ghost had glimpsed before.

He lets out a breath he can't remember holding as Johnny’s voice steadily washes away the memory of blood in the sand and dimmed, unseeing eyes, blue as the summer's sky, staring unblinking ahead.

[posletsvet]

It's only just now clicked for me that all the despicable horrors Sukuna drags Yuuji through time and again, all the feats of grand, unseen violence he puts up just for Yuuji, all the heinous atrocities and pain he inflicts on Yuuji -- they actually carry an inkling of something strategical, coldly calculated. Don't get me wrong, doing all that Sukuna clearly enjoys himself, his rampage in Shibuya sizzling with euphoria of finally getting to move freely, unshackled, and in the end that is the very nature of a curse -- cause suffering for the sake of suffering and feast upon it. But Sukuna, perhaps rather oddly, doesn't strike me as someone who would hold petty grudges and act upon them spitefully. Especially in regard to someone like Yuuji, who Sukuna considers little different from the filth beneath his feet and doesn't hesitate to make it known. So why even bother hating something so insignificant, miniscule? Why spare an effort to make this particular life miserable when suffering is already inherent to human condition? And while I'm at it, here's one more question, perhaps more on point with what I'm trying to say: why retreat of your own free will to the state of entrapment and give up the reins of control so soon after they fell into your hands?

Back to the point I started this rambling with, it seems to me that in the chaos Sukuna causes there is calculation. I think he's trying to do to Yuuji what he did in the end to Megumi -- crash this boy's beating heart and drown his soul. Sukuna's actions appear pointed, aware of the effect they make, targeted directly at that very thing which would hurt Yuuji the most, thus pushing him to the breaking point. Countless casualties, pointless bloodshed and utter devastation -- all to crack Yuuji's resistance, to eliminate the ability to fight back in a boy who was careless enough to wear his heart out on his sleeve in a world that grinds the kind down and spits out their bones.

But the darker the weather, the better the man. Where every other human being would break, Yuuji stands unyielding. The more is taken away from him, the more reasons he has to keep fighting. When the only sacrifice he could ever accept was his own, he lost too much. So he ploughs on -- because that's the only way he can pay the unfathomably high cost of him being alive. And for all his experience and cunning wit, Sukuna's miscalculated with this one: he cannot destroy Yuuji's heart for it was never Yuuji's to keep. He gave it away a long time ago. It beats with other people's pulse.

[makerinthemaking]

neil gaiman is a fucking zionist.

"b-but neil gaiman simply said both israel AND palestine have a right to exist!! that doesn't make him a zioni--" yes the fuck it does u privileged ignorant fucks. i shouldn't have to fuckin say this but y'all will say anything for the sake of defending the brits ig? even throwing those being mass genocided rn under the bus?

i used to admire the guy 'til i found out what he's believed, the genocidal state he supports the existence of, & continues to stand by what he said.

israel DOESN'T have a right exist.

not as it is, not as it's been & will always be. a genocidal state built on stolen land. its very citizens have shaped into a culture of discrimination, see the shit they post about palestinians. see questionnaires & statistics. segregation laws many of them gladly endorse. this ain't just the politicians (who have been loud in their prospects of ethnic extermination to allow for more land stealing) nor is it abt jews, abt neil's or anyone's jewish background. plenty jews speaking up against this bullshit, & already there were jewish ppl living in palestine before colonization (brought by an illegitimate act of imposed imperialism & not one palestinian representative in sight. the UK must also be held accountable but they won't be). dare y'all to tell me it shouldn't be the goal to give the land & the power back to its indigenous colonized peoples, regardless of the oppressing settlers already being... settled. it ain't the native peoples' problem to figure out, esp when so many of the colonizing settlers will support the shit thrown at palestinians. there's maybe like 1000 palestinians losses for very israeli casualty. US cops r trained by Israel, not to mention Israel equips them w shit to k1ll minorities in the US. Palestinians stand by BLM & gave advice on how to dodge gas & bullets during protests. they stood by Malcolm X & Black Panthers. BIPOC oppression & fight has always aligned w Palestinians'. israel freely enjoys basics & luxuries & will fuss abt the silliest shit like not getting enough diet flour at the moment, while publicly segregating & making racist mock of palestinians for literally not having access to basic shit like water & shelter & for getting their population violently cleansed & decimated while in an open-air prison. they're not even allowed to try & leave without risk of getting killed, & they're bombed even where Israel directs them it's safe to go (like South Gaza!) but why should they leave? it's THEIR land. would be successful cultural genocide. & now Israel declines offers to recover Israeli hostages just bc they don't wanna return infant Palestinian hostages, & instead Israel bombs places where ISRAELI hostages may be kept. even target-bomb hospitals, houses. freed Israeli hostages come out saying how appalled they are at how Israel failed them & keeps failing them. Israel's also been stealing & jailing/target killing palestinian children for ages. this mass killing's been going on for decades, yet Palestine is demonized by media when they try defend themselves. ain't no matter of "two sides" & "neutrality" when one side is oppressed & the other the oppressor. hamas is israel's oppression fault (& their politics actually see them as a convenience). actual palestinians have stated again & again they don't just want the genocide to end, they also want their stolen land back & the genocidal invasor state to be dismantled. which is what's right. the state of israel often has to delete its own posts cuz they're always found to be fabricated, falsified shit against palestinians, now western jewish AND christian celebrities post abt how "scared" they are, from the safety of their mansions & limos. it was already illegal to wear traditional muslim attire in anti-muslim countries such as france, now it's illegal to even peacefully protest for palestine & if u do ur thrown in jail as a terrorist or deported. these countries publicly support israel. israel has the army the means & the world's support, palestine's been in need of support & neilman ain't helping. should just shut his goddmn mouth. ain't he the one getting genocided this day. i dare that moron neilman to come at me i'll fucking have him, he's just like any other people who won't let themselves be educated anyway. not by us, much less by the oppressed people of palestine, the ones actually getting the shitty end of this situation. im so done. bland fuckin spineless "liberals". so quick to defend the british. stop fucking defending rich public figures online & do something for the persecuted ppl actually getting killed rn.

they're never on equal footing when it's 15 goliaths against 1 david.

no, israel shouldn't fucking exist & neil gaiman is a fucking zionist for even saying it should. not sorry i said this - palestinians r getting worse than rudely worded posts.

not a war. GENOCIDE.

[theheartofthestar]

Prompt 25 - Criminal AU

@wolfstarmicrofic - April 25th, 835 words

He climbs deftly through the window. Recon had been correct. Remus has no problem getting into the house and up a flight of stairs, protected by the night and its silence. Get into a room, out through a window, climb the little stretch of wall and into the next window. A room, shockingly different from the others he's seen so far. Not in dimensions, but in decoration. Posters thrown up the walls, music ones, movies, a couple from festivals Remus himself had wanted to attend.

He walks slowly to the bed, in complete silence. Steps light, he wills his heart to beat slower, breathing so low you'd have to know what to look for in order to hear him. They don't call him The Wolf for nothing.

He pulls the gun out of its holster, a silencer already in place. Remus lowers the gun, closer, almost touching the shape of a man under the covers. The man is lying facing the door, as Remus knew he would. James had been observing the man's habits for weeks now, determining the best moment to strike, and he was the best at recon. But the client had decided to rush them, saying it had to be done tonight, so here Remus was. Bullets were not his preferred method for assassination, but in a pinch, it would have to do.

Slowly, Remus lowers the safety lock. Time seems to stop, there's a rush in his ears, one he's familiar with by now. The Wolf closing in on a prey, so close he can already taste blood.

"Can you hurry up? This wait is killing me" the man on the bed speaks and it startles Remus so badly he almost shoots blindly. He doesn't, because he's a professional, but it's a close call. Remus huffs behind the mask that cover the lower part of his face.

The man sits up on the bed, and Remus is surprised to see him with his hair done, eyeliner sharp, and dressed in a fucking tuxedo of all things. Sirius Black looks back at him with a thunderous frown, but fear glints in his eyes. Remus doesn't lower his gun.

"You've come to kill me, I know" Sirius says. His eyes flicker to the window and back at Remus. There's the faintest breeze coming in, making a few strands of hair dance against his sharp cheekbones.

"If I say no, would you believe me?" Remus says it before he can think better of it. He shouldn't have, he never speaks on the job, silence is his oldest and best ally. But again, never has a target been able to see him coming. Sirius snorts in response.

"Before you- kill me, would you tell me who it was?" Sirius asks, and there it is again, Remus notices, that quick flicker of his eyes.

"A gentleman never tells" is all Remus says, narrowing his eyes. But now he needs to know something himself. "How did you know I was here?"

"Oh, believe me, I've climbed enough times through that window to know exactly how it sounds when someone climbs in" Sirius laughs, but there's no humor. "Was it Father?"

Remus lowers his gun minutely. Licks his lips behind the mask.

"Your Mother" Remus says. He sees Sirius eyebrows spasm, as if in sudden pain, but his body remains calm. Remus is impressed, he would make a good agent yet.

"Do it fast, yeah?" Sirius says. And lies back down. But there's something about it that doesn't sit right with Remus anymore. Maybe it's the glint of fear in those eyes, maybe it's the posters on the walls, all the same bands Remus listens to, maybe it's the three piece suit he is wearing, the proof that this man knew he was going to die today, and wore something appropriately dramatic.

"How much do you like your life as it is now?" Remus asks, and he finally lowers the gun. Sirius eyes follow the movement.

"Not much, yet thankfully I won't have to endure it much longer" Sirius replies, but there's a note of doubt in his tone. Remus can see straight through that bravado.

"Come with me" he says. Sirius' eyes snap up to his face. A question. "Come with me now, and you'll live. Not this fancy life you've had, but- a life. A life of your own"

Remus offers it the same way it was offered to him, what seems like ages ago, by the man who taught him most of the skills he is now known for. It's a crude offer, but it's honest. And suddenly, he wants nothing more but for Sirius to accept it.

A beat of his heart, the click of the safety lock back on. A flicker of eyes towards the door, then towards the window. Remus extends his gloved hand, and long, pale fingers reach him halfway.

James is going to laugh so much when Remus gets back with a target in tow and a story of a man climbing out of his own house in a tuxedo.

[wheels-of-despair]

Flying Monkeys Couldn't Drag Me Away Pairing: Eddie Munson x You Summary: Evil Woman invites Eddie over for a fun fall night of makin' treats and watchin' a movie with the family. Contains: Early relationship fluff, kitchen chaos, unreasonable amounts of sugar, Wizard of Oz references, smoking, basically just Eddie getting comfortable hanging out with Team Evil Woman and establishing his place as Mom's Favorite. Words: 2.5k Note: This is about two months into the relationship. I've mentioned little bro by name once before, and try to keep him vague in the standalone fics… but this is domestic fall-flavored fluff set at home, where he lives, so whatever. It's Gareth. It's always been Gareth. Deal with it.

"You wanna do something tonight?"

You're sitting next to Eddie on a curb in the Hawkins High parking lot while he smokes his post-lunch cigarette. It's a chilly October day in the year 1984. You're wearing your favorite sweater, surrounded by crunchy fallen leaves, and huddled close for warmth. It's perfect.

"Actually…" you lift your head from his shoulder and look at him apologetically. "I kinda already have something."

"Oh." He visibly deflates. "Nevermind."

"With my mom," you say quickly.

He nods in understanding and takes another drag.

"We're watching The Wizard of Oz. It's her favorite scary movie."

"The Wizard of Oz is scary?"

"No, but don't tell her that," you laugh. He smiles, and you return your head to his shoulder. He blows his smoke in the other direction and leans his head against yours.

"You wanna come?" you ask tentatively.

"Is that… okay?"

"Yeah."

"Should you ask her first?"

"Kinda already did," you wince. You don't know why you're a little ashamed; it's his damn fault that you can't get enough of him.

"Oh yeah?" You can't see his face, but you know it's decorated with a cocky smile.

"Mhm," you hum, trying to hide your own. "We're gonna make popcorn and caramel apples. Mom's gonna quote her favorite lines. Brother's gonna dramatically lip-sync to 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow'… well, maybe not with you around. Forget I said that."

"Not a chance," he chuckles.

"So… you wanna come?"

"Hell yeah," he says through a cloud of smoke.

"Oh, and if she asks, the flying monkeys are terrifying."

"Noted."

Several hours later, Eddie and Gareth were violently stabbing popsicle sticks into the apples you'd just washed, and your mother was stirring a pot of boiling caramel on the stove.

"What did those poor apples ever do to you?" you ask, briefly taking your eyes off the not-so-pretty ones you were chopping into slices at the sink.

"They were born without delicious candy coating," Gareth shrugs. Eddie nods in agreement, sticking his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he takes aim at his next target.

"You'd better be leaving enough stick to hold them by," your mother reminds them without turning around.

Eddie retracts his tongue and stabs a stick into the apple with a little less oomph than before.

Your brother jams his stick into a big juicy green one with full strength, and it squirts him in the eye.

"Son of a bitch!" he grumbles, wiping at his face with the back of his wrist.

"Language," your mother says instinctively. You're surprised she even still bothers trying to reign in the sailors she raised.

You toss a dish towel at Gareth, and it hits him in the face. He uses it to wipe the apple juice away and drops it to the table with a scowl.

"Alright, are they ready?" your mom asks. You glance toward the table and see that the boys are running out of apples to stab.

"Almost," you answer. "Are you?"

"Yup."

You drop your knife and go to the table, quickly arranging the stabbed apples into neat rows on the baking sheet covered in parchment paper. The boys poke sticks into the last of the apples and move them to the pan. You carefully pick it up, bring it to the stove, and place it beside the pot of boiling caramel.

"Peanuts?"

"Uh…" you scan the kitchen for the chopped-up peanuts, and Eddie points to a bowl on the table. "Thanks," you smile, picking it up and bringing it to the caramel station.

Once everything's in place, your mother begins dunking the apples into the caramel sauce. You watch the first few, mesmerized by the way she coats each apple, spins off the dripping caramel, and rolls it in finely chopped nuts before transferring it to the pan to cool. The hot caramel slides down the apple just a little bit, creating a little pool of sweetness beneath each treat. That's the best part.

And then you get back to work, hastily chopping the rest of the apples deemed not pretty enough - your favorites, really - and dropping them onto another parchment-paper-lined pan. If you were showing off like your mother, who planned on taking hers to work for a staff Halloween party, you'd put effort into arranging them neatly.

However, you'd all be devouring these in a few minutes, so it didn't really matter what they looked like. You dropped the apple slices onto the parchment paper, shook the pan to spread them out, and moved it to the table.

Eddie looked up at you with a raised eyebrow.

"You'll see," you wink.

"You wanna get the pot out so the oil can be heating while we decorate?" your mom suggests.

"Yup," you answer, falling to your knees to dig the big shiny stock pot out of a low cabinet.

Gareth gets up and wanders toward the junk food cabinet, and begins pulling down all kinds of goodies. Eddie sits at the table quietly, watching the three of you work all around him.

"Eddie! Catch!" A bag of pretzels goes flying across the kitchen, which Eddie catches with a stunned look on his face.

"Gareth, if you mess up my apples, I will show you no mercy," your mother warns, carefully rolling another caramel-covered apple in crushed peanuts.

"Sorry," he mumbles, turning back to the cabinet with a smirk. He returns to the table with an armload of chips and candy.

"We're gonna use the leftover caramel to make apple nachos," your mother supplies helpfully, glancing back between apples and seeing that Eddie's looking a little overwhelmed at all the movement around him. "I promise it's not always this chaotic around here."

"Only when there's food involved," you grin, pouring oil into the pot that you'd dragged onto the counter.

"Alright, that's a wrap," your mom states, placing the last of the apples on the pan. "You got it?" she asks, stepping back from the pan of hot caramel.

"Yup," you answer, grabbing the handles with potholders. "Watch it, dorks," you warn as you pick it up and turn toward the table. Your mother moves the much larger stock pot onto the still-warm burner and turns up the heat.

You tilt the pan and carefully drizzle the sliced apples with warm, gooey caramel. Gareth inhales the sweet scent deeply, then begins opening bags of junk food. You scrape out the last of the caramel onto the apples and put the pot in the sink to soak.

"Alright, Munson," he begins with a confidence he wasn't ready to show in school, "we're doing this in quadrants. That one's yours." He points to the designated spot, then reaches for a bag he'd pulled from the junk food cabinet. "Go nuts."

"Speaking of which, does anybody want crushed nuts?" your mom asks.

Gareth and Eddie grin at each other. You roll your eyes. They know damn well she's talking about the peanuts.

"Nope," Gareth answers with a toothy grin, reaching for a handful of marshmallows.

"None for me, ma'am, but thank you," Eddie blushes, biting his lip to keep from laughing.

"Just dump 'em on mine, then," she says, watching the oil. You pick up the bowl of peanuts and return to the table. Seeing Eddie still fighting back laughter, you flick a piece of nut at him and distribute the rest on your mom's quadrant with a grin.

You decorate your section with a sprinkling of this and that. The caramel apple is the star of the show. Everything else is just garnish.

Eddie opts for bits of crunched up pretzels, marshmallows, and a few M&M's and Reese's Pieces for a pop of color.

Gareth goes all out. Chocolate chips. Potato chips. Marshmallows. M&M's. Reese's Pieces. Sprinkles. A smashed-up Butterfinger. He tops it off with a mountain of whipped cream. "For dipping," he explains, as the three of you look at him in horror.

The popcorn starts popping, and your mother returns her attention to the stove with a shake of her head.

"I'll get the movie ready," you offer. "Eddie, you wanna carry the sugar coma into the living room?"

"Sure," he says, standing and picking up the pan carefully. You rush ahead of him to clean off the coffee table.

"Having fun yet?" you grin.

He responds with a nod and a nervous smile and puts the apple pan on the coffee table.

"Don't worry, you're fitting right in," you assure him.

"Eddie, what do you want to drink?" Gareth yells from the kitchen.

"Go to the kitchen and answer calmly instead of yelling back to become the automatic favorite," you advise. He grins and returns to the kitchen.

You turn the TV on and slide The Wizard of Oz into the VCR. It comes to life with a clunk, and you pause the tape to wait for everyone else. As if on cue, they file in, each carrying a can of soda and a bowl of popcorn. Well, two sodas for Eddie, since he was nice enough to bring yours.

Three bowls of popcorn join the pan on the coffee table, and you each sit closest to your section of the caramel apple nachos. The youths take the couch. Your mother drags her favorite chair a little closer so she can reach the snacks. The lights are turned off, except for one lamp, so that you can see what you're eating.

You press "play" on the remote, and Gareth takes that as the go-ahead to dive face-first into his pile of sugar.

The rest of you start snacking a little more calmly as the screen transports you to dull, colorless Kansas. You alternate handfuls of salty popcorn with sweet apple slices and lose yourselves in the merry old land of Oz.

By the time Dorothy assembled her gang, Gareth had taken a pillow and moved to lie on the floor. Classic sugar coma reaction.

Although you and Eddie had more room with him gone, neither of you moved. You stayed right there, thighs smushed together on the couch in your living room, until Dorothy came home and the end credits rolled. Might've even held hands for a little while. It was dark in there, with only one lamp on for spooky ambiance. Who's to say?

"Alright, guess I better tackle that mess in the kitchen," your mom sighs.

"I'll do it," you offer, rewinding the tape and turning off the TV.

"I'll help," Eddie says, starting to gather the empty cans.

"Gareth, you helping too?" your mom asks the lump on the floor playfully. He snores in response. Every damn time.

The three of you shuffle into the kitchen and get to work. You and Eddie put the junk food away and get started on the dishes while your mom carefully transfers her caramel apples to a Tupperware container to take to work for tomorrow's Halloween party.

"Alright, Eddie, moment of truth," she says suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. He tenses next to you at the sink where you're washing and he's drying, bracing himself for the worst. "Are the flying monkeys terrifying, or are they terrifying?"

He relaxes and lets out a chuckle. "Terrifying!"

"Thank you!" she says with genuine appreciation. "My warped and desensitized children just don't understand. I spent years having nightmares about these things when I was a kid! Years!"

"Hey, I said they were ugly!" you defended yourself as you handed Eddie another dish to dry. "I've just seen way scarier stuff. Like... I dunno, grandma without makeup." Eddie snorts.

"Terrifying!" she repeats, ignoring you and sealing the apple box. "Alright, I'm going to read. If your brother wakes up from his coma and tries to crawl back to bed, tell him to brush his teeth first."

"Yes, mother," you drone.

"It was nice having you here, Eddie," your mother stops in the doorway and turns back with a smile. "Hope we didn't scare you off."

"Flying monkeys couldn't drag me away," he grins.

She laughs and says goodnight, then steps out of sight.

"Thanks for coming tonight," you smile as you hand him the last bowl to dry.

"Thanks for the invite." Is he blushing? "I had fun."

"Me too." Now you're blushing? Fuck this.

"It's getting late, I guess I should probably get goin' before your mom throws me out."

"Wanna smoke first?"

"Aight."

You grab your jackets and head out into the chilly October night. You don't turn on the outside light; the streetlights will be bright enough to help him find his way back to the van. Plus, you lured him out here for a goodnight kiss, and the neighbors don't deserve a free show.

You stand in the darkened driveway as Eddie slides a cigarette out of his pack for you to share, sticks it in his mouth, and starts patting each pocket in search of his lighter. You reach into your pocket and extract your own - which is always in the same place, because you are a more organized human being than Eddie Munson.

"How 'bout a little fire, scarecrow?" you ask in your best Wicked Witch voice, flicking the lighter in front of his face.

He grins and leans forward, cupping his hands around yours and puffing until the light takes.

"You're way too good at that," he observes, blowing out his smoke.

"Years of practice, my pretty," you respond, still in your witchy voice, reaching for the cancer stick.

"You think I'm pretty?" He bats his eyelashes flirtatiously at you.

"So fucking pretty," you whisper, stepping closer.

His eyes glimmer in the soft glow from the distant street light, his dark orbs looking impossibly large. A smirk creeps its way onto his face. You reach your free hand into the hair at the back of his head, and he comes down to meet your mouth without any pressure at all.

He tastes like smoke, and apples, and salt, and that unmistakable but unexplainable Eddie flavor. You can't figure out what it is, but you know you'll never be able to get enough of it.

You lose yourself in the taste of him until the outside light flicks on and startles you both into taking a step back.

You glance toward the window and see the curtain swish. "Uh… pay no attention to that woman behind the curtain?"

You look at each other with flushed faces and break out into a fit of giggles. You suddenly remember you've got a cigarette in your hand, and raise it to your mouth… and an inch of ash that had accumulated while you were distracted falls to the ground.

"Oops," you grin, flicking it for good measure before taking a drag and passing it back to him. It's finished in silence.

He stubs it out and drops it in the ash tray on the edge of the porch, and returns to you for one last goodnight kiss. Shorter, this time.

"See you tomorrow?" you ask sleepily, reluctant to let him go. You look up into his beautiful dark eyes, trying to soak up enough Eddie to last you the rest of the night.

"I'll come get you in the morning, my pretty…" he says slowly, "and your little brother, too."

[satuguro]

⠀⠀ ⠀ཾ ༚ TO FAULT A NET AU

[ INTERLUDE I: SOMETHING ABOUT YOU ]

spider-man! ethan landry x black cat! reader

#SYNOPSIS— while being at a party to protect your friends, you meet an unexpected visitor.

#CONTAINS— nothing tbh, just fluff and pining

#AUTHORSNOTE— this is a request based off of to fault a net, which can be read here. also, listen to about you by the 1975 while reading!

you weren't an avid party-goer.

that never stopped you from going whenever you wanted to end up in someone else's bed that night. but other than that, you didn't go to parties for the same reason why you didn't go to a lot of get-togethers; you had no friends.

at least you didn't. not until tara began getting targeting and you being not as heartless as many people believed you to be, you cared. which led to a deal with spider-man to catch the ghostface killer. which led you here now, pouring a shot for tara after she invited you to a party with her friends. emphasis on her friends.

they were all suspicious of you— you were observant enough to know that. even after driving them to chad and ethan's dorm, they were still wary of you (and for good reason, you had no qualms). but they didn't seem to object when you came along with them to some shitty frat party, so maybe your charm (could you even call your constant cynicism and dry humor a charm?) was working.

the music was horribly loud as you and tara stood at the drinking table. the bass was boosted to the point where your heart beat shook with every beat. it wasn't an overly crowded party, but the amount of people that was entering and leaving was making you almost paranoid. what if the killer was here? what if they were watching right now?

why did you agree to party while a killer was lose? to protect your friends from the possibility of death. the knife on your side suddenly weighed a lot heavier.

picking up a bottle, you squinted as you tried to read the label with the dim led lights flashing everywhere. "what even is this?" you asked her as you read it. jose cuervo.

"it's tequila, y/n!" tara said with a large smile (which made you happy, as she hasn't been able to smile for a while due to the recent events). her head turned to the side, her smile growing as she motioned over for people to join.

"two shots in and you're already tipsy," you commented, turning your head towards who she was waving over. your eyebrows raised when you saw chad, who was pulling a reluctant ethan over.

"i was trying to get him to talk to some girls!" chad said over the music, taking a cup from the table and pouring himself a shot.

"and did you?" you asked ethan curiously, who only looked at you with a sheepish smile. the tight white shirt he was wearing was practically glowing under the blue light, making your eyes flicker to his muscles (did he always have those?).

"god, no. not really.. actively looking, you know," ethan said with a lopsided smile. "and you, did you talk to anyone?"

"i'm talking to you, aren't i?" you couldn't help but say with a flirtatious smile, one that made the boy's cheeks flare red.

but despite the slight embarrassment, ethan looked at your face, eyes softening as he said, "are you flirting with me, y/n?"

"you wish."

and at your words, ethan shrugged. "maybe i do."

hiding the slight heat of your cheeks, you turned to tara as she began to shake you, wanting to take a shot. you failed to notice ethan's own blushing face as you turned to grab him a red cup. "what do you want? tequila, vodka, soju, beer.."

ethan's eyes widened as you kept naming out drink names. "oh! i, uh, don't really.. know how to take a shot," he confessed, making chad gasp dramatically, his hand hitting his chest.

"you're around the right people, e!" chad said excitedly, making you roll your eyes amusedly (chad was really a chad) as you poured him a bit of tequila.

"i'll teach you," you offered, tilting your head towards him as you handed him the cup. you grabbed a sprite, opening easily with one hand as you handed it to him as well. "you sip this after you take the shot. try not to breathe when you take it, okay?"

ethan nodded, eyes on you as you grabbed your own sprite and opened it. "i don't usually take shots." he explained to you, sniffing the alcohol, "it's.. gross."

"then you haven't been doing it right," tara said with a smile, raising her cup. everyone raised it with her. "cheers!"

you looked at ethan, nodding as you threw your head back and took your shot, swallowing it before sipping your sprite. ethan's face scrunched up a bit as he swallowed the shot and drank his chaser, but he turned to you and opened his mouth, sticking his tongue out and saying, "ah."

"that's my boy!" chad laughed, throwing his arm over ethan's shoulders as he laughed.

you couldn't help but laugh softly at that, your muscles relaxing slightly. whether it was due to the alcohol or the energy, you didn't know. you weren't used to being around people, but you found yourself not minding it. maybe you liked the presence of others more than you thought.

"i'm gonna go outside!" you told tara and chad, who nodded (chad however, sent you a thumbs up). you moved past ethan, failing to notice how his head followed to watch you walk away, adam's apple bobbing as he watched you make your way outside.

the side of the house was empty for the most part, and you leaned against the house, breathing in the fresh air. the backyard and front porch were buzzing with people, but as you recharged your social battery at the side of the house, you found yourself alone yet again.

but as just as you got yourself ready to head back inside, the familiar thwip sound made you stop. no way he was here.

using a web stuck to the edge of the roof, he hung upside down from a strand to stare at you. posed with his legs on the web, his face was close to yours as you looked at him, unimpressed. and in any other circumstance, he would have said some witty remark about it— something that would make him interesting, as the mask almost always gave him more confidence.

but from behind the mask, as ethan stared at your face up close, he found the words drying on the tip of his tongue. even with your brows furrowed and impatience evident on your face, you still looked unreal to him. hauntingly captivating. every word a poet would use to describe their love, ethan would easily use it to describe you.

like a painter with their muse, he studied you. the angles of your eyebrows, the curve of your face, the shape of your nose, the hue of your eyes, the shape of your lips— ethan realized he could look at you and never be tired of it. he'd never be tired of the feeling of his heartbeat quickening, of how his nerves simultaneously went off and calmed down, of how he felt such a strong sense of familiarity with you he couldn't point out.

your head tilted a little but your mouth didn't speak a word. teasingly, his head tilted a little too.

"can i help you?" you asked, pretending as though you didn't argue with the hero when you had a mask on your face. how would any other person react to seeing spider-man in front of them? it didn't matter; you weren't just any other person.

"you're welcoming."

"and you have no perception of a personal bubble."

spider-man slowly moved so that he could stand on the ground, disconnecting himself from the web. he hummed at your words. "you're really nice."

"thanks." a pause. "what's new york's very own spider-man doing here at this hour?" you asked, unable to fight your curiosity as you peered at him. was he patrolling around here?

"i'm supposed to be watching out for a killer," he replied cooly, making your brows furrow. "and since everyone here seems to be careless enough to party with a killer running lose," he said as though he himself didn't take a shot with you merely moments before, "i'm here to watch over it. besides," he shrugged casually. "you're like, dislocated from the group. anyone not with the group usually gets killed."

you scoffed at that. of course he was watching over the frat party. he was most likely watching over tara and the rest of the group.

"oh, c'mon," he said, and you swore you could hear the hero grin under the mask. "haven't you watched horror movies? anyone who walks away to get air ends up getting stabbed, and you," he motioned to you, "are alone! though i don't doubt you can protect yourself, but seriously, at least pay attention to horror movie rules!"

you couldn't bite back the small smile on your lips as you listened to the hero ramble.

usually you didn't get along with people who were incredibly talkative. for some reason, you didn't mind it when he did it.

"new york's friendly neighborhood spider-man is a smartass," you tsked, nodding your head slowly. "noted."

"i prefer the term knowledgeable, actually," spider-man correct you pointedly, and you couldn't stop the small chuckle from leaving your lips. the sound of your laughter made ethan's gaze soften slightly. "so? why're you not with people and actively seeking death?"

"i'm not actively seeking death," you corrected him, leaning against the wall again. "i'm recharging my social battery."

"introvert?"

"sure." you shrugged, sighing and watching your breath come out white in the cold. you glanced at him, eyes following his body as he leaned against the wall next to you, copying your movement. "aren't you supposed to be like.. climbing on walls and shit?"

"that's not all i do, you know."

"that's primarily what i know you for," you lied, cocking a brow at the hero. you knew him for more than that. you knew him as someone who carelessly patched criminals up in their house. someone who played with cats with a genuine smile. someone who ate your ramen after he patched you up, trying to tell you that he knew that new york's black cat would be a cat lady.

"ouch," the hero said with a laugh, "maybe the killer should be scared of how mean you are."

"hopefully they are." you said with a hint of a smile. "but i mean.. aren't you supposed to be looking over the party? why're you here with me?"

the hero shrugged casually, his cheeks burning red behind the mask. "there's just something about you," he said, making you roll your eyes.

"seriously— was that a line?"

"you wish," he said, throwing your own words from earlier right back at you. you couldn't help but grin at that, tilting your head to look at him.

"maybe i do."

now it was his turn to laugh at that. it was a pretty sound, one that you didn't get to hear as often as you liked. a comfortable silence surrounded the both of you, the only noises coming from the people talking in the backyard and the muted bass of the music.

"i don't like parties," spider-man said to you, making you raise your eyebrows and glance at him. "i mean— i used to not mind them, i didn't get invited to a ton, but i liked them when i did go. but after the, uh, spider thing.. my senses aren't really cut out for that."

you tilted your head out of curiosity. why was he telling you this? you didn't mind it, really, but it was surprising to hear the hero open up to you— the real you without the mask. "you get sensory overload?"

"yeah, something like that," he murmured softly, listening to the muted bass. "loud music, lots of people, cramped space, heightened spidey sense—"

"spidey sense?"

"yes," he said, watching as you let out an amused laugh. "but as i was saying, it doesn't really make a good mix, y'know?"

you nodded your head in understanding. a beat of silence passed. then another. and another, until you found yourself telling him something that you never liked admitting to anyone but yourself. "the whole party scene isn't for me either. it's too.. crowded. too much socializing. i'd rather just visit the museum or watch a shitty show with a few people i genuinely care about instead of wasting my time being around people i don't know."

"jesus, you really are an introvert."

"oh, shut up," you scoffed with a smile, making the hero grin under his mask.

"museums, huh? you seem like the type."

"yeah," a nostalgic smile ghosted over your face, "i like just going there and staring at the pieces of art, the paintings, the statues, everything. i like just.."

"studying them," he finished for you, eyes set on your face as you nodded. "taking in their features."

"exactly. and how it's not all perfect, but all their characteristics just fit so well to what they are, what their history is, and.. it's just beautiful, you know?" you found yourself smiling a little sheepishly at the mini ramble you went on. but ethan's eyes were on you the entire time as you spoke.

"yeah, i know."

#AUTHORSNOTE— again, this is based off of to fault a net, which can be read here. thank you for reading xx

[im-the-reader-of-which-you-speak]

Cool Cut

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

Summary: Reader wants a cool, unconventional haircut, but is too shy to get it. Or at least that would be the case, if she wasn't dating Eddie Munson.

Word count: ~1,000

Notes: Reader is implied to have hair long enough to cut. The hair cut they want is described in the first sentence. Not sure if it will work for all hair textures. I think the details are pretty vague otherwise. -- Eddie calls Reader "Babe" and "Baby." -- No pronouns used, but the haircut they want is on a girl. -- Y/N is not used.

Her hair was long in the front and short in the back, like a reverse mullet. The magazine she lies in is a few years old at this point, the cover reads "August 21, 1984." That's how long you've been thinking about the damn haircut.

It was weird. It was unconventional.

It was cool.

You run your fingers through your hair, imagining what it'd be like to have a cut like that. Eddie pokes his head over your shoulder.

"With how much you stare at that lady, I'm starting to think you have a crush, babe." He kisses your neck. "Should I be jealous?"

"No no- don't worry, it's nothing like that! I've only got eyes for you, promise." Setting the tattered magazine down, full attention now on your boyfriend... Only for Eddie to pick it up again and flip right to the page.

"Ya sure? This is the third time you pulled that thing out this week. You study this page like Picasso painted it."

"She just has cool hair 'is all. Don't think I've ever seen anything like it."

He lets out a knowing hum, playing with his curls. "Think I should get it? Would ya like it shorter?" He shines a playful smile.

"No!" You snatch away the magazine before it gives him anymore ideas. "I love your hair exactly how it is!" You grab two fists full of his locks as if that will protect them.

He chuckles, gives you a kiss on the forehead and grabs your hands. "Yeah I love it too. Don't worry, this mop isn't going anywhere." He gives his crown a good shake, relishing in his abundance of curls.

"So do you want a cut like that?"

"Oh uh. Ha, I don't think real people have that sort of hair. That's reserved for like, rockstars and models. Not us lowly serfs."

"Says who? What, are the fashion police gonna stop us?" He hops off the sofa, finger gun pointed in your face. "Place the shears on the ground! We have you surrounded!"

"Officer! I was only getting a bob, I swear!"

"Likely story. With a cut this stylish, you're looking at a lifetime of conical bras high-waisted suspenders."

"Noooo!" You throw your hands up, surrendering to Officer Munson.

Grinning from ear to ear, Eddie ends the scene and returns to his place next to you on the couch. "I know you have shears in the bathroom. The style doesn't look that hard, I bet I could do it if you want."

You thought about it again. Feeling the breeze on your neck. How the long bits in the front would frame your face. You sigh. "No... Thanks but, nobody has hair like that. I'm not trying to put a target on my back." You fold in on yourself. "Probably wouldn't even look good on me anyway."

"Woah. First of all, you'd look hot wearing a fishbowl on your head. You'd look even better embracing your own style." You shy away from his words, but he pulls you right back to him.

"Second of all, what with this target? You're already dating the Freak of Hawkins High." He hops out of his seat, putting on the theatrics. "Are you gonna let them suppress you? Stamp out your individuality? Mold you into a drone like them?"

"Yes."

"So not metal." He rolls his eyes, shot down by words. His body drops down like a sand bag, weighted by disappointment. "I can't control you, babe, but I hope you know I love you. No matter the hair style."

"Even if it's matted and ratty?"

"Even if you were bald. And I think anyone worth a damn would too. 'Cuz you got good taste, baby. And anyone who thinks differently can fuck off!"

How does he make it look so easy? He dances through life like no one is watching. He screams to the world that he's a nerdy metalhead freak every day. He doesn't give the backlash a second thought.

If you were Eddie, you would have had this haircut for years now. And here you are longing for it. What to you is a dream, for him is a reality. You loved Eddie. You loved his style, every little weird thing about him, all his unconventional hobbies. To you he's the epitome of cool.

Man, how did you score a piece like him?

"Okay let's do it."

"Wait what?" Eddie tuned out while you were admiring him. It takes a second to process what you're saying.

"We have hair clippers. Let's do it" You hand him the magazine for reference.

"Fuck yeah baby let's do this!"

You wash your hair and throw on one of Eddie's shirts, one that you don't mind sacrificing to the prickly hair gods. You look in the bathroom mirror. Eddie stands behind you, pulling goofy faces, pretending to be some crazed killer with the scissors.

"Ready babe? Standing firm? Don't move around too much, I don't want to cut your ear off." You take a second to ground yourself, you're really gonna do this. Grasping the sink, you look at Eddie's eyes and he gives you a reassuring smile in the mirror.

"Ready."

He combs through your hair, separating a bit from the back.

Snip!

There's a drop in your stomach as you watch the wet loc fall to the ground.

"Hey could you pull your head back a bit?" He gently guides your face back up to the mirror. "Stay still, let me work my magic here."

Snip snip snip

Eventually you close your eyes-- you can't keep looking anymore. Deep breaths, you focus on Eddie's guiding hands. His fingers lightly scratching across your scalp. The long inhale he takes before holding his breath as he focuses. The long exhale that leaves his mouth as he makes the last cut.

"Done!"

You open your eyes, but he covers them immediately.

"Uh oh Munson, what did you do?"

"Gave you the perfect hair cut. But don't look yet! Let me comb it out and dry it first."

Your eyes mostly remain closed as he gets rid of all the stray hairs, but you manage sneak a little peek while Eddie is blowdrying your hair. His tongue pokes out as he concentrates.

"No peeking!" He blasts your peeping eye with the blow dryer.

A final brush out later he finally announces that you can look.

"What'd'ya think babe? Lookin' like a rockstar?"

Any reasonable person would probably not let Eddie cut their hair. Any reasonable person would probably lock away any sharp objects in his line of site.

But good thing you weren't reasonable, because it was perfect.

"Wow. Eddie, when did you go to cosmetology school?"

"So you like it?"

"Eddie, it's exactly what I wanted."

"Yeah, but how do you feel?"

Finally seeing yourself with the hair you always wanted, only one word comes to mind.

"Metal."

"Damn right you do babe." He squeezes your torso and places a fat kiss on your lips.

If there was any question amongst the student body of Hawkins High that you two were dating, there isn't anymore. Because you two freaks belong together. You guys were too cool for the rest of them anyway.

[cottondo]

NEGAN SMITH X READER // fluff |

IN THE GARDEN

[ TWD ] s9 themed

You went outside to the garden, and peered around for a familiar face.

Today, it was warm; the sun was out, and it was promising good growth for any crops throughout the day.

Everybody you ran into seemed to be in a good mood, for the most part. After all, mostly all of Alexandria was getting ready for a small get together tonight. It was just something the council had planned on for folk to hopefully brighten things up around there. You’ve all been through enough.

Your target was acquired; You spot a blue shirted man embedded within the gardening grounds. Negan was crouched down, picking out weeds and raking up any overgrowth. With his back turned to your front, you felt the curl of your lips lifting a sneaky thought into your mind.

Wouldn’t it be fun to just mess with him a little bit?

You trot your way up behind him, sneaking low to the ground, crouching behind a wheelbarrow. Slowly, you move closer, like a tiger after its prey. He didn’t make any notion that he saw or heard you yet, so this was definitely going to play out nicely.

Without a second thought, your body springs forward with the help of your back foot. You launch yourself onto his back and loop your arms around his upper shoulders and neck. His initial instinct would normally be to whip an intruder of space off of him— so that's exactly what he did.

"Shit!" He yelled, and you landed right on the grassy ground with a heavy thud. Laughter escapes your chest as you close your eyes up at the blue sky. A few passing others caught a glance at the two of you, and briefly ignored it, only giving off furrowed looks in return. Negan stares down at you with a mixture of confusion, and uneasiness. He should have known by now that he wasn’t safe behind these walls, and not just by the walkers.

"Y/N, what the hell. You out here trying to get me in trouble?" He asks, standing back to his full height. More laughter fits escape as you look up to his figure towering over your own. "Maybe."

The grass was warm, but you sat up from it anyway, dusting off any dirt or weeds from your pants.

He cracks a soft smile and looks around the area for signs of life. Nobody else had been passing through there now, so he ignores his garden duties for the moment. Negan leans against his shovel handle and shakes his head. "Well, you were close."

Your hands place on your hips and a smile takes over. "I bet I was."

"What are you doing out here anyway? Don't you have dead prick duty?" He asks. That's just another word for walkers. Your shoulder raises and drops. "If you'd been paying attention, you'd know I already finished my shift for the morning. I go back later tonight to keep guard again."

Subtly, he blinks his irritation at you.

"Sorry that I don't keep my eyes on you twenty four seven." He gives me a look. You ignore it.

"Keeping Michonne, and all the others here safe, huh?" Negan had leaned a little closer to you now, keeping his voice low. You raise your head slightly, faltering the smile you were wearing, a bit. "I'm keeping myself safe. We live here too, don't we?"

Negan makes a face. "We're prisoners. Not members of their happy little mountain club."

"That may be partially true, but when we get overrun, and they have to abort home, guess where we're still going to be?" You tilt my head. "In that prison."

Negan shakes his head at me. I frown.

"Wrong. They're stupid enough to let us free and go with them. It's part of their code, or something." He says, glancing around. “Then we’re the ones they use for bait.”

"Yeah- - they're stupid enough to let you free." A softer smirk dances across your lips now. His eyebrow raises in question. You shrug innocently, as well as you could anyway.

His quick hand reaches out to snatch your arm, but you dodge his playful grab just in time. "Gotta be quicker than that." Your words sneer at him.

Trotting over to the dirt path, away from the garden, you decide to stand there to use as a safe zone. He wasn't allowed to leave the garden grounds on duty, and if he's seen talking with anyone, he'll just get yelled at for it.

Negan glances around the area once again before letting his shovel drop, and take a few steps towards your lingering figure. Your eyes widen and you feel yourself backing up a few steps. "Don't be dumb."

Negan smiles all the same, though. He moves quick, and you don't catch on until it was too late. Two arms wrap around your torso and pull your frame into him. You can't help but laugh through the terror, as Negan scoops you up in a playful manner. "What's that about not being dumb?" He asks in your ear. His stubble brushes against your skin, and your instincts can’t help but to cringe at the sharp prickles against you.

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry." Your voice wobbles through more laughter. Negan carries your figure back to the garden grounds, away from the street, and your eyes land on the large pile of sloppy wet dirt he's been digging up from the ground. For some reason, he was bringing you closer to it.

Your body starts to squirm uncomfortably in his hold, and you had a sick feeling you knew what he was going to do. Your lips tug to a frown, warily. "No, no, no, wait, these pants are clean for once!" It's not like it really mattered during an apocalypse, but some things were still nice to treat with respect. 

He chuckles deeply, bringing you closer to the messy pile, completely ignoring the calls of distress you make. You struggle through his grasp, kicking your feet, and wiggling your body.

"Negan, don't you dare!" You tried to stay sounding stern, but it was no use. He really didn’t take it seriously.

"Sorry, firecracker." He gives you that wicked smile you always liked a little too much, just before loosening his grip on your struggling figure. Your hands grasp onto him with quick reflexes, not allowing him to let your figure go yet.

You refuse to go down in some mud.

"No way! You're going down with me if you let me go," Your warning had little, if any, effect on him. "No I'm not." His voice was discomforted while trying to hold your dead weighting. As his grip loosens, your fingers tug on his shirt and bring him down to the ground right along with you. You warned him.

Your backside hits the pile in a splat, Negan falling right beside you. It actually got a laugh out of him— followed along with a disappointed groan now that the fall set in to his nerves.

"Yes you are." You say through a grin.

"Shit," He lays his head down and sighs heavily in defeat.

Laughter escapes your chest, giving his shoulder a hard smack. "Now look what you did." You laugh harder, rolling to the side.

Negan sits up and brushes himself off. You catch him chuckling as he looks down at your giggling frame. "Worth it."

[quillinhand]

favourite snape hcs go 🎤

Hiiii

this is gonna take a while cuz I've been waiting for someone to ask this question for so long- so sorry for answering this post after a while lol

ok so.

he hates coffee, but marking and juggling all his work means it's often the only thing keeping him awake, and my man, he likes to take his coffee with enough cream and sugar to kill a small child. for energy, of course.

he likes to sleep. will commit murder if someone disturbs him.

actually likes marking. something about shitting on teenagers calm him down.

sometimes, he'll take out his old essays and go thru them with red ink. no teenager is as fun to shit on as yourself. except perhaps potter.

pan ace. am not accepting arguments

had sex for the first in the early days after graduation and initiation into the death eaters. hated it. very much.

loves physical touch and so, naturally, will make it impossible for anyone to touch him

has the weirdest possible relationship with Lucius malfoy but like, we don't talk about that.

(They are as close as you get to fucking/killing each other without actually fucking/killing each other. Knows each others darkest secrets but still would kill the other to keep themselves alive sort of close)

has a similar relationship with voldy shorts except, with our resident evil it's like, not consensual? Sort of? idk . My man's into tall dark and creepy ok? except in Lucius's case it's tall blonde and rich/ridiculous but. we don't talk about that.

Severus fucking Snape didnt become friends with Lily fucking Evans cuz she was pretty. nope. Twas cuz ma girl was powerful as heck(like him) and, more importantly, a bitch(like him). You are kidding yourself if ya think their friendship was anything other than that.

his relationship with his parents is a toxic one in that there IS some level of care there, but Tobias is too much of a depressed 30 something man to be a good father and Eileen was too much of a proud hag to be a good mother, and Severus was too much like them to be able to deal with their shit.

a huge part of why he used the mental arts so much was cuz he couldn't handle his emotions easily for the longest time, and would burst at the smallest thing. this was the trait that made him such a good target for bullying. the one trait he could never quite get rid of- just hide, under steel walls and scars that opened far too easily.

after lily died, he occluded to the point of magical exhaustion and ended up collapsing. wrecked his body to the point of him not being able to move for months. this was one of the first, and only things he learned to be kind to himself for, and relaxed with his occlumency shields as much as he could. and then voldy returned, and. well.

he is the Slytherin house's hero. not that he understands why. something about the whole, evil, dark, vampire aesthetic was very appealing ya see.

my man wears heels to look taller. not accepting arguments

his whole outfit was carefully planned. 20s Snape had FUN, I tell you. My man spent YEARS cultivating his whole vibe, from the expressions, to the poetry, to the ROBES- perfection, perfection. have you any idea how much he argued with tailors that, no, he actually didn't give a fuck if the robe he wanted was too tight for pockets. what the actual FUCK do you mean.

the buttons have so much history

his eye colour is actually just. gray, but like my man likes the whole vibe of ✨ obsidian ✨ more so. makes sure to stay around dimly lit areas for maximum effect.

he did actually go to school before hogwarts, but like he couldn't control his magic, so my man would bust the lights and flood the bathrooms and make the chairs hit the teachers he didn't like. The AMOUNT of confounding Eileen had to do to distract the town from their magic- worthy of a book series on its own.

I'm ending cuz this is already so longgg. sorry for answering lateee. ilyy 💜💜💜

[ideas-4-stories]

(Context: Nonbinary Buggy Supremacy, agender? Undetermined? Genderfluid? Who cares, the clown is a cutie no matter what they wear!!!)

Buggy figures out from an early age that they aren't really... a boy. Exactly? Maybe? Screw it. Sometimes being called a cabin boy or little man is okay, sometimes it's not, it's WEIRD and they don't like it. So they just. Avoid it.

Roger + Crew call Bugs and Shanks the cabin brats, they drop most of the man and boy comments, opting usually for brat or runt instead. And it works!

Then one day someone picks on Buggy playfully and calls them princess ((was it the hands-on-hips haughty fit? Was it a story book reference? Smth else? Dealer's choice))

Only... Buggy doesn't mind that. And soon enough, princess becomes a frequent nickname. And with it comes the tentative try at other names. Buggy likes neutral ones best, but they also feel pretty when they get called quote-unquote feminine terms as well. Masculine ones are... uncomfortable at best, but bearable by necessity.

After the execution, the world is in a tizzy searching for the last vestiges of Roger. Baterilla is a hot fucking mess, but equally easy targets are the newly separated cabin brats of the Roger Crew.

They are looking for Shanks, who is already making a name for himself, and the elusive "princess".

Buggy... is scared. So they distance themself from the truth of the matter, leave sea-salted, warm memories of laughter and hugs and teaching hand behind alongside a baritone voice calling them his pirate princess.

The Navy then ruins everything by publically calling them a crewmate of Roger, a cabin boy, a brother, a man and Buggy is going to be sick-

Luffy is the only one to clock something is wrong, and he reaches out. The ride to marineford isn't quite as fast as some would hope, so he uses this time to figure out what the hell is going on. And Luffy, in that hat, with a smile and dream so much like Roger, with a heart so full and warm like Shanks...

Luffy gets Buggy to talk.

By the end of it, Luffy nods. "You're the clown princess of the Seas, then," he declares. "If Shanks is your brother. He's an Emperor, right? So you can still be princess. Besides, I'll be king! So that just means you're my family too. Can I call you untie?"

Buggy doesn't cry, they DON'T.

But they might hug Strawhat once or twice, and maybe they even keep an eye on their new nephew. And learning his brother is Captain's son...?

Well. Luffy did claim them as family already.

And Buggy was raised by one of the best damn families there was, after all. Family means nobody gets away with hurting one of their own.

Now they aren't strong, they aren't built for brawls.

But maybe Buggy is fast enough, clever enough, and distracting enough to get some serious damage dealt.

((And maybe they can catch the attention of a few warlords, past or present, in the process...))

Buggy's gender is like lost in a Schrödinger's box that was sent to space... much like my gender. Hahahahahaha little projecting this is.

Anyway, this is so fucking cute I cannot, I wanted to cry when I read the part Luffy is being such a sweetheart that he always is. I was also thinking Princess being a nickname that Roger gave Buggy.

Poor Buggy having to distant themselves from who she is and his past. The world is too cruel to Buggy, well until he gets his crew... then other things happen... Buggy has a lot going for him... RIP

Luffy claiming Buggy as family!!! It's too cute!!!

As part, I think Buggy doesn't like fighting unless it's truly necessary, like saving a crewmate life sort of thing. Headcanon of Buggy being very fast and nimble even as he grows older, and Buggy was definitely the brains to Shanks's brawn.

(Buggy catching attention of a few warlords is so good to pass up)