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kingofthe-egirls · 5 months

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BUTTERFLY: LUFFY x Y/N (modern au part 7)

modern au

(cw: mma!luffy, celebrity, dress shopping, flirty banter, food mention, interview w Teen Vogue reporter, reader is a camgirl)

(a/n: help)

Songs: “The Louvre” by Lorde

words: 1.4k

****

“I’m not askin’ what I look like,” Luffy drawls with a crooked smirk. His hands are loose in his pockets as he steps closer, space minimizing between his heated body and yours. “I’m askin’ if ya like whatcha see. Cmon, kitty, how’re the threads?”

He leers at you in his fitted black suit, paired with a deep red, satin button down the color of a dry cabaret sauvignon. A silver chain with a skull-and-crossbones hangs around his neck. It glitters between his exposed collarbones. You want to take it off with your teeth.

“Sexy.”

He snickers, and rushes back into the changing room. “Awesome,” is all he says as he finishes redressing.

You’re standing outside the velvet curtain holding the socks, tie, and pocket square that match the suit.

He adds a Rolex to the mix.

You both check out of the swanky menswear shop, and head down the sparkling strip to find you a dress.

****

You stand in the fitting room, obscured by a black door with a chalkboard sign that says “#2” in a curly, squiggly font.

You’d decided to hit one of the local thrift stores, decked out in miniature Calico Critter toys, porcelain tea sets, vintage dresses, and strange plants. Luffy seems comfortable enough, chatting with the elderly saleswoman at the counter.

You squirm.

You’re wearing a deep red velveteen dress with a gathered waist and a slit up the side. It’s heavy, and smells like mothballs. You shimmy out of it; the texture is abhorrent.

“How’s it goin’, dollface?”

Luffy asks you through the kitschy little door. His sandals scuff the uneven floorboards on the other side of the fitting room. You’re tangling your limbs in an emerald green

cocktail dress with too-tight sleeves.

“Struggling!”

You huff with an honest sigh.

“What’s wrong? Need my help?” He asks cheekily, and you snort.

“Not yet, Prince Charming.”

He laughs, but lays off the banter. It’s a sorta sweet balance that you two have found with each other.

Luffy knocks on the door.

“How’s this one? Saleslady said—,” he stops as you open the door, still half-dressed in a champagne gown. It’s pale pink with diamond shimmers. The sweetheart neckline dives between your breasts, tapered empire waistline revealing the goddess-like, Boticelli version of your pear-shaped body. The long, flowy skirt wraps around your legs in waves. There’s a subtle slit to your thigh, and you found a rose gold clutch to match.

You slowly turn, sweeping your hair to the side so he can zip the back of the slinky, incandescent gown.

His fingers are slow as he clips the zipper up your exposed back.

“What jewelry d’ya want?”

He asks, raspy.

****

You decide on a single, Swarovski swan pendent with a rose-quartz center. The wings of the silver swan are outstretched behind her, with a diamondesque eye sparkling at the center of her graceful face.

You spray Daisy by Marc Jacobs at your pulse points. You curl your hair. You apply eyeshadow, lip liner, and gloss. You contour and highlight: blush, false lashes, winged eyeliner, everything.

You stare at yourself in the mirror of Luffy’s luxurious bathroom.

Sparkling.

Glittering.

Insane.

****

The dinner lasts so long.

You find yourself picking at the fabric napkin in your lap: undoing scratchy threads as you fiddle.

There’s so much social labor.

You have no idea how your boyfriend does it. It’s so many hours of smiling, chatting, answering questions, social media marketing, and more.

Everything said is scrutinized. Laborious. Every single face you make has a chance to be photographed. Immortalized. Tweeted. Instagrammed.

Commented on.

You scrunch your nose to the side, staring down at your green tea sorbet. A dessert that is so light and refreshing actual tears spring to your eyes as you taste the light green ice.

The champagne is sweet.

Your stomach is sour.

Luffy is standing off to the side, doing an interview. The reporter is smiling, seemingly kind.

Luffy kicks ass at interviews.

The social media burnout seems to roll off his back. Like staring into flashing lights doesn’t dizzy his head. Like he can still focus through the humming buzz of food, conversation, drinks, and laughter.

You feel like a scared rabbit.

Someone bumps your elbow, and you squeak out a frozen gasp of terror. Someone laughs, and the tension leaves your body as you force yourself to breathe. You’re safe, here.

It’s just new, is all.

“Sorry bout that,” someone says, as they hover next to your seat. You force yourself to see past lights and sounds and system overload. Person. Individual. Someone is standing next to you and you must learn their name. “Is this seat taken?”

You shake your head, and shift so they have room to sit in Luffy’s vacant seat. They’re lovely: dressed in sky blue and silver accents.

“Maria.”

You smile wide at hearing her name, her pronouns, her career as a social media manager. She’s working at Teen Vogue, something you particularly respect. “Is it okay if I ask you some questions? It’s super interesting to see your social media presence as an egirl,” she smiles, “And I’d love to see what you have to say about it! It’s okay if you’re a little overwhelmed,” she allows. She had a gap between her front two teeth.

She is sparkling.

“Sure! I’m an open book, really. My social filter is all outta wack,” you admit, shyly. But you hope your open body language and softer voice help get the “friends” message across.

Expression. Communication.

Honesty.

Sweetness.

Swiftness.

She starts:

“So, how long has it been since you started camming?” She licks her lips, iPhone recording the conversation. She sets it on her knee, face up. She had a daisy-patterned pop socket.

“I started in 2020, once the pandemic started. I started an OnlyFans, and I haven’t really looked back since. Although, I take some breaks now and again.”

She smiles, “Breaks are healthy,” she assures you, as someone starts filming you over her shoulder. You scoop another bite of sorbet.

“So, what would you say is the most interesting thing about your career?”

“Mm!” You hum through a mouthful of green tea ice, “So many things! It’s so creatively expressive. I get to assign myself whatever roles I want,” you start bragging a little, “Since I choose whoever I wanna cosplay. It’s also so sweet to see what content people vibe with. Like, someone said they listen to my ASMR as they fall asleep! It’s amazing, seeing that someone sees you as their comfort content, y’know?” You smile, rambling a bit.

She smiles, though. She seems to enjoy listening. So you smile, too.

“Awesome, that’s super cool. What are some challenges about sex work?”

You nod, sober.

“The shame. People want to criticize me so much for showing my body onscreen, but burlesque has been around for centuries. The art of the striptease, the art of pornography, the skills of prostitution—it’s all so gorgeous. It’s got its shadow side, like everything, so when I speak about sex work as a career, I am always only ever speaking about consensual sex.”

She nods sagely, listening.

“So, um…ah—is it okay if I speak more on this?” You ask nervously. The napkin is scrunched into knots in your fists. The reporter—Maria—nods. She is smiling, and focused. Her eyes are deep brown, with fluffy eyelashes even without mascara.

She is not wearing makeup.

You smudge at your own lipstick, wishing you could swipe it off.

“Okay, so…it’s a way for me to flirt with strangers on the internet. It’s like, a very fun thing to do for me,” you smile, honestly. “And that’s how I met Monkey D. Luffy! Oh, I hope that’s okay to say,” you suddenly fret, social filter glitching out. “It’s so hard to understand censorship,” you confess, “I’m an adult performer so like…all the stuff I say is gonna be, like, eighteen plus. Or like, how do you decide what’s private and what’s public? It’s all so discomfortable,” you huff.

She smiles, laughing softly.

“I understand. Is there anything else you wanna say?” She has her hands folded in front of her, with several silver rings on her slender, piano-player fingers.

“Don’t say he met me through my day job, please.”

She meets your eyes, scanning.

“Seriously.”

She nods, satisfied.

“Thanks so much for your time, Miss Hero Butterfly!” She smiles, and stands up. Her dress rustled around her. She has a butterfly pendant in her hair. You smile, and stand to shake her hand.

“I love your butterfly necklace,” you say, grinning.

She winks.

“I wore it for you.”

****

#holy shit fuck christ god #sgsggaba #dumpster dive #kitty speaks #modern au #luffy x y/n #one piece fanfic #luffy fanfic #luffy x reader #luffy x you #one piece modern au #luffy modern au

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stargazer-sims · 3 months

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For Victor and Yuri... 🍭 What's something they can never agree on (big or small)? 🤍 What is their favorite or most admired quality in the other? 🥡 What does a relaxing night in look like for them? 🍫 Who is more likely to steal the other's clothes? What are their favorite items to steal? (Caroline said I had to ask that one)

Thanks for the ask @changingplumbob !

hehehe... naturally Caroline would need a full explanation & justification for the whole clothes-borowing situation. She needs everything she can get to support her position on borrowing Forest's clothes. 😆

Victor & Yuri Okamoto-Nelson

🍭 What's something they can never agree on (big or small)?

Green vegetables. Yuri does not like broccoli, spinach, kale, brussels sprouts, celery or peas, and Victor has been on a never-ending quest to get him to eat them without literally whining and complaining. Victor is on a lifetime quest of getting Yuri to eat a healthy and balanced diet in general (and sometimes just to eat, full stop). In fact, most of their ongoing disagreements are connected to food and eating. Yuri is a lot better than he used to be when it comes to his relationship with food, but he still struggles with eating-related anxiety and he's still extremely picky and of course he still has dietary restrictions connected to his chronic illness. Victor, on the other hand, loves food and will happily eat just about anything. Yuri says, only half-jokingly, that simply watching Victor eat makes his stomach hurt sometimes.

🤍 What is their favourite or most admired quality in the other?

Victor most admires Yuri's resilience and his courage. He just keeps going, even when he's exhausted and in pain, and he hasn't let his disability stop him from getting the most out of life that he can. Victor is a great admirer of perseverance and bravery in general, but he thinks Yuri is one of the most courageous people he's ever known.

Yuri most admires Victor's empathy and compassion. Victor has a big heart and definitely a tender one, and he has this amazing capacity to trust others and care about everyone he meets. Yuri is convinced this makes Victor a far better person than himself, as he really struggles to trust others or let people get close to him.

Yuri also admires Victor's gentleness. He knows exactly how physically strong and powerful Victor is, and how much bigger than him Victor is, but somehow Victor manages to contain all of that. Yuri trusts him completely, both in intimate situations and for personal care when he needs it, and given that Yuri is a survivor of domestic partner violence from another relationship, the fact that he's able to place that much trust in Victor says just as much about Victor's empathy and gentleness as it does about Yuri's bravery.

🥡 What does a relaxing night in look like for them?

Their relaxing nights in usually depend on whether Victor can calm down long enough to stay in one place for more than ten minutes at a time. Usually, a relaxing evening can't start until Victor burns off some excess energy with a workout in their basement fitness room. After that, they'll enjoy a bath together, and they they might play video games, or cuddle on the sofa and watch TV, or cuddle in bed and take turns reading to each other.

🍫 Who is more likely to steal the other's clothes? What are their favourite items to steal?

Yuri is more likely to steal Victor's clothes. Victor is so much bigger than Yuri that it's impractical for him to steal anything of Yuri's other than a hat or scarf. Yuri, on the other hand, will wear almost anything of Victor's, with the possible exceptions of pants and shoes.

Yuri is 165cm compared to Victor's 187cm, and he's tiny. He's the person who goes into a menswear shop, sees something he likes and unironically asks the salesperson if they have it in extra small, so you can imagine any clothing that he borrows from Victor usually hangs off him and makes him look like a little kid wearing his parents' things.

His favourite things to borrow from Victor are hoodies and sweaters. He likes to think of them as a small, wearable blanket. But he'll also happily wear Victor's t-shirts, shorts (the ones with drawstring waistbands so they stay on him) and socks around the house, and he's been known to sleep in a stolen pair of boxer-briefs.

Victor actually loves it when Yuri wears his clothes. He thinks its adorable.

#sapphire answers #oc asks #yuri okamoto #victor nelson #stargazersims

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autumntouched · 1 year

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that one kanye tweet that’s like “i need a room full of mirrors so i am surrounded by winners” is so hangman coded i’m dying

like just imagine him saying that to phoenix when she’s his fiancé/wife in the hannix football rivalry universe 😂😩

Warnings: NSFW just in case because this gets a little 🌶️ . No smut but racy texts. However, the Kanye quote comes before that if you want to stop after Nat’s response xx

I Need a Room Full of Mirrors

One of the reasons Natasha doesn’t mind shopping with Jake is that he has a fairly decent sense of fashion. Unlike the other men, who look bored out of their minds while they wait for their girlfriends or wives, Jake will put aside his phone to give her his genuine, enthusiastic opinion. And he doesn’t do it just for her—he’ll hype any woman who happens to be in the dressing room at the same time she is until all of them are going out to get his feedback on each outfit. Natasha can practically feel the smug glow on his face when he overhears them gushing to her about how lucky she is to have him.

The shop clerks love it too and will often slip them a discount, which Natasha can’t really complain about either.

“Mind if we stop in here?” he asks, hooking his thumb toward a menswear store.

She holds her hands out for the bags he insisted on carrying. “No, I got them, babe.” He drops a kiss on her forehead and strolls into the shop.

While he browses, she picks a few pieces for him and follows the saleswoman to the dressing rooms to wait for Jake. Natasha settles into one of the leather seats and responds to several texts from her brother.

“Right this way,” another saleswoman says a little breathlessly, cluing Natasha in to Jake’s approach. There’s a deep blush on the woman’s cheeks, and she tries to check the back of her hair while carrying some of Jake’s selections.

“I put the shirts I picked in that one,” Natasha tells him when he sets her bags down next to her. She points to the dressing room door where his name is written neatly in chalk.

Jake glances down the row of rooms and goes to what looks like a larger one at the end. He peaks inside. “May I use this one, ma’am?” he asks.

“Of course!” she exclaims, rushing to move his clothes at the same time Natasha asks, “What’s wrong with the one you have?”

“It’s not a problem!” the saleswoman chirps, nearly dropping her keys in her hurry to move everything from one room to the other.

“This one’s got more mirrors,” Jake tells her while he nearly sends the poor woman into shock when he brushes her hand taking a few hangers from her. Natasha fixes him with a raised eyebrow, and he flashes her a grin that looks fit to split his cheeks. “Babe, c’mon, I need a room full of mirrors so I’m surrounded by winners.”

The saleswoman giggles, but Natasha stands up and nearly chucks her phone at him. “Are you fucking kidding me? I must have been deprived of oxygen the day I agreed to marry you!”

That wipes the amusement off the woman’s face, but Jake doesn’t see from where he’s holding the door open. He pulls out his phone and taps it open.

“The room’s ready,” the saleswoman says, a lot less chipper than she was a few seconds ago.

“Appreciate it,” he smiles and disappears inside. Natasha’s phone buzzes.

Come inside. I have a few ideas about how to take your breath away enough to make you say yes to me all over

Natasha feels her face heat and glances around. Fortunately, the saleswoman scooted off as soon as she realized Jake wasn't available.

Show me later, and I’ll show you something else in the mirror, she sends back.

Wait. If it’s your middle finger again…

She stifles a laugh at that memory. No, unless you want to tell me where to put it this time. Better yet, maybe I'll let you show me...

One of the hangers falls to the floor, and Jake swears softly. Ok. Stop please or we’re going to have to leave

Natasha glances around and sinks back down into the chair so she can cross her legs against her own impatience. Lmao after you made that poor woman move all your stuff? I won’t let you

but maybe you were onto something with the mirrors 😉 do you want to know what thinking about seeing you shirtless from all those angles is doing to me?

Her phone buzzes with a picture of Jake’s tanned pecs and abs reflected three times over, his nipples hard from the cool air, their texts, or both, and yeah, he was fucking right about the mirrors.

Jake saunters out of the room in his first shirt. It’s not even buttoned properly. “How do I look?” he asks roughly.

Natasha uncrosses her legs. “Like a winner.”

#hannix football rivalry au #hannix football rivalry #natasha phoenix trace #jake hangman seresin #phoenix fic #natasha trace fic #i love your notes #talk to me #natasha phoenix trace x jake hangman seresin

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genderqueerdykes · 1 year

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You have no idea how excited I am! I am looking forward to the start of the summer season so that I can finally buy a lot of real men's clothing - t-shirts, shorts, trunks, shoes and these beautiful men's trousers with many pockets. I don't own any menswear as I just recently became aware of myself as a trans guy so this will be my very first experience buying menswear and I can fully experience what it's like to be a guy in the eyes of people since I I’m going on vacation with my family to the sea, where absolutely no one knows me, which means that I can lie to everyone that I’m actually a guy! (although I still don't know how I'm going to explain to my parents, since they definitely won't accept me like that :P I'll probably lie something about strange modern fashion)

hiii!!! thank you for taking the time to stop by!

that is so wholesome and wonderful!!! i am so happy for you- i find that a lot of transmascs like summer because you don't have to walk around stuffed into hoodies and sweaters all the time! we love a lot of summer time masculine fashion- men's shorts are great, they usually have very deep pockets, and i've always preferred men's sandals (:

i recommend vests, they are wonderful, and you can usually find some nice ones that are also meant for camping, fishing, etc! bandanas are also very cute, and you can get all kinds of great sunglasses and hats too!

i hope you have a great time shopping for clothes that suit you and i hope you find things that are comfy and in your size! take care, good luck, i hope you have a great time on your trip, feel free to stop by again any time!

#asks #answers #trans man #trans boy #trans men #ftm #trans guy

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possibilistfanfiction · 1 year

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hey can I get some advice, if you have any? my friend is getting married and im invited, but I have no ideia what to wear. I'm afab, non binary, and pretty much closeted in all the ways that matter; I've been wearing men's clothes exclusively for a few years, but I only ever get read as female. I'm 26 and have avoided all family weddings so far in huge part because of formal wear, bc I would die if I had to wear a dress but I (so far) have not been brave enough to try wearing a suit, but this friend is the first of the friend group to get married and she actually wants me there (as opposed to getting invited by cousins and such just bc we're related) and I want to be there to support her. do you have any experience in choosing formal wear? in my place, what would you wear? is it better to go to a shop and risk them refusing to give me a mens suit or try to get something online and risk a bad fit? help!

there’s great suiting for dfab people that u can get either online or in store, depending on where u live. i don’t think you’ll get smth that fits horribly as long as you take ur measurements beforehand, plus most places have size consultants. wildfang has cool suits, they’re a little less formal (which can be great!) but easy to dress up/down & in the future wear as separates. kirrin finch is a little pricier but they make beautiful clothes for masc dfab ppl. both have a p decent size range. sharpe suiting & bindle and keep both do like GORGEOUS custom suits, but they’re expensive & u have to book in advance, so that might not be the vibe for this outing.

in store stuff, i actually rly like theory & all saints; theory is expensive but they have all kinds of different womens cuts, so u don’t actually need a mens suit, although like… no one will rly care if u go try one on? for me, either dfab specific menswear or just andro womenswear fits better, so i’ve stopped worrying abt that & just gone for fit. for less formal, cos & oak+fort have some cool co-ord options that could be fun, esp for a summer wedding. bigger department stores like nordstrom will also have a ton of options across price points

i also think an amazing option is to go to a thrift store, especially if you have a queer one in ur area (out of the closet!). they’ll have lots of options that aren’t too expensive, & will be able to help you find stuff.

& then finally, tailor it! tailoring isn’t that expensive at all (tailoring a suit will probably be under $50) & it’s so easy to make ur clothes fit the way u want them to!

also i will say — i actually hate full suits for myself, they’re way too masc for me & i just. never in my life do i rly wanna wear one lol. i like a good tuxedo pant & an expensive tee & a cashmere cardigan or smth, & i also have a few semiformal & formal kurtas to wear to stuff bc my wife is desi, so sometimes those make more sense & are fun n cute. if a full suit feels like too much, u can wear rly nice stuff that isn’t quite as masc or quite as formal, & it’s (arguably) even more in fashion rn

so just yknow whatever ur vibes are, there rly are so many options. have fun w it! clothes are supposed to be fun! definitely don’t let being scared of formalwear have u miss a wedding u wanna go to, i swear literally nothing is that deep lol

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thebigboyshop · 1 year

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Father's day is the day for The BIG Boy!

Sales going on now...

#mensfashion #mensstyle #menswear #fashion #menstyle #accessories #mensjewelry #handmade #mensfashionpost #jewelry #mensclothing #fashionaccessories #mensweardaily #menwithstyle #watches #streetstyle #luxury #instafashion #fathersday #fathersdaygifts #mensbracelets #menwithclass #bracelet #beardoil #mensaccessories

#king #queen #black business #black family #black tumblr #black couples #menswear #black is beautiful #afrofantasy #ancestors #black fathers #fathers day #mensclothing #mensfashion #menstyle #mens watches #mens bracelets #beardoil

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denim-mixtapes · 2 years

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Diamonds and Rust [1/5: Treasure Hunting] - (Eddie Munson/Reader)

Rating: T Word Count: 2100 Pairing: Eddie Munson/F!Reader Warnings: Language, Slow Build/Slow burn, pet names instead of Y/N, unironic use of the word "milady" Summary: Working in a thrift shop makes for some long, boring days, especially in the summer when you can't even fill the time with studying. Luckily your favorite metalhead regular stops in often to help pass the time. Also posted on AO3

Working in a thrift store at the edge of town usually meant long, boring days. You’d get the occasional antique hunter, a few moms shopping for their families on the weekends, a handful of regulars, and every so often some bored teens would stroll through but for the most part it was quiet. You liked it that way. All the more time to get some studying done all while getting paid, right? At least that excuse worked during the school year. Now, mid-July of the summer after your senior year, the days passed like molasses through an hourglass. Shadows stretch along the walls as the sun moves across the sky and not a soul passes through the door.

You spend your shifts processing donations, sorting clothing into piles such as Menswear or Children’s or Dear God Why Would You Donate This There Is Literal Shit On It , and testing electronics and toys for functionality. It’s a little dull sorting diamonds from rust, but it’s a living.

Like clockwork around 2 PM, the bell above the door signals the entry of your favorite regular. He’s missing his signature leather jacket and battle vest combo, and his mop of hair is tied into a knot at the base of his neck, but he still has that signature Eddie Munson smile plastered on his face. He beelines for the counter you’re sitting behind and taps out an enthusiastic beat on the glass top, the silver of his chunky rings clicking against it louder than he anticipated.

“Anything new for me today, Sweetheart?” He asks, drawing out the pet name a little too slowly.

Reaching under the counter for the milk crate you and your coworkers stashed the particularly good donations, you shrug. “Not much more than yesterday, Munson. Most people don’t drop off donations in the middle of the week.”

As you set the crate on the counter, his eyes shine with excitement. He’s practically bouncing on his toes, watching as you dig in the bin for the box you’d stashed there earlier today.

“Maybe not,” he muses, “but I know you don’t always go through everything as soon as you get it… and you wouldn’t have reached for your little treasure chest down there if you didn’t have to so, again I say,” he actually does bounce this time, his hands coming to a teepee in front of his wicked grin, “what’cha got?”

You can’t bluff any longer, and roll your eyes when you toss the velvet jewelry box onto the counter. “Dunno if it’s your size,” you say, “but it’s got your name written all over it.”

Eddie opens the box quicker than you thought humanly possible, and the noise he makes can only be described as a roar of excitement, followed by a hearty laugh. He pulls the thick silver ring from its place in the box and inspects it. A heavy skull sits on the top, much like the one he already wears daily, but this one has a set of dark, tarnished metal horns curling from its forehead and small red stones set in the eye sockets. He immediately slips it onto all of his fingers to test the fit. It doesn’t look hopeful until he switches hands, slipping it onto the second finger where his other skull ring sits.

Chuckling, he switches them, tossing the old ring up in the air and catching it before stuffing it in his back pocket. “Would ya look at that? Guess there’s only room for one,” he chuckles, flexing his fingers and admiring the new piece. “How much?”

“As you can guess, we probably wouldn’t make much on that from anyone but you,” you tease, looking over all the other jewelry prices in the case before you. You throw out a random number, “Two-fifty?”

“Oh,” the man before you feigns offense. His hand flies to his chest, pressing softly against the Hellfire logo, and he throws his head back. “You wound me, sweetheart. You really think that little of my style that something I love is worth a mere two dollars and fifty cents ?”

Laughing, you raise an eyebrow, your hands resting mockingly on your hips. “You wanna pay more for it?”

“No, no,” he holds out a hand, stopping the bit before it can go any further, and rummages in his wallet for a few crumpled dollar bills. “But keep the change,” he says as he hands them over, “I don’t like…jingling.”

Your eyes narrow at him while you pluck two quarters out of the register and deposit them into the penny pool next to it.

“I dunno,” you murmur, “you seem to me like exactly the kind of person who wouldn’t mind jingling, what with all the chains and buttons you wear.”

“Touche, my dear, touche.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets and gives an exaggerated shrug. Turning on his heel toward the door, he calls over his shoulder, “guess I just don’t like change. Pocket or otherwise!”

When Eddie is around, you fear you’ll never stop rolling your eyes. Which you do, affectionately, and bid him adieu until tomorrow, when he’ll inevitably show up once again asking if anything new has come in.

You'll definitely look. You always do. It’s a habit now, to keep an eye out for things that your regulars may like while you sort and process donations. Charles, the old man who looks for cat trinkets for his wife, always stops in on Saturday mornings while she’s at her hair appointment. You set things he may like aside so that you can show him and save him the time of browsing. Anything remotely trendy or something that may seem like a cool find, you tend to hide amongst the racks to make it more of a challenge for the teens that come in and love the hunt of it all. Likewise, the items that scream Eddie Munson at you, you can’t help but stash away with your own findings, because he can spend all day browsing the racks – and he will – but seeing his face light up when you produce your wares from under the counter is one of the highlights of your day.

You weren’t sure how to feel when the town outcast seemed to pick your shop as his new hangout. To give yourself credit, you never really were one to buy into all the rumors spread around high school, especially in Hawkins. If you did, you wouldn’t trust anyone. No, you didn’t think he could be nearly as bad as everyone made him out to be, but his personality and style still didn’t paint him in an overly-inviting light, and you didn’t want anyone stirring up trouble in your (for the most part) peaceful place of work. At his first visit, you figured he just needed a thing or two and that he would be in and out. Then he hit you with that damn smile, and he kept coming back . Soon enough his “freak” persona melted away before your very eyes, and with every visit, over casual conversation and the occasional Icee he would bring you from the gas station across the street, you got to know the true Eddie Munson. Sure, he was still a metalhead with quite the eccentric fashion sense and devil-may-care attitude, but he was also an excitable and inviting nerd who loved a good opportunity to talk about his interests and even your own.

So now you find yourself tucking tee shirts and patches and tapes into that milk crate and looking forward to the next time you see him. Really, you always looked forward to his next visit, but your little treasures were a better excuse for that excitement.

The day after you presented him with his new favorite ring, the store received a donation that you’re more excited than ever to sort through.

The record store in town has had “CLOSING SOON! EVERYTHING MUST GO!” signs in its windows for months, and you had assumed they were just waiting to sell the last of their inventory before finally closing their doors, but according to the former owner the rent on the building had become too much to make keeping the doors open worth it. So, he brought the last of the inventory (about 9 crates full of records, and a few boxes of resale tour merch) to you, hoping that they might have better luck on your shelves.

You can barely contain your glee and have to stop yourself from ripping into the boxes before he’s even left the store. By the time two o’clock rolls around you’ve managed to sift through about half the boxes, and have a short stack of records on the counter waiting to show off.

“Well, well, well,” Eddie’s voice startles you from your concentration on the task at hand, you’ve been so engrossed in sorting through the items that you didn’t even hear the bell above the door. “What do we have here?” He gestures to the overflowing counter with both hands, excitement dancing in his eyes.

“Christ, Eddie,” you scold, hand to your heart and a soft glare on your features. “You scared the pants off me.”

Raising his eyebrows, he leans heavily on the counter, leaning in close to peek over the edge at your legs, “aw, man,” glancing back up to your exasperated face, he chuckles. “I was hoping you meant literally.”

“Shut up, Munson.” You breathe.

“Alright,” he reaches for the box closest to him and digs in, “but only ‘cause I’m itchin' to see what this is all about.”

So you dive into the story, explaining everything the shop owner told you when he dropped it all off and you both sort through the records. Although, while you organize them alphabetically, Eddie is sorting them into two distinct piles: “Worth Listening To” and “Utter Trash.” You won’t tell him you saw, but he definitely slipped an extra ABBA album underneath Bat Out of Hell in the 'good' pile .

“Oh!” You exclaim after setting the last of the boxes behind the counter to get priced and shelved, “I almost forgot the best part!”

“Oh yeah?” He probes, his dimples on full display when he gives you a cheeky grin, “What’s that?” He leans his elbows heavily on the counter, leaning into you with interest.

You grab the stack of hand picked items from under the counter and push it toward him, your expression full of pride. It’s not much, a couple of pins, a shirt, and three records, but they’re the ones that stood out to you most before Eddie showed up.

“Take ‘em,” you say, barely above a whisper despite there being nobody else in the store, “they haven’t been logged yet so they technically haven’t been donated.”

He holds the shirt, a Black Sabbath Tour ‘78 design, up to his chest and bites back a grin. “Now something tells me you shouldn’t be doin’ that.” Then, pulling the shirt away from himself, he holds it in front of you, making a show out of closing one eye and lining it up perfectly so that he can picture it on you. Your cheeks heat – whether it’s under his stare or at the comment you aren’t sure. He holds the shirt out to you and winks, “You should keep this one for yourself though. I’ve already got one like it and I’m sure you’ll rock it better than me, anyway.”

You snatch it from his grasp and busy yourself with another box of donations to hide the fact that your blush is only getting deeper.

“We aren’t technically supposed to hold shit for anyone after it’s been processed either, but you don’t seem to complain when I do that.”

When you look back up, he’s holding his hands up in surrender, “hey, no complaints over here, I just wouldn’t want you getting in trouble with the law or anything. That’s kind of my schtick.”

“Eh,” you shrug, “what the boss doesn’t know won’t hurt him, and with a donation as massive as this, they won't be missed.”

He worries his bottom lip between his teeth as he scoops the pins into his pocket and shuffles the three records between his hands. His gaze flicks between the titles (Judas Priest Stained Class , Rush 2112 , and Motörhead Overkill ) and your face, his smile widening as he does, “these are some good picks.”

“I know , ” you press, “now get outta here so I can do my job.”

He bows, actually bows, with his hands outstretched and turns toward the door. “Till next time, milady!”

#eddie munson/reader #eddie munson/you #eddie munson reader insert #stranger things reader insert #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #fluff #stranger things imagine #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fic #diamondsandrust fic

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writing-good-vibes · 1 year

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somethin' 'bout a horse and a man and a cadillac

i present more of the silly little road trip au i have in my brain. corey and michael are (still) on the lam and corey is living out his silly little cowboy fantasies. big thanks goes to @slutforstabbings for putting the cowboy thoughts in my brain. no WARNINGS this time, besides a little bit of shoplifting.

Corey spots the security camera in the thrift store as soon as he walks in. The red light flashes conspicuously from where it is mounted in the corner, pointing towards the shop floor. It looks old, a lot older than the ones they use in Walmart or Target; the picture should be pretty bad, if they ever even watch the footage back.

Menswear is towards the back of the store, past the household goods. There are a few other people shopping, mostly in the women's section at the other side of the floor. Corey wanders through the homeware aisles on the way, looking with distain at the rows and rows of knickknacks. His finger runs over the edge of the shelf as he passes by.

He needs to get in and out quickly really, Michael is waiting outside with the engine running. But there's something about the return to civilisation that makes him linger longer than he should every time he stops in a gas station or dollar store, like being a spectator to the real world. Only, for the first time in his life, he likes being on the outside looking back in. Plus the air conditioning makes him shiver in the best way compared to the constant sweat he has while they drive.

Over the past few months, Corey's clothes have certainly taken a beating. He'd gotten used to swapping things out, when and where he can find them, but he preferred stopping at thrifts. Stains and tatters will soon make his current jeans to conspicuous to keep wearing, giving him an excuse to ask Michael to stop in the next town they got too.

Corey looks through the long rack of jeans, pressed up against the back wall. He needs something sturdy, durable, but comfortable enough to wear pretty much all the time for a good long while.

He finds a pair of real Levi's that he thinks will do, glances back at the flashing red eye of the camera, and steps a few paces along the clothes rail. Corey is pretty sure he's out of the field of view as he folds the jeans up, tucking them under his jacket and keeping them in place against his side with his arm. He's still not exactly a professional, far from it, but he's found his method.

When he turns to leave, that's when he spots it. He know he needs to go, but instead he stops at the end of the next aisle and picks it off the stand it's sat on. A brown felt stetson, with a thin, woven leather band.

Corey's eyes light up, a half-grin creeping over his face. Keeping the jeans tucked beneath his arm, he puts the hat on his head, peeking at himself in the mirror above the shelf. He tilts his head, this way then that, and the half-grin spreads out across his face.

He leaves the hat on and keeps walking. There's still no one close by, either busy shopping elsewhere or occupied at the register. Corey takes a deep breath, looks straight ahead as he reaches the store entrance.

The heat hits him as he steps out into the midday sun, prickling the back of his neck where his cord jacket rubs at his nape. He makes a beeline for the truck, sees Michael sitting just as he left him in the driver's seat.

Seeing Corey, Michael leans across the bench seat to open the passenger door. Corey breaks into a trot, looking back to double-check that no one has noticed him yet.

"Go, go, go," Corey breathes, sinking down in the passenger seat, hat slipping low on his head. His hair is just about growing back out since he cut it off, and the weight of the hat flattens his curls against his forehead before he pushes it back up.

Michael puts the truck into drive and crosses the parking lot, pulling smoothly back into the traffic heading out of town. Corey pulls at the waistband of his old jeans, tossing them into the back seat once he untangles them from his legs, and pulls the new pair on. They fit well on the waist, snug but not tight.

Once they're back on the highway, the sun seems to blaze even hotter, radiating off of the bleached tarmac. Corey's starting to feel the dust in the air, feels the difference from one state to the next. He props his feet up on the dash, his hat shading his eyes from the mirage ahead, and turns the volume of the radio -- tuned to the local rock station -- back up enough to hear it over the rumble of the truck.

They're headed west.

#corey cunningham #michael myers #halloween ends #halloween h40 #cowboy corey #cunningmyers #technically corey x michael if you squint. but you can ignore those vibes if that pairing isnt your bag.#his new hat is not at all based on the one rohan wears. how dare you suggest such a thing.

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quietblueriver · 1 year

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Tell Me You Don't Know Me

Avatrice Week Day 1: Fake Dating/Undercover

They're in London when it happens. The OCS has sent them to check out a cell of Adriel’s followers apparently still peddling bullshit (and more importantly, maybe demonic possession) to anyone they can convince to spend time with them. The new method is more HBO-doc cult-y, starts with a fucking potluck apparently, before dipping (heh) into the more serious shit. They’re easy enough to find, still handing out honest-to-god flyers at various points across the city.

Nobody recognizes Ava; it’s been almost a year and these days she’s back to crop tops and sneakers, experimenting with streaks of different colors in her hair. And some strategically planted misinformation from Kristian and Vincent and their sources means that nobody would really know what to look for, anyway.

As for Beatrice, a few months ago she had asked Ava to come with her to get her hair cut, had gone in with her bun and come out with a clean fade and a very overcome girlfriend. She’s still figuring out her style but has moved almost exclusively to menswear, falling somewhere between hot professor (unsurprising, 10/10) and hot mechanic who has a side gig in a band (more surprising, also 10/10) depending on the day. Ava’s about it. Anyway, nobody is clocking Bea and her hard part as the assassin nun who fucked up a truly impressive number of Adriel’s clowns at various points during his campaign of bullshit.

The OCS has a stupidly nice safe house where they’re crashing as they pick up intel (Ava’s still not sure what happened in Switzerland, not that she would trade it, but that Church money is real), and they’re headed back there, through Kensington, when Beatrice stops short, causing Ava to stumble.

“Bea?”

Her eyes are fixed on a group of people stopped on the sidewalk, talking. They’re still some distance away but close enough to be recognizable. Ava knows immediately.

“Okay, baby, okay, just come with me.”

She pulls Bea into an alley nearby and steadies her against the wall, runs her hands up her arms, cups her face.

“Hey, it’s okay. We can wait here or turn around or do whatever you want. I think I saw a coffee shop like 2 minutes back.”

Bea shakes her head lightly, pulling herself back from wherever she’d gone when she saw her parents. She kisses Ava, pushing out from the wall and straightening her shoulders.

“Fuck them. I’m not ashamed of myself. I am certainly not ashamed of you. I am happy, no thanks to them, and I will not apologize.”

Therapy is the shit, Ava thinks, not for the first time. Yasmine came through with a connection, somewhat horrified that the OCS didn’t already have one—a very discreet former member of one of the seemingly endless secret sects of the Church. Doesn’t hurt for Beatrice that Margaret is unapologetically gay as hell. Doesn’t hurt for Ava that Margaret has a bomb therapist partner who also doesn’t bat an eye at shit like demonic possession.

Ava is so full of pride and love for Beatrice that she might actually burst, has to exert a serious amount of control to keep the halo from lighting up the whole block. She’s bouncing on her toes to divert the energy.

Also, like, Bea cursing will never not be hot, but Ava keeps a grip on that particular set of feelings for the moment. Later, in their cushy safe house, she can let Bea know exactly how attractive she is and try to make her curse for much more fun reasons.

“I love you. I’m so proud of you. And also I really am okay if you want to avoid them. I know you’re not ashamed of me, and they don’t deserve you. They’ve never deserved you.”

Bea kisses her again, tucks a strand of Ava’s hair behind her ear.

“Honestly, they might not even recognize me. It’s been a long time and I’m now their worst nightmare.” Demonstrating her point, she runs her fingers through her own hair while pulling at the leather jacket she’s wearing and kicking the toe of one of her boots against the ground. “Basically a walking billboard for lesbianism.”

(Ava had been with her at the thrift store when she found that jacket, had nearly lost her mind when Bea put it on. “Jesus, fuck, Bea, please get that and wear it home so that I can fuck you in it as soon as humanly possible.” Beatrice had reddened but purchased the jacket and put it on before they left the store. Ava was very proud that she didn’t catch them a public indecency charge, pulling them back to their apartment in record time. She had Bea against the door before it had even fully closed, running her hands appreciatively over the leather before dropping to her knees and admiring it, admiring Bea, from a different view.)

“Incredibly effective billboard. Really overachieving in spreading the homosexual agenda, honestly. I have glared at at least half a dozen women today alone. And don’t get me started on how you lead me into temptation like it’s your fucking job.”

The smile she gets is fond, fond, fond, and Beatrice kisses her sweetly.

“I love you. Let’s go home. Does Thai sound okay?”

She grabs Bea’s hand and turns back toward the sidewalk.

“Perfect.”

Ava notices Bea check her posture (impeccable as always) as they round the corner back onto the sidewalk and she stays close, placing the hand not wrapped in Bea’s on Bea’s forearm and squeezing.

“I love you. I’m okay. I promise.”

The group is still standing there, half a dozen people talking in a circle outside of one of the ridiculously nice rowhouses that Kensington is full of. And okay Ava already hates these people and will until she dies (and resurrects and dies again, as things apparently go for her) but also how fucking rude are they, taking up the entire sidewalk like that’s an acceptable thing to do.

She knows the second the first one clocks them, face going from regular stick-up-the-ass to tree-trunk-up-the-ass. She knows Bea sees it, too, because Bea sees everything all the time anyway, and she is on high alert right now. Bea holds her hand tighter and keeps walking.

By the time they dip into the street to avoid their huddle (rude), they have the attention of the full group, which has gotten quiet and, like homophobic Ood, collectively begun to emit disapproval and disgust. Two of them, the two she had pegged as Bea’s parents, are especially focused on Bea as they pass.

Ava has imagined kicking Bea’s parents’ asses too many times to count. What’s the actual point of having a magic, empathic, sort-of weapon embedded in her back if she can’t use it to absolutely fucking stomp her girlfriend’s shithead homophobic parents. Even without the halo, Ava could flatten them in a number of fun and creative ways, all poetically thanks to Bea. But she knows this is not about her; it’s about Beatrice, and her job as the person who loves Beatrice more than anything else in the world is to support her while she figures out how she wants to deal with these stupid fuckers. Of course, she does break out the face she reserves for cat-calling men, people who hit on Beatrice while Ava is literally right there, and the worst of Adriel’s goons. She’s only human and they’re fucking lucky she isn’t halo blasting them right out of their way, right out of England entirely.

She feels eyes on them after they pass but stops herself from glancing back. They make it a block and a half and Ava is ready to ask about Thai food, provide a distraction if Bea wants one, but Bea doesn’t relax. If anything she’s holding herself tighter now.

“Bea?”

“They’re following us,” she says lowly. “My parents.”

Ava remains quiet, lets Bea set the pace, occasionally rubs Bea’s forearm. After another block, Beatrice steers them down a side street, waiting. A few moments later, the couple round the corner and stop, what Ava thinks is surprise flashing briefly over both of their faces before they settle back into what Ava guesses is neutral for them. They have the expressions of stern Victorian schoolteachers, and not in the hot way. They are perfectly put together—Bea’s mom is in a black dress and black and white tweed blazer, heels high enough to be intimidating but not high enough to be anything other than appropriate. Her dad is in a charcoal suit with a blue silk tie, black capped Oxfords shining. They’re beautiful people, just like Bea.

“Hello, Mother. Papa.”

“Beatrice. Hello.”

It’s her dad who’s speaking, and his tone is formal, the fucking psycho, as if he’s not seeing his only daughter for the first time in years, as if he hadn’t been following them.

“Is there a reason that you were following us?”

Bea is standing steady, tone as even as ever. Ava knows she’s upset, probably nervous, because she can feel Bea’s pinky tap unevenly against Ava’s palm, invisible to everyone but Ava. Also because she knows Bea and this is an objectively weird and fucked up situation and of course she’s going to be upset by it.

“Beatrice.” It’s her mother this time. “Don’t be dramatic.” It’s dismissive. Ava hates her. “We were merely being discreet. We weren’t sure that you would be able to talk to us. You’re clearly...on an assignment. I wasn’t sure whether your friend was aware of your...position.”

Beatrice looks at her for a moment before saying, surprise slipping just slightly into her response, “I am in London for work, yes, although I’m not working right now.”

She tilts her head in Ava’s direction at the same time that she steps just slightly in front of her. Ava’s heart breaks—Bea is moving the same way she does when she’s gauging danger, protecting Ava from her parents. Ava is the one making that move most of the time, these days (which they’re both fine with because “it doesn’t hurt my ego to acknowledge reality, darling—you could flatten everything in a three block radius and still be ready for a fight. I know you don’t doubt my skills. I know that it’s about something else.” A waggle of Ava’s eyebrows, a move into Bea’s lap. “Oh, I have no doubts about your skills, Bea, and yes,” softer, closer, “it’s about loving you.”).

“This is my girlfriend, Ava. Ava, these are my parents.” She hesitates for a moment before adding, “And I’m not quite sure how it’s relevant but yes, Ava knows about my work. We work together.”

Ava’s not totally sure how this shit works but she’s 80% that the fact that Bea didn’t even bother with their names is the fancy rich person equivalent of her spitting at their feet. She’s very proud. The scale of things Ava wants to say to these people runs from “get fucked,” at the most polite end, to a literal punch in the face, at the most honest end. She nods her head slightly and says nothing at all, is now very proud of herself, as well. Frankly, she’s doing an excellent job of being restrained here.

Bea’s mother takes a step toward them and Ava stops herself from reversing Bea’s move from a moment ago, forces herself to stay still. The woman is looking at Ava like she’s a problem she’s trying to figure out and, oh, Ava knows that face. Ava loves that face. Suddenly she’s seeing Beatrice, puzzling through an issue with the books at the bar or trying to figure out where she went wrong with a recipe, Beatrice unable to find the shirt or the sweater that she wants (Ava stole it; it’s always because Ava stole it). It’s in the crease of her mother’s forehead, the clench of her jaw and the press of her lips, the slight scrunch of her nose. Ava knows, logically, that it makes sense for Bea and her mother to look alike, but she’s still genuinely shocked to find the person she loves so clearly present in the woman in front of her.

Finally, she seems to come to some conclusion, looking back to Beatrice and saying, “Right. Of course. I must have misunderstood the nature of your assignment.”

Ava loses the thread sometimes but she’s been paying pretty close attention to this whole situation and she has no idea what Bea’s mom is talking about. Beatrice is quiet for a moment.

“My...assignment? I’m sorry, Mother, I’m not sure what you mean.”

Her mother gestures, stabs the air in a very pointed and incredibly controlled way, at Bea’s body, at Ava, at their hands. Ava’s not sure what the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

“Don’t be obtuse, Beatrice.”

Ava prickles; the halo gives a hum of agreement beneath her skin. Beatrice must sense it because she squeezes her hand.

“I’m not being obtuse, Mum. You’re being obscure. What exactly do you think you know about my work here?”

Her tone has ventured into mild frustration, and Ava wants to clap her hands in appreciation. She does not. Because she’s a grown up.

Her mother looks around quickly, like she’s trying to be sure there isn’t anyone watching, lowers her voice. “Honestly, Beatrice, I don’t know why you’re making me say it. This obviously isn’t your typical attire and,” she makes a face like she’s smelled something rotten, “you’ve cut your hair. You’re walking around holding hands with...this person. You’ve introduced her as though you’re having some kind of…relationship. Publicly. There’s clearly a purpose for that and,” she waves at Beatrice, “for all of this. We know that the Church has asked you to do some…unorthodox things. I can’t pretend to know why exactly all of this is necessary but clearly,” she looks around again, hisses, “You’re undercover.”

Ava blinks. I mean she’s not wrong—they’re obviously not telling Adriel’s assholes (much more accurate name than FBC, by the way, and catchier) who they are or who they work for because their work kind of depends on them not figuring it out, but Ava’s pretty sure that’s not what she means. Beatrice is silent, Ava assumes because she’s trying to process.

Taking the silence as confirmation, apparently, her mother continues, “Your father and I weren’t sure that you would be able to speak with us given that you are working and given,” here she appraises Ava again and Ava fights the urge to stick her tongue out, “your company. We thought...getting to know her...might have been part of your work. Apparently, the two of you are,” she gestures at their hands again, “working together in this. I had not guessed.”

“I don’t...Part of my...work? Getting to...getting to know her?”

Ava is only really used to seeing Bea this inarticulate when Ava’s trying super hard to make her that way, but she can’t blame her because, from what Ava can put together, Bea’s mom thinks the Church has sent Bea undercover as a...butch dyke with a pink-haired girlfriend? She thinks Bea is, what? Pretending to eat pussy? For Jesus? For the record, Bea’s definitely not pretending, although Ava would say it’s a religious experience. Also, okay, fine, Ava does sometimes bring Jesus into things but only in the super blasphemous way, thanks very much. Ava whispers, “What the fuck?” before she can stop herself, clearly loud enough to be heard by Bea’s parents, who sneer almost simultaneously.

Bea’s mother speaks again, confident, in the direction of her husband, “I knew she was not affiliated with the Church.”

Score one for Ava. She’s honestly delighted that it’s so totally inconceivable that she could be a nun (those never-nun vibes are the vibes she wants to be putting out), but this makes literally no sense. Suddenly she can’t help herself.

“Hey, I could totally be a nun. You don't know my life. I spend like all my time with nuns. I know so many nuns. Biblically, even!” Well there’s that. Biblically, Ava? Who even says that? Ava looks at Beatrice, who is still facing her parents but whose shoulders have started to rise toward her earlobes. For reasons Ava cannot articulate, she continues. “Well, just one nun. Biblically, I mean. I only know Beatrice biblically.” Nice, Ava. She’s not done, apparently. “Speaking of Beatrice, what, exactly, did you think the Church asked Bea to do? Seduce me? Mission fucking accomplished. Also, if you thought I was a mark, or whatever, why would you follow her? What if you'd blown her cover and ruined all that time she spent being super hot for the Church? Or, what if she had brought me down this street to rail me…for Jesus? Holy shit, I’m gonna shut up now.”

Bea has finally turned to look at her and is...trying not to laugh. “Good Lord, Ava,” she whispers as she tries to keep it under control. Ava can see the shine in her eyes and the slight twitch of her jaw, her shoulders. Ava winces slightly and gives what she hopes is an appropriately apologetic shrug. Beatrice squeezes Ava’s hand, coughs to cover a laugh and turns back to her parents, who appear to be so horrified that they cannot move. Ava’s very glad she’s not trying to make a good impression on these people because that was a fucking disaster.

“Right. Well. Clearly there has been some confusion. Mother, I renounced my vows about a year ago. My relationship with Ava is not part of an undercover assignment,” her voice waivers slightly as she tries not to laugh, “and for that matter neither are my clothes or hair. I’m just very, very gay.” She adds, after a moment, “Although you’re right that Ava is not a nun.”

Ava is giggling before she can think to stop herself, and Bea is looking back at her with so much affection that she feels the halo start to hum. She coaxes it back into quiet. Ava turns her attention back to Bea’s parents, who are still standing very still, but now frowning somehow even more deeply than before.

“Beatrice, surely you aren’t telling us…surely you aren’t saying…with this woman…” her mother starts, voice hard and angry, the word woman spit like venom, which Ava thinks probably has at least something to do with the fact that she just monologued about fucking their daughter in the weirdest way possible. Then there’s the sacrilege. Also, her boobs look amazing in this tank top, which Ava’s guessing doesn’t work in her favor in this particular circumstance. Ava takes it as a compliment.

Also, she’s fascinated, but horror-movie fascinated, at what’s happening right now because these people caught Beatrice with her hand up another girl’s skirt when she was 15 and now they see her holding hands with Ava, looking exactly as wonderfully queer as she is, and they’re more willing to believe that she’s on a secret gay mission for the Church than that she’s actually just, you know, gay? Holy shit, this woman is deluded. Homophobia is fucking wild.

Before her mother can stutter out anything else, Bea’s father puts his hand on her shoulder and she quiets. Gross. He steps, like, right in front of his wife, pushing her back a step, to stare at Beatrice. Gross-er.

“It is unfortunate that your time of service in the Church failed to help you get over this...predilection, Beatrice, although it is far from the first time you have failed to meet very reasonable expectations. At least we are not unused to being disappointed by you.”

His tone is dripping with condescension and indifference and this is his daughter, his objectively incredible daughter. Ava can suddenly see six-year-old Bea standing alone in front of this cold, hard man—hair in a knot that leaves her with a headache, uncomfortable in the ballet shoes she already hates, posture perfect in her little leotard and tutu. Ava can see her there, trying so, so hard to be what he wants, and feeling like she’s not enough. She wants to wrap tiny Bea in her arms and take her away. She wants this man to hurt the way he hurt her. It takes every ounce of self-control she has to keep the halo still and silent, to contain the angry, vengeful thing growing in her stomach.

“It really is a shame,” her mother says, curt, from where she’s now stationed behind him. “We tried very hard to help you, Beatrice, but you always were a stubborn, ungrateful thing.”

Ava’s self-control is officially running on empty. She considers her options. Ava could kill them very easily but they’re in public. Maybe she’ll borrow Bea’s signature throat punch. Less messy, still effective. Seems like a winner. The halo hums lowly with approval. Before she can move, though, Bea is fully in front of her, unfolding that last little bit of herself until she’s standing there as the soldier she was trained to be. Sister Beatrice may be gone but Bea is still a fucking badass. And Christ she’s hot. (See? Blasphemy only.)

“As it turns out, I don’t actually give a shit what you think. I have a wonderful life. To the extent you were ever my family, you aren’t any longer. My family loves me for who I am, and despite your best efforts, I love myself, too.”

She is confident, her body casually dangerous, her voice steady and unbothered. Ava would like her to be done with this interaction for at least 100 reasons, and she’s proud to say that only like a quarter of those are sex things. Bea turns to Ava, smiles like Ava is the only thing she cares about. “Ready for dinner?”

Ava’s definitely hungry. (5/10 at best but her focus is absolutely elsewhere.) And, right, so maybe she underestimated, but still it’s only like a third sex things, which is very impressive given her fucking smoke show of a girlfriend. And also Ava can want to push Bea down onto the closest bench and do her very best to positively reinforce all of this confidence and also be so fucking proud and happy and in love that she wants to cry because she can contain multitudes, or whatever. Ava rises on her toes to kiss Bea’s cheek and nods.

“Just a sec,” she takes a step forward and looks at Bea’s father, meets his eyes. “She is the best person I have ever met, which is saying a lot, because I spend most of my time with people who have given their lives to their faith and helping others. And because,” Ava lets her eyes glow bright with the halo’s energy, a party trick, really, but super effective for scaring people and, she hopes, shaking the smug fuckers in front of her, “I have some experience with the divine.”

Sure enough, Ava watches as Bea’s father’s eyes grow large, as her mother takes a step back. Bea puts a gentle hand on the small of her back and she turns to smile at her reassuringly, blinks back to normal.

“She saved me, saves me all the time, really. You spent her whole life trying to make her small. You failed. She’s a miracle. And again,” she lets her eyes flash bright quickly, can’t help but smirk when Bea’s dad staggers back, “I know something about those.”

She reaches back for Bea, flips them off with her free hand. “It was in no way nice to meet you. Seriously, one of my least favorite experiences, and I’ve literally died twice and spent a few years fighting demons in a hell dimension, so well done you.”

She turns fully to Bea and then they’re walking, pressed close together, away from them.

After a few blocks, Ava turns to look up at Bea. “I hope that wasn’t too much, Bea. Sometimes my mouth gets away from me, not that that’s news to you. Or an excuse! I’m really sorry if I...”

She trails off at the look on Bea’s face, which is...oh. Well, that’s unexpected. Beatrice is looking at Ava like she wants to ruin her. In the very good, very welcome sex way. They’re near a small park and Beatrice tugs her hand until they’re inside, sheltered by hedges and wrought iron, and presses Ava up against a tree. One of her hands presses into her hipbone, thumbing at the hem of her shorts while the other splays possessively over her ribs, pressing into the material of the black tank top Ava wears beneath an olive green bomber she’d stolen from Bea.

She’s close to Ava, pupils blown, and she whispers, “This okay?”

Ava shifts slightly forward so that she can shrug out of the jacket, anticipating a future annoying limitation, and then places her hand over Bea’s on her rib cage, shifts it lower and back up, underneath the fabric. Bea sucks in a breath. She doesn’t even mention the jacket Ava just let drop to the ground. Beatrice’s jacket. Ava shivers. Disregard for mess is a top 5 indicator that Bea is about to absolutely wreck her. She’s fucking delighted, meets Bea’s eyes and arches her back slightly to press herself further into Bea’s hands.

“Yes, Bea. Very, very okay.”

And then Bea’s mouth is on hers, hard and filthy and as possessive as the hand moving torturously slowly toward where she wants it under her shirt. Ava’s knees go weak and Bea moves to press a thigh against her, both hands suddenly firm on her hips and pulling Ava closer, whispering soft affirmations between kisses when she hears Ava moan. She moves her own body to match the rhythm of Ava moving against her thigh.

Bea breaks away to bite and suck at Ava’s neck, soothes the marks, already disappearing thanks to the halo, with her tongue. Ava is a whimpering mess when Bea makes her way up her neck and to her ear, whispering, voice raspy with want, “Do you know how much your love means to me, Ava?”

Ava traps Bea’s face between her hands and says, with as much love as she can put into her voice, with the halo glowing hard against the bark of the tree behind her, “I meant what I said, Bea. You’re a miracle. You’re beautiful. I can’t believe I get to love you this way.”

The kiss she gives Beatrice moves them from heated to gentle, and when she pulls back, Bea is still breathing hard but her grip on Ava’s hips is softer, her thigh now still where Ava’s pressed against it.

“Want to continue this at home?”

Ava shifts slightly, feels the bark of the tree rough against the exposed skin of her lower back and shoulders. She’s in no way opposed to letting Beatrice do whatever the fuck she wants to her against this tree but they do have a very nice apartment and Ava has some ideas about what she’d like to do for Beatrice that are logistically more difficult here.

“Yes, please.”

Her stomach growls, and Bea laughs, moves a hand under her tank to press gently against the skin of her belly.

“Food first. I really do want Thai.”

She bends down to retrieve her jacket and holds it open for Ava as she pulls herself away from the tree. Ava kisses her cheek in thanks. Bea runs a hand through her hair and straightens her jacket before reaching out for Ava’s hand and pulling them back toward the road.

“I guess we are technically undercover,” Bea says, as Ava swings their joined hands higher and higher.

Ava snorts. “Yeah, you’re right. Although pretty sure I’d be much more excited to be doing whatever the fuck your mom thought we were doing. I mean honestly, Bea, what a pervert.” Bea smiles. Ava feels victorious. “It is kind of hot,” Ava continues as they make their way toward the Thai place closest to the flat. She waggles her eyebrows. “Wanna play undercover nuns later, Bea? Ooh, ooh, wait—undercovers nuns! Fucking nailed it.”

Bea rolls her eyes and tucks a strand of hair behind Ava’s ear.

“How hungry are you? You want to split a green curry and pad thai?”

Ava bumps her shoulder. “Sure. Satay, too. And mango rice.” She skips ahead and looks back at Bea. “Also, don’t think I didn’t notice—that wasn’t a no. I’m going looking for your habit as soon as we’re home. There’s gotta be a spare in the safe house, too, right?”

“If we’re undercover, why would we need the habits?”

“Backstory, Bea. Backstory.”

“I love you. You’re ridiculous.”

“Still not a no!”

Ava laughs over Beatrice’s groan.

#avatrice week #avatrice #sister beatrice #ava silva #warrior nun

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dangerouscommiesubversive · 2 years

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May I request Kagami and Tendou, prompt 24? Thank you very much!

Aha, the ever-popular Tremendously Dramatic Public Kiss. It took me a minute to think of a scenario in which these two might even have one of those, but I feel like I got it figured out.

The biggest problem of being in a relationship with Tendou Souji, Arata thinks, is that when you go somewhere together you aren't just out, you're out with Tendou Souji, and the problem with being out somewhere with Tendou Souji is that people are always looking at him.

Admittedly--admittedly, of course they are. The average human or covert Worm possesses two eyes in at least relative working order, and looking at people isn't illegal, or even frowned upon. In fact it's generally more of a problem if you don't look at people. So it's not the fact of the looking, obviously Souji can't go through his day without being looked at. That would be an insane thing to expect of anyone, let alone Tendou Souji, the World's Most Noticeable Man.

Really it's the way that people look at him.

For example: right now they're at a clothing store that Arata wouldn't even look at if he were by himself, and Souji isn't buying him a necktie.

"Don't be absurd, of course I'm buying you a necktie, you need a new one."

"What's wrong with the ones I have?"

A slow, serene blink. "These are better." Draped over Souji's forearm is a selection of blue neckties, all in subtly different shades and textures on which Arata's sure Souji would be happy to lecture him if given the opportunity. They do, admittedly, look much nicer than what he usually wears. "You have an event coming up for which you should be well-dressed."

"It's just a dinner, a lot of people are going to be there. It's not as if I have to give a speech." Arata looks down slightly cross-eyed at the necktie currently being held up under his chin. "Anyway it'll look weird if I show up wearing a tie that costs more than the entire rest of my outfit."

"Then we'll go to a tailor next." Souji peers at him, frowning very faintly, and then puts the tie in his hand aside. "You need a new suit as it is."

He considers the other ties he's picked out as Arata sputters. A saleswoman walking past them with another customer turns slightly to look at him, her eyes flicking down and then up again even as she continues her explanation of the store's offerings uninterrupted. A moment later, the guy she's helping also looks.

That. That's the problem. That kind of looking. Arata is fully aware that he's being ridiculous about it, but look, he's allowed to be ridiculous sometimes, and if people would stop checking out his boyfriend then that would be great.

"--and Tsugami has invited us over for dinner this coming Thursday, I presume he wouldn't have extended the invitation if you and Hikawa would be busy."

Arata blinks. "I'm sorry, what? Right, yeah, Thursday, should be good unless there's an emergency."

Souji looks faintly, delicately amused, which is a facial expression that he manages to do almost entirely with his eyelashes and which drives Arata to distraction under the best of circumstances. "You're not paying attention."

"No, I wasn't, I'm sorry." There are two more discarded ties put aside on the table next to Souji's elbow.

"You seem distressed."

"No, it's nothing, it's fine, just spacing out." They're standing next to the shop window, and out of the corner of his eye Arata sees a couple of high schoolers stop, peer through the glass at Souji, and visibly burst into giggles. "Hikawa mentioned dinner, actually, apparently we get to be taste testers on some new recipe."

"Good, I'm glad to hear that you're prepared." Souji's eyes flick to the side for a bare moment, and then he glances down at the remaining two neckties in his hands and says, abruptly, "This one. Wait here, I'll be right back."

Fifteen minutes later, Arata has been towed (quietly, serenely) to a different menswear boutique, and Souji is making him try on suits.

"You know I was joking, right? What I have is perfectly fine, they're good suits, I just think fifteen thousand yen is too much to pay for a necktie."

"It's a perfectly reasonable price for something of good quality. Excuse me," to a hovering sales clerk, "he'd like to try these three on."

Arata sighs. "I guess I would, sure."

The first suit is too tight in the shoulders. The second is too loose in the waist, which could theoretically be fixed, but he finds as he's looking in the mirror that the fabric just doesn't look right to him. He doesn't bother to show either one to Souji, just texts him from the surprisingly comfortable fitting room, [if this third one doesn't work we're leaving]

[If you insist. Do try on the third one, though.]

Maddeningly, the third suit fits like it was tailor-made for him and looks amazing, and he steps out of the fitting room hoping that he doesn't look visibly disgruntled.

"Hm," is Souji's initial response, and then, "Hm," again, which could mean anything until it's clarified by, "I suspected that one would be suitable." Another one of those quick glances to the side, which are starting to make Arata a little worried. "Hold still, I'm confident that the necktie will work nicely in this ensemble but I'd like to verify."

The necktie is produced, and of course it has to be unrolled and slid under his shirt collar as if he's going to wear it, they can't just hold it up next to his lapel. Souji's hands hover in front of his chest, one end of the tie in each, and he says, "Yeah, I think that looks fi--"

Kissing. They are kissing, Souji has pulled him in by the loose necktie and is kissing him right here in front of the fitting rooms in this stupid fancy clothing store and a woman nearby is very suddenly having a coughing fit. Which, of course she is! He's pretty startled himself! And it's not exactly a long kiss, but it is very...something. It feels like a statement. He just wishes he knew what they're supposed to be stating.

"Yes, that will do nicely," Souji says upon releasing him, "go change," and then turns away and begins rolling the necktie back up as he sputters. "Pardon me," to the same sales clerk who'd been hovering previously, "we will be purchasing this suit."

"Will you be requiring alterations? Our in-house tailors--"

"No need, as you can see it already fits."

Arata goes and changes.

Finally, when they're out of the store and he's got a garment bag over one arm and Souji is looking as unflappable as usual, he says, "So what was that about?"

"What was what about?"

"You know what I mean, don't be a pain in the ass."

Souji stares ahead fixedly for a moment before saying, "I simply thought that if everyone in the store felt the need to look at you then I would give them something to look at."

This takes a moment to process and then Arata grins and says, "I can't believe you were jealous."

"I'm not going to dignify that with an answer."

"So does that mean the next time the woman at the doughnut place starts hitting on you I can kiss you in front of her?"

A sideways glance. "Perhaps."

#tendou souji #kagami arata #fanfiction #anonamouse #tendou would eat a doughnut with a knife and fork i just know it

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writermuses · 1 year

Text

Giftmas Request from @autumnwritcs

Explanations under the ✂️

Nora x Rhys - A bunch of puzzles. Sorta her way of asking him to never stop dating her because she's a smitten little bean.

Sirius x Emma - The moment that girl came back into his life he knew he wasn't letting her go again. Even when he left, he just knew Em wasn't a passing thing. So, that ring was a long time coming, she just had to find it on the tree.

Pembe x Carrick - She may have selfishly got him a new leather jacket hoping he'll let her keep the one he put on her the rainy day. It's become her comfort blanket of sorts 😂 The feat of a blind girl taking his worn in leather jacket to a shop to have another custom made for him though... oof. She's hoping it'll be worth it. She knows nothing about coats/menswear

Jack x Nina - Just a casual gift of teal self defense tools. Including mace, mini-stun gun, and an escape multi-tool.

Giancarlo x Camila - As fake husband, he wants her to have happy, cozy holidays. He made them the Venezuelan holiday staple of pan de jamón in hopes of making her smile.

#autumnwritcs #holidays 2022 #//i'm going to need dumblr to stop fucking up my graphics quality

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stargazer-sims · 1 year

Text

A Surprise Arrival

Eden is having a terrible day. He's got a lot on his mind, and his focus isn't entirely on what he's doing right now. Today, Charlie is spending the day with Sugar Valentine's stylists, and it's essentially a tryout for the position he's been unofficially offered. If he does well, he'll be offered the position officially and he’ll be travellliing with the band on tour.

Eden is beyond happy that his twin has gotten this opportunity. Everything Charlie has done since graduating from high school has been leading up to this. Going to college for his diploma in aesthetics, working at a salon back home, building up his portfolio and studying Japanese have all been for this moment.

The problem is, Eden can't stop thinking about everything that could potentially go wrong for Charlie today. He’s desperate for his brother to do well, and wants everything to be perfect. Of course, Charlie’s success means that he will get the job and that Eden will be left all alone in Mt. Komorebi, and that’s worrying him too. He has no friends here yet, and his only acquaintances are their landlord, his coach, and the staff at the rink.

To make things even more difficult, his Japanese isn't nearly as good as Charlie's. Unlike his brother, Eden didn't spend his spare time in Japanese classes, dedicating himself to learning the language in preparation for this adventure. When he wasn’t training, he was busy with his job at a high-end menswear shop. Now, without being fluent and without Charlie being around, he's afraid he'll struggle even more.

It all feels like too much, and it’s weighing on him.

He's brought back to reality when he hears his coach, Mr. Nishijima, shouting at him for about the fifteenth time in as many minutes.

Ichiro: No, no.... that's the sloppiest upright spin I've ever seen! Start again!

Eden wants to cry. He hates that Mr. Nishijima just stands on the stairs and yells instructions at him. He almost never puts his own skates on and joins Eden on the ice. He never corrects him properly or teaches him anything. If Nikolai were here...

But, he can't think about that. Nikolai isn't here. It's Eden's own fault that he's in this situation right now, and there's no one else to blame, not even the overbearing Ichiro Nishijima.

______

MEANWHILE...

A very tired traveller has arrived in Mt. Komorebi.

Nikolai: *to himself* I can't believe I finally made it. I feel like I've been on planes for days, and then there was the madness with so few English signs at the airport, and then trying to rent a car and having to find my way around town by myself. And that guest house in the absolute middle of nowhere...! I'd much rather stay in town with Eden and Charlie, but there'll be time to sort all of that out later. Now, this has to be the place. This town can't possibly be large enough for more than one sports facility this size.

Nikolai: *to himself* What's that music? Light opera? My boy can't possibly be skating to that. I wonder if Charlie told me the wrong ice time.

Nikolai: *to himself* Ahh... there you are, my sunshine. Not very sunny today though, it seems. And who's that man over there? Must be the notorious Mr. Nishijima, but why isn't he on the ice as well?

Nikolai squints to focus on the older man standing behind the glass on the other side of the ice surface. He guesses the other coach is in his mid-fifties, and he looks fit and healthy, so it's a mystery as to why the man is on the sidelines. Nishijima's gaze is fixed on Eden, and he does not look happy at all. In fact, to Nikolai, he seems frustrated and angry for some reason.

And then it happens.

Nishijima opens his mouth and yells. At Eden.

Eden stumbles out of his upright spin and goes sprawling on the ice. He's up again in a split second, apparently unhurt, much to Nikolai’s relief. Nishijima doesn't seem particularly concerned, however. If anything, Eden's unfortunate tumble only causes him to increase the intensity of his tirade. He hollers at the top of his voice for Eden to pay attention.

Nikolai has been here for less than five minutes, and he’s already seen enough. It's all he can do to contain his outrage and to prevent himself from charging across the ice to physically shake the older man perched st the top of the stairs.

He can’t imagine any circumstance in which he’d find it necessary to yell at Eden — or any of his young skaters for that matter — in such an agressive way. He’s certainly had to raise his voice to be heard plenty of times, but never in anger, never to belittle or demean a child he’s teaching. Everyone has their own teaching style, naturally. He’d be narrow-minded not to acknowledge that, but regardless, he has to say he finds Nishijima’s manner to overstep anything that might be considered a style of instruction.

Nishijima is scary. Nikolai has concluded quite quickly that there’s no other word for it. He hopes that no one younger than Eden is under this man’s supervision. It’s bad enough that he’s treating a young adult this way. To a child, Nikolai is sure it’d be a waking nightmare.

For his part, Eden is ignoring his coach now. Even without being able to see Eden’s face, Nikolai can tell he is crying, and he knows from experience that if his wonderfully brave and resilient Eden is crying, he’s well and truly hit his limit.

Nikolai feels as if someone has stabbed him through the heart. He'd known Eden was having a difficult time; Eden himself had intimated as much, and Charlie had mentioned it too, but Nikolai hadn't realized this is what’s been happening.

He wonders if it’s a daily occurrence, the shouting. With a mental cloud of dread gathering, he assumes that it probably is, and he berates himself for not agreeing straight away when Eden first asked him about coming to Japan. Eden’s current suffering is his fault. It could have been avoided if only he’d arranged to come sooner.

Eden turns around, and now Nikolai can see the tears on his pale cheeks. He skates right past Nikolai without even noticing him. Nikolai says his name, but Eden doesn't appear to hear.

Eden is heading for the carpeted runner that leads to the locker rooms before Nikolai regains enough of his own wits to turn and follow him.

#ts4 #sims 4 #eagames #snowy escape #Eden Seong #Nikolai Pavlenko #Ichiro Nishijima #wearesugarvalentine #stargazersims

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