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interpolanticssuperfan · 8 months

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nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 2 | 18+ only

warnings: none for this chapter except reader doesn't believe that ken isn't human and asks to touch his feet to prove it. its not going to be a thing, i promise lol. enjoy !! also i really hope my characterization of ken is good so far!!

So this is how you found yourself packing up your things, throwing a cursory farewell glance to Pat, who’d long abandoned watching your tense exchange in favor of flipping through an Avon brochure, and heading down the marble staircase with Ken glued to your side, chattering away at lightspeed the entire time.

“This is excellent. (Y/N), I just knew you’d be as kind as I thought you were. And now I never have to see the bridge guy again. You don’t have a change of clothes, do you? I mean… I assume you have plenty of dresses, jumpsuits, blazers, things like that, but I could really use something that accentuates my chest a little better. Unless you like it covered up. Do you like it covered up?”

“Aren’t you sweating your ass off in those clothes? And who is the bridge guy?” You give a slight tug at the hem of his jacket, pushing open the glass double doors for the both of you and nearly gasping at the hot wall of humid air washing past, embracing your skin in a rush.

Ken turns, locks his confused eyes with your inquisitive ones. As your hand flies away from him, Ken follows your fingers, like he’s upset that you didn’t actually touch him. “What do you mean? I feel fantastic in these. It’s my white denim. But if you… do you like them?”

“I… well, I don’t know what your chest looks like, but I’m sure it looks… great.” Your cheeks flushed as you stole an unbidden glimpse in his general direction, shouldering you as if he was convinced he’d disappear if he wasn’t essentially tethered to you.

“You really think so? Then I’ll keep it on. I bet I can wear this for a whole week and not even get a single wrinkle. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.”

Without asking, you chance a risky move, placing your fore and middle finger to the back of Ken’s neck where his hair dips down. The sunlight doesn’t seem to bother him, the punishing heat isn’t making him groan with exhaustion, and to your abject horror – there’s not a bead of sweat on him: Ken’s sun-kissed skin is frigid to the touch. Rigid, he felt wax-like, resembling the mold of a man.

In the middle of the looping sidewalk that wraps around to the block you live on, Ken freezes with a gasp, reflexively shoots his hand up to clasp around your wrist where you’re feeling him. For a moment, neither of you speak, you just allow yourself to stare into his eyes which are very much undeniably alive, bright blue with inexplicable life and bounding to chase yours, melting into your grip.

“Why aren’t you hot out here.” It doesn’t come out as a question. Ken begins to sense your hesitation, doesn’t drop his firm fingers from your hand. “It’s the middle of summer, Ken.”

You hear a passerby shove past you, can feel their leashed dog traipse by your knees, you can hear a car horn honking at traffic, but all of it feels muted, feels futile, the volume turning down on every possible source of stimulation save for Ken’s eyes, Ken’s icy cold neck.

He isn’t smiling, but he doesn’t back down from the question. “I told you. I’m not…” Ken looks upwards to the clouds, quirks an eyebrow as if drafting his response with immense care. As if he had been up there before. Like he’d never thought this hard about anything. “I’m not from here. You’re a human.”

“And you’re supposed to be – what?”

“I don’t really know how to explain it. No one’s ever… I guess no one’s ever cared to ask me about it.” With his eyes still trained on yours, you press your fingers a little harder against a cord of muscle where a visible vein pokes out, feebly exploring for a pulse point, just to find that Ken had no heartbeat, either.

This pressure between you both seemed to pull a reaction from Ken, who at once slammed his eyes shut and sucked in a harsh breath, inching his head back and baring more of his not-skin to you. You felt that if Ken could have a pulse, it would be racing right about now.

“Are you. Are you dead?”

You feel ridiculous. You feel faint. Your body wants to look every which way, maybe waiting for a prank show host to reveal themselves with a raucous cast and crew, pointing and laughing at the fool who fell for the “living wax figure” bit, and you’d smile for the camera and go home and forget this ever happened. (Mind destined to wonder how the hell they made their dummy so believable, so lifelike, so… alive.)

But no one came, and no one laughed, and glassy eyed Ken kept staring at you, scrambling for an answer to your loaded question.

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t sleep?”

“Nope.”

“Do you eat?”

“Never tried. But there’s a bunch of food in Barbieland. It’s more for decoration, if that makes sense. Sorta like clothes. An apple here is very different from an apple there. Trust me.”

Sudden shakiness claiming your knees, you knew you’d have to find a place to sit soon or you were liable to fall over in the middle of the sidewalk, which would pose a massive problem for you and your new cargo (friend?) who claimed to neither sleep nor eat, let alone seemed capable of getting you medical help.

These newest revelations which you’d felt for yourself seemed to quickly overshadow the old worries which had plagued you – the stalking, the casing out your apartment, those were all old news now.

Ken was one step ahead of you, noticed the pallor painting across your face, and without another word took your bag from your shoulder, slipping a shockingly strong arm around your waist effortlessly. “Come here. You look… really scared.” He jolted his head to find an unoccupied stretch of grass, then walked you both over to it, hand never leaving your back.

Once you felt yourself on the ground, you were able to take a deep breath. Ken sat cross legged in front of you, your bag still strewn across his body, his face entirely drawn with intense concern.

“(Y/N)?” The consideration in his tone was so palpable, you couldn’t help but to trust him, let him continue to keep his hand on you, just to make sure you were still with him. Black splotches had entered your vision but dissipated once you got your bearings, due in part to the reassuring feeling of Ken’s thumb pressed against the ball of your kneecap.

“I’m sorry, I. I don’t know what just happened. I didn’t mean to freak you out, Ken.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Do you feel any better?”

In the middle of the day, broad daylight assailing your back, your cheeks, your arms, and still on the clock, you lifted your head up to address Ken.

Ken, who had been there to help you, who had fixed you with such tenderness in his eyes and didn’t know the first thing about you. Ken, who glimmered in the sun, who waited five hours at the library by himself just for a chance at seeing you. Who had been bursting at the seams to show you a book about… horses.

“Did you really follow me home?”

Ken nodded, smile tugging at his lips. “I should have said hi. Would you have said hi back?” The way he balanced back on his tailbone revealed even more of his abdomen, his glistening muscles that managed to appear slick though they were devoid of actual sweat. Ken really did look to be covered in… well, lacquer, or some kind of perfect finish that made him perpetually shine.

“I think I would have said hi, yes. For sure. Why do you keep talking about – um. Barbie? And please be honest with me.”

Ken didn’t miss a beat, looked down to where his thumb was still resting on your leg. “Don’t freak out again. You don’t have to worry about her, by the way – we are not a thing anymore.” He pointed tersely with his free hand.

“That’s not what I was wondering… about.”

“I’d rather you hear it from me first, (Y/N). I’m from Barbieland. That’s what I was trying to explain before. You know Barbie and Ken? That’s me. I am Ken.” A laugh would be appropriate, but you didn’t feel like giving one. Not considering the dead serious look Ken wore as he talked, measured and severe.

“Okay. So… okay. What does that mean? You live… like a Ken doll? Like extreme cosplay? Plastic surgery to look like him and stuff like that?”

“I don’t know what roleplay is. I am literally Ken.” He blinks at you, waiting for the cogs to turn, waiting for it to click for you.

“A mega Ken fan.” You might be in denial still.

Growing frustrated, Ken snatches your hand back to his lower neck, brusquely forcing your clammy fingers into the dip right above his clavicle, the base of his throat to prove his point.

“See? I don’t feel like you. Feel yours, and then feel mine. I’m not lying. Why would I lie about who I am?” With your other hand that Ken hadn’t captured, you did as he said and mirrored the motion, felt your arduous pulse, blood coursing through your veins, and felt speechless again at the sensation of nothingness coming from the guy who looked more male than any man you’d actually seen.

“I don’t know what to say. You’ve never been to a doctor?”

“Oh, Barbie is a doctor. But I haven’t needed to see her for anything in a while. She used to call me accident prone. Or attention seeking. I can’t remember which one.”

“Right. Have you ever been sick?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Of course not.

“Broken a bone?”

“Don’t think I have those,” Ken pressed on, returning your nervous hand to your lap. He then stretched his leather-covered legs out across the gross, positioning them to the side of your knees, and started playing with the strap of your bag. “This is pretty heavy. No one carries this around for you?”

“Is it okay if I touch your leg?”

“You can absolutely touch it. But, do you think I can do that for you from now on? Carry the bag?” Ken pleaded at you with his eyes, so open and honest and innocent like a newborn fawn, and you found it impossible to tell him no. Talking with him was almost like conversing with a child, and that made your skin crawl when coupled with the knowledge that you found him overwhelmingly attractive, impossibly beautiful, even.

Jesus, the heat must be getting to you after all.

“Sure, you can carry my bag, Ken.”

“Yes,” Ken celebrated privately, too initially excited to notice that you’d started prodding at his shin in little tentative bursts. At first, you didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, it just felt like… a leg. So you eyeballed his ankles, his feet where the cowboy boots sat against the grass, and Ken seemed to know what you were about to ask. “Do you wanna see my feet? Will you believe me then?”

“I know how crazy this might sound. But I think I kind of do need to see them. Is that okay?” You fought to suppress your embarrassed grin, but this only made Ken laugh.

And what a beautiful laugh he had. Boyish, charming, airy like an angel; something you wanted to keep hearing again and again until this self proclaimed “Ken” had run out of things to find funny.

Had you always been this easy?

Or was it just easy with him?

Ken bent forward immediately, removing his spotless white boots, to reveal bare, spotless feet, angled perfectly and without any sort of distinct smell. No calluses, no odd toenail, no hair. They enticed you to get closer, to touch them, but you realized how bizarre this looked and how odd Ken must feel.

“I’m sorry, god, this is probably the weirdest day you’ve ever had, and I’m not making it any –” But as you looked up to give him this apology, Ken wore not an uncomfortable expression, but one instead of… unnamable, sober emotion. Like he was likely to break down in tears of relief the longer you regarded him with such curiosity.

“You don’t think I’m weird?” Ken asked, voice barely above a whisper. This response wasn’t what you expected, and you bit your lip, learning fast that Ken was as sensitive as he was bold. “When Barbie was here, people were awful to her at first, they were calling her horrible things and I don’t think I could…”

“I think that I have never met anyone like you. I think that… it’s insane that your feet are… I mean, can I touch them?”

This brings a hopeful spark to his face again, and he nods eagerly at your request, hungry to hear what you have to say. As if his future hangs on your opinion of him. As if he would die without your attention, good attention, bad attention, any of it. As if the prospect of being touched would save him from damnation, eternally.

All this to hold a stranger’s foot (a stranger with no heartbeat, a stranger with hypnotic blue eyes that could look so inviting looking down at you, would look even better blown open in surprise after a kiss, or – wait, why are you thinking about this?) on the grassy courtyard by a Catholic church while you’re still ignoring your work and still getting paid for every minute.

You knew there’d be more than a handful of angry emails waiting for you when you finally returned home.

But that could wait. It could all wait, because you scooted forward to cradle Ken’s bare foot in your lap, and you inspected with all the great care of a scientist inventing pharmaceuticals or something equally as important to mankind. He was right. It wasn’t like yours, his skin, his body wasn’t like anything you’d seen before. So… smooth. No hair except for Ken’s head of blonde, his arched brows. What kind of human being could live this long and not have a pimple on their face, no bumps or ridges on their feet, no scars anywhere whatsoever? You dragged your fingertips across the rounded arch, but again, nothing.

“You’re not even ticklish?”

“I’m not sure what that feels like.”

“Is Barbie ticklish?”

“I never tried tickling her.”

“You can feel me doing this, right?” Ken nodded, watched you caress him lightly, then with effort, as you squeezed tentatively. “So you can feel pressure.”

“Yeah, I can feel everything you’re doing.”

“But there’s no, like. It’s not tickling you, it’s not hurting you, it’s not. Sorry if this sounds weird, I promise I’m just trying to get information. Does it feel… good?” Something in you was begging you to just let go, stop worrying that this was probably the strangest day you’ve ever had, like you had anything else nearly as interesting going on besides quiche recipes in library magazines and buying lettuce for your guinea pig.

Ken raises his light brown eyebrows, like he hadn’t considered this, face still content as he processed your handiwork, rotating in circles now and occasionally swiping up to his smooth ankle. The cuffs of his leather pants had rolled up and afforded you a bit of access to more skin, if you could call it that.

“You’re the first person to touch my feet before. I don’t know… give me a second.”

“Should I stop?” Suddenly, you began to worry this might be putting Ken off. After all, you literally didn’t know him, and you’d asked him to show him your feet. Christ, you hoped he wasn’t taking you for a lunatic. You knew this was probably stupid. It was arguably unsafe – this guy had admitted to following you home.

However, with context, you were beginning to understand this might be the only course of action that fit Ken.

“No – don’t stop. Please, keep going.” The tone he’d just used was vastly different from the others – it wasn’t quizzical, wasn’t reassuring or conversational. He sounded… pleased, voice almost cracking at the end as you pushed a little harder at where his ankle bone would be and felt none of the give a human would have, none of the pores or follicles of hair. You’d started to really start massaging him now, gently rolling your fingers across his lower shin and then moving back down to his feet, compressing him.

How could this be real? It didn’t make any sense. You had half an idea to ask if you could try this on his neck, but when you looked up to gauge his physical state, Ken’s eyes hadn’t opened, but his mouth had fallen open in satisfaction, brows relaxed and easy. At first, he seemed peaceful, but when you stilled your breathing, you could hear him almost purring under your touch, like he’d never felt this before and wanted more – wanted something more acute. Something heightened. His chest rose and fell, mouth twitching as you worked, but you knew this was a peculiar way of getting to know someone, and you knew that Ken would probably never tell you to stop.

You gingerly laid Ken’s foot back in the grass next to his boot, and he snapped his eyes open, staring at you with a protest at the unexpected loss of contact.

“Why’d you stop?”

“I don’t know. This is weird. Am I making you feel weird?”

“(Y/N) – you’re making me feel incredible is what you’re doing. What’s that called, anyway?”

“A foot massage, I suppose. And it’s not something you typically do the first day you meet someone.”

Ken turned this over in his mind, evidently not picking up on the undercurrent of… something heavier than enjoyment he’d been displaying so openly, and put his boot back on.

“You don’t even need socks, huh?”

“Guess not. Can we do that again sometime? Maybe you can teach me how to do it for you? (Y/N), I promise I can learn really fast.” His mind racing a mile a minute, you had the good sense to rise above in this situation, regardless of how electric it felt to touch him – even if it was a little unorthodox.

You rose to stand once Ken had adjusted his (perfect) foot, and Ken held onto your bag like it was his job, clutching the strap with unnecessary force.

“Maybe, Ken. Listen, I really need to get back to my apartment and keep working, my boss is probably furious with me. And. I also am sorry if that was weird, asking to see your feet and then… doing that. I promise I’m not a creep or anything.” Very convincing – great work, he’s sure to buy that.

“Don’t say that. Seriously, (Y/N), I do not want to hear you say that again. You’re not a creep – you’re amazing, you’re so smart – no one’s ever even been interested in seeing me like that, no one’s ever questioned that I’m a doll, so I –”

“Is that what it is?” You asked, feeling like the clouds may have parted and the word dancing on your lips the entire time finally made itself known to you. “You’re a doll?” Ken bounded to his feet in a fluid motion, something that would’ve been difficult for any normal man to do.

He made it look easy – made everything look easy.

Ken chuckled, couldn’t help but wear that irresistible grin as he waited for you to start leading the way, assuming that wherever you went, he would naturally follow. “You are so funny. I told you, didn’t I? I am Ken! That’s me.”

“That’s you.”

“That’s me, baby.”

It rolled off his lips a little too casually. It wrenched your heart to correct him – with Ken’s understanding of the world, he probably had no idea that touching someone’s bare feet in the middle of the day did not mean you were romantically involved.

You wondered what he understood of romance. You wondered if he’d ever been touched anywhere else, what was underneath his pants, what would have happened if you hadn’t stopped massaging him, but this started to make your head spin with more ferocity than before.

“This is important, Ken, so please listen.”

“You got it.”

“People you’re just friends with – you can’t call them baby.”

“But we are friends. We are, right?”

“Yes – yes, we are friends. But baby is for when you’re with someone. You know?”

Ken chewed on this, followed you down the sidewalk even further, passing by a string of old houses.

“With someone.”

“Dating them. Seeing them. Committed and whatnot. You have that in… Barbieland too, don’t you?” It felt completely and utterly insane saying that sentence, but you were beginning to realize you’d have to stop caring about how you sounded when you talked to Ken if you wanted to get anywhere with him.

“Sort of. I meant it when I said you don’t have to worry about Barbie, okay? Don’t worry about that, (Y/N). We are just. Friends.”

This wasn’t going where you thought it would. For now, you decided to postpone educating Ken a little further on the boundaries you’d have to set – the ground rules to keep this from turning into something unfair.

Ken smiled at your side, hated to tear away from your shoulder even to let other people pass, and for now it was enough to hear Ken call you ‘baby’ even if just once, and even if he had no idea what it really meant.

#ken #ryan gosling #ken x reader #ken x fem reader #female reader #ken barbie #barbie movie #ryan gosling ken

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melishatweedy · 4 months

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Hi, What is your opinion of Melisha Tweedy’s new outfit and makeover from Chicken Run: Dawn Of The Nugget (2023)?

I just love the obvious difference between both her looks!

In the first film we have the slick back bun, the muddy boots. You can see the constant tired look on her face, she’s burnt out and run down from the farm. She’s got no time for appearance as she’s too busy running a failing farm with her husband, no extra help or staff. Her outfit itself is very fitting for the time era (50s) in England, post war where most working class people are in poverty just trying to live. I love the colour too.

((Where she got the money for the pie machine beats me. Probably like a buy now pay later scheme through a catalogue as that’s how most items were bought back then. (1950s Klarna.. yer chicken sells avon) ))

Then we have the second film. She’s away from the farm, married to a rich man with lots of wealth. She’s got her hair done,makeup etc. the clothing again is very fitting for the time era (now we’re in the 60s). She’s got time for personal care and money for her clothing. She’s a successful business woman, you can clearly tell by her looks. She’s managed to let go of past ties (until ginger comes back) which is why she’s more smiley (and goofy) but still got her morals about her. The slight tone difference of her dress for me indicates that she’s still the same Mrs Tweedy.. but also different and I love that.

#I have spent way too long looking as differences in both films #I guess watching emmerdale and coming from a northern town has helped me #melisha tweedy #mrs tweedy #chicken run #chicken run: dawn of the nugget #i love the little details in both films they just scream out to me #I’ve even studied the farm

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knottyk · 2 years

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Thunderclouds - Chapter 1

Ch 2 | masterlist

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Lawyer!Fem!Reader

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: High school relationships were never meant to last so when Eddie decided he wants to settle, you decide to leave. Ten summers pass and you reunite in the most unusual way; Eddie being a suspect in murder and you, his defense lawyer.

tags: mentions of blood, murder, a blackeye and cut, swearing, sexual implications ,exes to lovers (?)(pls let me know if i missed anything)

Excerpt:

The color of your lipstick suited you, he thought. It was bold but classy. He wondered if those lips would still feel the same as the last time he tasted them. Then, his brain racked up the most sensual thoughts.

His heart raced and blood pumped faster as his thoughts wonder about how those boldly painted lips would feel wrapped around his—

“Mr. Munson?” You called and he snapped out of his thoughts. He searched your face and was relieved when he recognised concern. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Are you okay?”

Cut it out, Eddie. She’s not here for that and neither are you.

Likes, comments and reblogs are highly encouraged 🫶🏻

If someone told 16 year old Y/N that she’d be proposed to at 20 by the love of her life, she’d tell you she’d say yes.

Stuck in a small town in Indiana, there wasn’t anything bigger than building her own little family, waiting for her husband to come home from the plant or an office job and take care of her children. She’d probably take up a job as an Avon lady for all she cared, just like her mom and they would live out the generations to come in the same bungalow she grew up in.

But little girls learn to grow out of their fairytales. Castles become big corporate buildings and tiaras are replaced by framed diplomas.

“No.”

Eddie’s head snapped up and his smile faltered. He was hesitant to look around even though it was just you, him and the dozens of lit candles illuminating the fairly neat living space in his trailer. Usually it would be littered with empty soda cans and wrappings but today, he had cleaned up every crevice. The smell of weed and smoke drowned with cheap air freshener and a bunch of wildflowers took the place of the ashtray on the coffee table.

“What?” His extended hand holding the velvet box hung awkward in the air, not knowing if he should put it down or keep it up.

“Eddie, I can’t.” You shook your head as you watched his brows scrunch up in confusion then a tinge of hurt in his eyes. You’ve always loved his eyes. A contrast to his pale complexion, his orbs were dark and full of mystery. You could swim in it and never come up for air.

Cradling your temples, you ran your hands through your hair and went up to cover your face.

The air was stiff and the room suddenly turned cold despite the warmth emitting from the candles. Eddie didn’t speak as he stood up and combed through his wild locks and stared at the silver band in the box. It was the only ring in the pawnshop that actually held value so even if he desired to give you a ring with a sparkling rock on it, he couldn’t. Was it the ring?

“Is it the ring?” He voiced out his thoughts. “Because if it’s the ring, god, I could get you a better one when we come back from the gig in the city. It’s next week- if you could just wait, I could get it for you. I’d get it for you if that’s what you want.”

You huff through your hands and drop them down. “No, it’s not the ring.”

His breath hitched in his throat and suddenly, his palms were sweaty for all the wrong reasons.

“Then what is it, baby? You can tell me.” He ran a hand through is hair, neater and well kept than usual.

When you first started going out, you told Eddie that you liked it when his hair was down and uncombed. Somehow, the curls were more pronounced and shiny when untouched. You liked it that way. So even if it was like the fires of hell came up to the surface, Eddie never tied it up and barely combed through them.

You shut your eyes and blurted the next few words before you changed your mind. “I’m leaving.”

“What?” He hurriedly put the ring on the table. “Why? When are you coming back— you never said anything about leaving.”

“I have to go.” It’s like someone is clutching your chest, crushing you like an apple or an empty can. The ends of your fingers turned cold.

“Where are you going?” He took a desperate step closer to you and caught your freezing hands in his. He ran a thumb on your knuckles but your hands remained open.

The first time he held your hand, he was fumbling mess. It had been a week since you started dating but he was afraid to over step your limits. His van broke down on the way to your neighborhood so you opt to walk the remaining mile. The leaves crunched underneath your feet as you talked about random things but you could tell something was wrong. He’d play with his fingers, put it in his pockets and repeat. You took his hand to make him stop and his hand stayed relaxed within your tight grasp.

“I can wait. I can come with you and leave everything here. I’d do anything- everything for you.” He choked on a sob, ears and neck turning red.

“And that’s exactly the problem, Eddie. I can’t take you with me. I can’t do that to you.”

Your breath escapes you when he leans his head on your shoulder. “You said you loved me.”

“I do.” You held his warm cheek. “I love you, Eddie. And that’s why I can’t do that to you.”

He pulled you in closer by the waist, closing his fist on your shirt.

“I’m leaving for college and then when things go well, I’ll find a job there.” He noticed the lack of arms around him, yours staying at your sides.

“You’re leaving me.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s for the best, Eddie. We’re not ready for this.”

“You don’t know that.” He straightened, giving you a view of his face and you hated how his lips quivered with each word.

“Then what’s best for us?” You stepped back and he let you. “We won’t be in high school forever. Where would we live— here?”

“What’s wrong here?” His voice almost cracked at how high it went.

You let out an exasperated huff. “Don’t you see, Eddie? Everything!”

He was taken aback by your sudden outburst but a flame was ignited in him too.

“You’ve barely graduated high school. No job, no house and you choose to do this?” You pointed at the ring. “I haven’t lived my life and I want to see the world, Eddie. Staying here won’t allow me that.”

“No one is stopping you, Y/N. You can still do that.” His pleading voice was rasp and creaky, desperate for you to hear him.

“You don’t really believe that, do you?” You waited for his answer but you were met with silence.

After a while, he found his tongue. “Isn’t this what we always wanted? What we always talked about? You love me, don’t you?”

“We were kids, Eddie! Wake up. That—“ You fumbled on your words. “that shit was us being kids. Dreams? Love? That can’t feed us.”

He paced slowly, thumb coming up to swipe the tear on his lip. “So that’s it, then. You don’t believe in me? In us?”

“You’re not listening to me.” Your heart thumped in your ribcage and your face grew hot.

“Yet I heard every word.” He shook his head with a mocked laugh. “I knew someday you’d leave, anyway. Trailer trash, selling weed, playing in some shitty bar. I get it.”

“That’s not fair.”

He cut you off. “You’re not fair.”

Falling on the couch, he covered his face with his elbows on his knees while you stood in front of him. The silence made you want to throw up.

“I can’t do this with you.” Your fire burnt out and this was no longer worth the fight. You didn’t want it to end like this but your time is up.

“Goodbye, Eddie.”

——————————————————

Your fingers flickered the edge of the paper within the thick folder on your lap, legs crossed as your back rested against the seat.

The sound of keyboards clacking, telephone ringing and copy machines whirring scratched at your brain and you took a sip of the black coffee in your hand. Closing your eyes once it hits your lips.

You had just finished a case when your supervisor handed you another case to work on, saying it was a high profile case and he was not wrong. Every news channel had it covered and within twenty four hours, the case had gone national.

Your head snapped up at the television perched on the corner of the wall as all actions halted around you and it seemed like the world had come to a pause.

[More updates on the Chrissy Carver case. Hawkins Police say a suspect is now finally arrested and held in custody but has yet to be named. Meanwhile, students and staff at Hawkins High School hold a vigil live tonight at the school grounds. Hundreds of residents gather to show sympathy and celebrate the life of their beloved teacher. At the front of the line, her husband and Hawkins County police deputy, Jason Carver, give a teary statement.]

The screen panned over to people holding candles and students comforting one another. Considering that Hawkins was a small town, it was no doubt that the whole community was present.

[Just this morning, Chrissy was reported missing by her husband after colleagues report her unexpected absence which was considered out of character for the bubbly teacher. A few hours later, two local residents report a body found in the woods near Forest Hills Trailer Park. Within hours, police had identified the body as twenty eight year-old Chrissy Carver.]

Her pictures flashed on the screen. Some were professional shots and most were moments snapped with friends and family. You brought the cup to your lips for another sip when the seat next to you was occupied by a familiar figure.

“Never would’ve expected our first meeting in ten years to take place here yet here we are.”

A smile carved its way to your painted lips and you turn your head to face the voice. “Nancy Wheeler?”

“Years of friendship and that’s all I get?” Her blue eyes stare at yours before she lets go of the tense expression and replaces it with a chuckle. She didn’t change a bit.

“Not even a ‘hey, Nance’? My full name, really? And by the way,” She raised a hand with a simple diamond on her ring finger. “It’s Byers now.”

“Holy shit, no way.” You shifted in your seat, unable to hide your smile. “I can’t believe I missed it.”

She shrugged.

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Can’t forget a friend, I guess. At least that’s me.” She gave you a pointed look and you suddenly took interest in the dull, grey carpet under your feet.

Finding your tongue, you spoke. “What brings you here?”

She gestured to the voice recorder, notepad and pen in her hand. “Kinda my duty. You?”

So she did become a journalist. Good for her, you thought.

You were about to speak when you were interrupted by the metal door opening. “Ms. Y/L/N.”

Nancy was swift to stand with you and she jogged to the door, her hair bouncing along. “Chief Hopper, if you would just give me a second. Could you give any information about the suspect?”

Jim Hopper. His hair and stubble had started to grey and his belly still protruded. Though the way he carried himself had a new sense of authority in him. Nothing like he was during the Byers’ case years ago like he was lost and drowning in sorrow. You wondered how you seemed.

Shaking the thought, you hurriedly picked your things up. Tucking the folder close to your chest; briefcase in one hand, you tossed the cup in a nearby garbage can and stood beside Nancy.

“Sorry, kid. Can’t release anything to you news rats yet.” Hopper adjusted the chunky belt around his hips and sniffed harshly as he leaned on the door to hold it open for you while his eyes avoided Nancy’s.

Tilting his head as a signal for you to get in, you fixed your posture and took a step.

“Catch you later.” You whispered as you passed Nancy.

Past the metal doors was a corridor with a few other doors down. You stood still beside the chief and waited for him to lead the way.

“This way, Ms. Y/L/N.”

“Y/N would be fine, chief.” You said as you adjusted your blazer.

“Ah, have heard about you. Hawkins’ rare success story.” He stuffed his hands in his pocket as he led you down the room.

“Wouldn’t you consider yourself as a success story?” You gaze fell on the badge pinned on his shirt and he took notice.

The chief shook his head with a tight lipped smile. “I don’t like to pat myself in the back.”

He cleared his throat and directed you to enter the room. It was a standard interrogation room save for the lack of two way mirrors and camera recorders.

“He should be here soon. Good luck, kid.”

With that, you were alone with your thoughts echoing throughout the walls of the window-less room. Your heart raced and your feet tingled in your closed-toe heels as if saying ‘run while you still can.’

Taking a deep breath and leaning back on the chair, your head hung in the air as the fluorescent pendant light burned into your eyes. You reached for a pen in your pocket and rhythmically tapped it on the wooden table.

You hummed a song in your head, recited the lyrics of the song playing on the radio, thought about the recipe of your favorite food or anything that helped take your mind off the impending doom you set for yourself when you agreed to take the case.

When you heard the clinking of keys and steps on the tiled floors, you straightened your stance. You debated whether to stand and approach the door or stayed seated. You leg jerked to stand but your body resisted when three figures stood in front of the door, one standing out from the rest.

They pushed him in and your breath hitched the moment he lifted his head. There was a slight stutter in his breathing too but you didn’t notice. Not when your eyes locked in on his purpling eyes and the cut on his lip.

Swallowing thickly, you stood. “Take a seat, Mr. Munson.”

His brain buzzed at the way you addressed him. No one ever called him that, let alone you.

And you? It had been ten years since he last saw you and with a snap of a finger, here you stand in front of him. This was like a fever dream but the stinging of his wrist told him otherwise.

Your eyes fell on the hands behind his back and with each hesitant step, you heard them clink together.

“You may free him.” You stood with oozing confidence and a bite in your tone.

The officers looked at you confused but you only raised a brow and tilted your head to say, I’m waiting. It took a second but they keyed the handcuffs open and Eddie hissed while massaging his wrists.

“We’ll be in the office. Please, take your time.” He took a seat and you close the door behind the officers as they left.

You circled back to take the seat right in front of him and you bit back the wince you almost made when you saw his full form under the light.

“Mr. Munson, huh? What happened to Eddie? Where’s the familiarity?” He sat there, charges of first degree murder creeping at him and he was still the same arrogant asshole you fell in love with. Beat.

You lifted your gaze at him and held it despite wanting the ground to swallow you whole. Ten years and he still had the same effect on you. Seeing him in this situation, you didn’t know how to feel but you didn’t want him knowing so you crossed your arms and gave him a sigh of indifference.

“This relationship is purely professional.” You busied yourself with the papers in the file. “My clients are addressed as Mr, Miss, or Mrs. and you shall address me as such.”

Eddie felt his heart flinch at your tone. As if you didn’t leave him crying on the floor like a teenage boy. Here you were, in front of him in your fancy dress shirt and tight pencil skirt while he sat all beaten up. Once, you and him were just plain old Eddie and Y/N. Now, you were Ms. Y/L/N while he remained just Eddie.

“I know how to call you, professionals. I’m not stupid. Only joking, Jesus.” There was a hint of annoyance at his voice so he coughed it out.

He never expected to meet you after a nasty parting, not like this. Nobody really wants to meet their ex in a prison let alone be handled by one after a murder accusation.

A minute passed and he started again.

“Mrs.?” He was testing the waters. He tried not to let his tone reveal him too much so he averted his gaze.

“Miss.” You cleared your throat.

He watched attentively as you spoke about his rights and all other protocols. He watched as your eyes stayed focused on the paper, occasionally flickering at him to check if he understood. His gaze trailed down to your lips as it moved elegantly, words spilling out of it like bubbles.

His heart raced and blood pumped faster as his thoughts wonder about how those boldly painted lips would feel wrapped around his—

Cut it out, Eddie. She’s not here for that and neither are you.

His eyes opened when he heard you sigh. “I know this is a hard time for you but I need you to work with me.”

Your tone was familiar. It was the one you’d use when he would wake up covered in sweat and out of breath. You would wrap your arms around him and coo, everything’s gonna be okay.

He nodded and you relaxed on your seat. “Before we start, is there anything I can get for you? Water?” He nodded again.

The seat scraped harshly against the floor when you pushed out of your chair to talk with the officers out in the lobby. His eyes doesn’t miss the natural sway of your hips as you walked out with your pointed heels and he almost pinched himself to resist his inappropriate thoughts.

She’s here to help, don’t be a jackass… But Jesus, those legs.

He’s going insane.

—————————————————————————

“This,” You lifted the recorder in your hand. “will record everything in this official exchange just for my own use should I ever need to go back to details or the likes. Everything between us is confidential.”

He took a sip of water and nodded.

“Great.” You pressed record. “Mr. Munson, I will need you to recount all the events before the morning Chrissy was found. Tell me every thing that happened the day before and don’t miss out on any detail. I don’t like surprises.”

Despite the water, his throat dried up as he recounted the day’s events. He’d been under so much pressure since he got here but he knew to ask for an attorney seeing as his reputation in town has never been the best. Just his luck that this certain attorney, was you, out of the goddamn people.

He tried to open his mouth and speak but nothing comes out, not knowing where to start.

You recognised the look on his face so you decided to step in. “How about we start with the morning you woke up?”

He nodded again and started to talk. An hour in the conversation and Eddie had finally relaxed a little, though his guard was still up.

“So you go to work, there’s witnesses surely. Your co-workers, your time-in records, right? Okay.” You scribbled on your notepad as a reminder to check in later. Twirling your pen in your hand, you gesture him to continue.

He started to stutter and you watched him closely, letting him know you’re still there. “I come home at about ten and just laid on the couch. At around eleven, I receive a knock at the door. Usually, regulars come later in the night and with notice but I just thought maybe this was a quick one, y’know?”

You tilt your head. “Regulars?”

He gulps. “My customers.”

Then, you got it. “Ah.”

“Yeah.” He wanted to shrink in his seat. he had already exposed his failed life. The reason you left him and thinking about it, he did not blame you one bit.

“I open it and it’s Chrissy.”

You leaned forward, intrigued.

“I’ve never dealt with her since high school, occasionally. But nothing recent. Yeah, I see her in the streets here and there but we haven’t talked or anything. Let alone this, right. So I was shocked to see her there.”

Somehow, this reminded you of the times he’d open up to you in that hidden bench in the clearing by the school woods. You’d talk about random things, talking until the skies turned dark.

“I ask her and she says she needs something to relax or some shit. I offer her the usual shit I give to the lightweights but she says she needs something harder.”

“And did you give her?” You trailed, impatient to wait for the answer.

“Yeah.” But he shook his head immediately. “I mean, no.”

You furrowed your brows and Eddie frantically spoke to ease you again.

“No, I was going to. I left her by the door but when I came back, she was gone. I-“ His brain ran faster than his mouth. “I was gone for about five minutes, I couldn’t remember where I put the K but I swear when I came back, she wasn’t there. I looked around and called for her. I thought y’know, maybe she bailed.”

You bounced your leg as thoughts swam in your head.

“So this,” You gestured in the air, looking for the right word to use. “exchange. Did anybody see you two?”

Eddie scoured his brain. He was exhausted. “I don’t know. Usually people at the park are still out by that time but I have no idea. No.”

“No? or I don’t know?” You pushed.

He snapped. “I don’t know, okay?! One moment she was there and the next, I’m held in this fucking jail cell!” He heaved in his hands, elbows resting on the table.

You swallowed thickly and gathered your notes in one pile and stacked it inside the briefcase. Reaching for the recorder, you pressed stop while looking at your wristwatch.

Eddie lifted his head, wary of the silence. You took a deep breath before speaking.

“I’m afraid that’s all I have for today as this is very last minute, I’m really sorry Mr. Munson.”

He ran his hands through his face. “Eddie.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow to collect more information. I’m sure you’re exhausted.”

You packed your things and reached for the door. Eddie caught a whiff of your perfume and he made sure to lock it in his mind.

You stepped back and rested a neatly folded scarf on the table, “Did you do it?” His head snaps up and meets your gaze.

It wasn’t necessary for you to ask clients since no matter what, you had to defend them. Apart from that, it was also inappropriate. Then, there’s the fact that they could lie. But you couldn’t help yourself.

“No.” He searched your expression but failed to see one. Your eyes had a firewall and it seemed you had really perfected your profession.

“When will they release me?” He looked hopeful and you hated it.

“Soon.” Definitely not soon.

Knowing that the Carvers had some tie in the police force, you knew this case would not be taken lightly. The incompetent police force also has the only opportunity they had to prove to the people of Hawkins that they can be trusted again after the million fuck ups they’d had before. But you don’t tell him that.

“Hope this will help to warm you, at least. Rest up.” You pushed the fabric closer to him and left without another word, closing the door with a soft thud.

He picked up the scarf and your scent hits his senses.

Silence enveloped him and his heart sunk in his chest. He’s alone again.

——————————————————————————

You flexed your ankle while your legs crossed at the knees, eyes already heavy. Outside was already dark and the LED lights buzzed from within The Hideout.

The place didn’t change much. The same old shelves of dusty drink bottles, a beat up pool table and a messy band set up. It seemed that the town of Hawkins was not much for change.

“I can’t believe you’e a lawyer now.” Nancy sipped at her drink. “A good thing, of course.”

You playfully scoffed. “And I can’t believe you married Jonathan.”

She laughed. “Yeah. Things happen, I guess.”

Somehow, she found the hotel you were staying at and invited you for a drink. You would’ve been scared but she was Nancy and barely anything gets in her way. You were somehow glad to still have the connection you had before you left. It was a little rusty but it was still there.

“So, about this case you’re doing—“ But before she could finish her sentence, you cut her off.

“Ah, ah.” You wiggled a finger in front of her. Mood, playful but mind still straight. “Don’t do me dirty, Byers. All of my work is confidential.”

She pouted and suddenly, you were transported back to when she would convince you to go to the dance with her when her mom would force her to.

“Not even just the name?” She joked.

“God, Nance, especially not the name.”

You finally felt yourself loosen up for the first time this week but the rope tightened around you and you felt yourself go dizzy as the regular broadcast of the local soccer game was interrupted.

[Breaking News. Police finally released information about the twenty eight year-old teacher’s murder. Thirty year-old Edward Munson, more commonly known as Eddie, was arrested this afternoon in relation to the case. Police say investigation is still on-going and more information will be released soon.]

The silence of the whole bar was disrupted when Nancy’s glass hit the wooden floor, shards of glass scattered everywhere. You unglued your eyes from the TV and faced her with all the blood drained from your face.

Her eyes were already on you.

You thought you still had time. The case was only officially filed that morning but they were already working fast and you had to catch up.

Hastily pulling out a crumpled fifty dollar note, you slammed it on the table and bolted out the bar, Nancy’s protest echoing in the night. You ran to your car and fished out your keys, flip phone buzzing non-stop in your purse.

You whispered against the steering wheel. “Fuck.”

okay so first of all, i’m sorry for killing miss ma’am chrissy again, i swear i love her but it is what it is. second, my google search history is now extremely sus and if anyone sees it i’ll be on the fbi watchlist. third, i have no freaking idea about laws and shit, especially laws in america, so if some of these things don’t make sense, i’m sorry but in this world, I AM THE LAW BABY. also, if you’ve reached this far, I love you!!

#eddie x reader #eddie x you #eddie x y/n #eddie munson imagine #eddie imagine #eddie fanfic #eddie munson x reader #eddie x fem!reader #eddie x lawyer!reader #eddie stranger things #stranger things x reader #eddie munson #stranger things x y/n #hahaha i have an 8:30 class tmr #it's 2 am...yeT AGAIN

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mrsnancywheeler · 1 month

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i was thinking abt that one scene in priscilla where elvis tells that girl that he likes the perfume she’s wearing and then she says it’s Chanel no 5 (literally the same perfume cilla uses)

and like i was thinking, this scenario but with billy and “his” girl. like he could be talking to some random girl and then like be all flirty n shit and then he’s like omg that perfume is so nice (or something) and then the girl is like all smiles and giggles and happily tells him the name and the brand of the perfume and then once billy hears the name he recognizes it from seeing it in reader’s like bedroom or purse or something!

-🩰

imagining like this during one of those periods when they've had another blow up fight so you've gone back home, he's been able to push the need of having you around for a while with the writing, rehearsing, recording, the drinking, the drugs, the other girls, so the piece of him you were filling he's able to push away for a while. that's until he's flirting with one of the groupies and he likes that she smells familiar, he doesn't know why or how, but it feels comforting.

he's so close to her face, so close to kissing her and he's keeping that cocky smirk on his face, "nice perfume you got there." maybe if he has her it'll fill the void he's ignoring, the void of you.

she's smiling up at him, flashing a grin, "it's sweet honesty from avon." and boom, billy knows why it's so comforting. you refused to use anything else, you always had a bottle in your purse and one in the bedroom just in case. he misses being engulfed by it, misses you, the longing takes over. he needs you to come back, he can't function fully without your presence. he misses your laugh, messing around on the guitar while you smoked a cigarette on the floor, how animated you were when you talked, cuddling you in his bed, when you'd convince him to go swimming, he misses all of it. he's headed towards the nearest phone, trying to call you and you don't pick up. you always pick up. you're reliable, you're always at the phone when he calls, and now he's scared because maybe he's finally done it. he's told you how replaceable you were one too many times and you'd accepted it even though he was sure you weren't. you were like all the best and worst parts of him, he was attached to you and unbelievable amount.

so he's driving over to your house (more accurately the place your dad pays for) knocking on your front door and a friend of yours opens the door. she's rolling her eyes, sighing, yelling back at you, "he's here!" and he can't deny the way his heart skips a beat when you run up the door.

you've got a small spark of hope in your eyes, "billy!" before realizing you're not supposed to. even if you'd been eaten up inside because this call had taken longer then usual to happen.

"hi, baby." his face has the whisper of a smile on it, "I called."

then you're looking regretfully at the floor, that was the point, if he called you weren't supposed to answer. you were supposed to take care of yourself, but what could you do when he was driving all the way out here just to see you? it made you remember the best of times, made you immediately want to hop back into his car. he can see it on your face, that you'd done so on purpose. "billy..." you trail off and the suddenly you're crying. and he feels terrible.

"hey, come here." billy's playing with your hair, comforting arm around you. "let me take you out, baby. we can go to our place, get some burgers by the pier. need to spend some time with my favorite girl."

favorite, the word favorite rather than him saying 'his' girl irks you, maybe it shouldn't, but you don't want to fight again so you ignore it for now. "yeah, I'd like that." you're meeker after fights, softer when it's time to fix things. now you're playing with the buttons on his denim shirt, which he loves. "can I come back 'round?" you're not looking at him and he's smiling because he knows not to be worried this time, he's won her another highest of the highs with you.

"of course, baby. need my muse around." he's kissing you and you're back to being all smiley. you run inside to grab stuff and as he's standing on the doorstep he can hear your friend berating you for going back, but you don't have a care in the world. you've grown to need billy and you're feeling that lovely high that reminds you why again. before you're out the door back to him again. his arm around your waist as he pulls you with him, "you know, baby, that perfume smells real good on you."

you're smile is so bright, "really?" he's nodding and lighting you a cigarette as you climb into his car, driving off into a repeat of the cycle.

#wanda 💋#billy dunne x reader angst #billy dunne angst #billy dunne #billy dunne x reader #djats x reader #🩰 anon

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just-horrible-things · 11 months

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'Verse: BBU Story: A Girl Called Spider Timeline: immediately after Spider's sale

Unboxing [ First | Prev | Next ]

The Pet is a little more dishevelled than her picture in the catalogue, but that’s to be expected. Her hair was presumably tied back tightly at the start of her journey, but is now badly mussed. Her eyes are open wide as her head lifts from the packaging, pupils enormous. The makeup on her is subtle – just a little eyeliner really – and must be powerfully waterproof since her skin is drenched with sweat and it isn’t even smudged.

She gasps for air like she’s come up from drowning. Her eyes flick aimlessly around before settling on Avon’s face. Her voice is shaky, but still carries the same syrup-sweet intonation he recognises from other Romantics. “Are you my Owner?” she asks. “Yes,” he answers plainly. The barest outline of a smile makes it across her face.

The handbook said she might well still be asleep from whatever drugs they give them for shipping. She’s clearly very dazed.

Avon finishes opening up the box so that he can lift her out. Her head lolls softly against his shoulder. She’s a little damp to put on the couch, so he lays her out on the carpet. Her back arches just a little, as if she could get more air into her lungs by opening up her ribcage.

“How should I address you, Sir?” There’s a subtle slur, but the words are really very clear when contrasted against the limp heaviness of her limbs. “Sir is good.” Another empty sketch of a smile.

And then something goes out of her, some tension, and her eyes slip half-closed, like she’s falling back into drugged sleep.

Avon wonders how many times she practiced those two questions. And whether she’ll remember the answers later.

Unboxing is an important opportunity to form a strong bond with your new Pet. She will be tired, thirsty and confused after shipping. By providing the care and attention she needs, you will cement her adoration and her dependence on you.

Remove her from the Box. Once she’s awake, help her to drink at least one full glass of water. Provide plenty of touch and affection. Clearly set the tone of the relationship you’d like to have with your Pet from the beginning. Take her to the bathroom once she’s able to move around enough to do her business on her own. Do not feed the Pet in the first 2 hours after waking.

Unsurprisingly, she hasn’t moved by the time Avon returns with water. But she’s responsive – if uncoordinated – as he helps her to sit up. She isn’t quite dead weight against his body, instead leaning into the contours of his body with groggy imprecision. The faint smile returns, and stays in place until Avon presses the rim of the glass to her lips to let her drink.

She is thirsty, they were right about that.

“Thank you, Sir,” she breathes. “Thank you.” “You can have more in a few minutes. Just relax for now and try to wake up.” “Thank you,” she murmurs again.

Again she tips her head back, this time against Avon’s shoulder, to take deeper breaths. Even like this, even dressed in a simple, not especially provocative white shift, there is sensuality in every motion of her body.

Avon’s used to seeing it, but not to holding a semi-conscious girl in his arms. Plenty of touch and affection. It feels very strange to pet her like an animal, but if this is important for forming a strong bond, then he wouldn’t want to waste the opportunity.

She seems to like it, at least. She’s practically purring under his hands as he strokes gently down her back and across her upper arm. She nuzzles into his neck, her breath warm, and plants vague, light kisses against his skin.

The juxtaposition of blatant sexuality against the almost childlike neediness is… distasteful, to say the least. He’s going to spend a lot of time regretting this purchase, he can tell already.

[Next]

#my writing #bbu #implied noncon #a girl called spider #654261: spider #avon

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avonmom · 2 years

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AVON INVENTORY ALERTS

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famefckrmoved · 8 months

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BASIC INFO:

NAME: colby kai foxworth (goes by kai)

AGE: 34

BIRTH DATE: april 23rd

ASTROLOGICAL SIGN: taurus

GENDER / PRONOUNS: cis male, he/him

SEXUALITY: bisexual

HOMETOWN: stratford-upon-avon

CURRENT CITY: los angeles, california / new york, new york

FAMILY:

MOTHER: dianna hornsby

FATHER: ambrose foxworth

SIBLINGS: blair foxworth (younger sister)

PETS: nova the cat

APPEARANCE:

EYE COLOR: blue

HAIR COLOR: blonde

TATTOOS/PIERCINGS: this will eventually be a tattoo tour post

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: calluses from playing guitar, dark circles always present beneath his eyes

QUICK FACTS:

kai is the lead singer and guitarist of spitfire.

he's quite crass, a bit brash, reckless, he has a temper and exhibits many of the stereotypical rockstar behaviors. he's also very well aware of the way he's perceived. he just doesn't care to change for anyone.

really, the only person who has ever seen the true him is his younger sister, blair. he doesn't see her as often as he'd like anymore but he's always sending her things, little trinkets from around the world. she has a normal life, despite a famous rockstar for a brother. he feels like he needs to constantly be making up to her all the time he's spending on the road and overseas. for blair's part, she doesn't fault him for chasing his dreams. she just wishes that he'd come home more, especially now that he has nieces.

his band was, until recently, only semi-famous. it wasn't until they worked with a director on a movie that utilized their songs throughout the entire soundtrack that they found runaway success. the film had a low budget, it was barely promoted, but it made it out of it's little horror fan community bubble thanks to scream queen mila ramos's (hales link this info when its posted) incredible performance in the final scene. the band was launched into superstardom after that.

that's how they found themselves playing the superbowl. that's how kai met braeden sinclair.

he certainly wasn't looking for love. he'd been content with following the music. sure, he'd left a string of relationships behind him, most notably an actor from a popular tv show about dragon riders and a model who was now designing swimsuits, but after his split from genevieve, he'd taken a step back from pursuing romantic interests.

but, of course, the universe had other plans, and set him in motion to meet someone who would become so important to him. and on a night that would alter the course of his career forever, too.

affiliated with: @goldenclair

#╰ ––––––– ✧ kai foxworth : ic ❨ information ❩

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avonspecialist · 15 days

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Summer Makeup Kit Essentials

#Buy Avon #Avon #Beauty And Cosmetics Delivery in USA #Gifts Delivery To USA And Canada. Avon Skin Care #Hair Care #Makeup #Fragrance & Personal Care Products #Beauty & Personal Care from a great selection of Face #Body #Eyes #Lip Care #Sunscreens & Tanning Products

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dreamwritesimagines · 1 year

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I feel like, if they all grew up together, and Anthony and Cherie had that soft childhood acquaintances to friends to lovers, not only would they have not had that fight, Anthony would also be extremely gentle with her.

But also... when it's time for her to begin her season? Game on.

This man is ruthless, you mean he's been pining for her for years but all of the sudden he has as much chance as any lord who will ask her to dance? Not fair.

Remember how he scared all of Daphne's suitors away? That was just practice.

Pierre? Oh wow, he's been called back to France. Such a shame. No, Simon, I had nothing to do with it. Yes, I did write to his Captain in France citing his gambling problems. Yeah, I know he doesn't gamble. No, I don't think it's odd that I went through such lengths-

Sinclair? Anthony pays two of the finest courtesans to inconspicuously run into him and become his newfound muses, only to have them greet him loudly and indecently somewhere Lady Whistledown will report on and write him off as a Rake. Yes, he did have the courtesans memorize some of his awful poetry to quote at him during their first meeting, Simon, they had to sell it!

The rest are even easier, he clocks the ones he knows she might like, encourages Elias into inviting them into a male only activity and absolutely wrecks their ego, reputation, etc. All in the sneakiest way possible.

It's easy as breathing, he's Violet Bridgerton's son.

Then Hugh happens. Lord Trenlove with his stupid hair and his stupid urge to always chaperone his sister everywhere, the same sister who both Cherie and Elias adore. He is always there. Anthony sees her laugh at one of his jokes and his heart drops to his stomach.

Hugh isn't like the rest of them. He's charming but careful, he's respectful but unafraid of him. He has no flaws, Anthony is stumped. But he will not quit. He's thinking what to do about him as he wanders the hall of Avon House. He opens the wrong door in his distraction and BAM, there he is, Hugh kissing Cherie's cousin. Anthony isn't ashamed, apologetic, or even disgusted (this man has been to enough brothels to have witnessed everything). No no, as Hugh pushes the man away and tries to explain, Anthony is elated. He has never been this happy, this is the best day of his life. He assures both men he saw nothing with the most maniacal grin on his face and walks away.

He is engaged two months later.

OH MY GOD-

OOOOH MY GOD I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS ABOUT THIS!? 😱

Darling first of all, I absolutely love this! 😍 Like, I need to hear more about it, you're absolutely genius! ❤ Cherie and Anthony as childhood acquaintances to friends to lovers? IT'S SUCH A GOOD CONCEPT?! 😍

This man is ruthless, you mean he's been pining for her for years but all of the sudden he has as much chance as any lord who will ask her to dance? Not fair. THIS! THIS IS SO TRUE?!

Like, the minute she debuts, even a couple of months ago, Anthony would be so focused on it, and he would be so tortured about it 😂

Remember how he scared all of Daphne's suitors away? That was just practice. I am already grinning, I hope you know that 😂

The fact that Simon would NOT believe any of his bs, like he could come up with so many reasons and Simon would like, see right through him😂

He would totally get rid of Pierre first, before Pierre could even propose 😈 And for Sinclair omg that's such a good and evil idea! He would actually put so much thought into that plan and Simon would be like, facepalming in the background like "Just tell the girl you love her already!" 😂

Elias would be so oblivious by the way! Like, Anthony is basically using him for his own plans, meanwhile Elias is probably distracted by Cecily 😏

It's easy as breathing, he's Violet Bridgerton's son. Awww he got it from his mama🥰❤

HUGH! HUGH MY BELOVED-

You're right, I think Hugh would be the person that actually makes him in a way insecure about his plans? Because he's amazing and he's handsome and he's very respectful, and Cherie adores him ❤ And the fact that he's Cecily's brother, so they spend a lot of time together...

Awww considering the whole era and how it was back then, Anthony being all normal and accepting about it❤❤❤

He is engaged two months later. I AM LOVING THIS!

Darliiiiing, you are amazing! 🥰😍 Omg I'm gonna re-read this, I love this idea and headcanon, you're so talented! ❤ Thank you so much!❤ ❤❤

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mmmbuttery · 2 years

Text

The Test

For Mystrade Monday prompt “Are you testing me” (3/8/21)

It was nearly two months ago that Mycroft first learned of Greg Lestrade, age 25, neighborhood officer with Avon and Somerset. Lestrade had been on the fringes of an investigation of particular interest to Secret Intelligence Service, his file sent along with a dozen other officers who would need to be fully debriefed about what they knew.

The footage taken from close circuit monitors showed a young man in uniform having a brief conversation with a group of people, seeming to settle down a minor altercation, after which he shook his head and walked off. Nothing out of the ordinary. The audio - the audio was something else. Mycroft, who rarely, if ever, rewound anything, needed to listen to it again.

The similarities were too strong.

He had never thought he could run into this so fortuitously.

He needed to interview this man.

Mycroft had sat among the panel of other middle-aged interviewers through the long day. The others, he could tell, were skeptical and would soon begin muttering about the waste of their time - a whole day shot with all the witnesses. There was very little new information that had been uncovered. Mycroft stood fast, unbothered. He knew what he had heard.

The last interviewee arrived; a little nervous, a little unsure of why exactly he was here. Then he straightened his spine and lifted his chin as he sat down in front of the entire panel and Mycroft felt the need to make sure his breathing was not noticeably changed. The video clip had been grainy, had not done justice to the man in front of him. Lestrade, Mycroft noted, was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and including the slightest of malocclusion, utterly <i>beautiful.</i>

Eagerly, hungrily, Mycroft deduced that Lestrade's suit was not particularly expensive or well-fitted and the color did him no favors, possibly borrowed from a male roommate. His hair was a little long, he had missed a few spots while shaving, so he either didn't care much about his personal appearance or he did not have someone to care for him. His watch was old, a Breguet trench wristlet, the leather much less worn than the vintage would indicate. He smelled lightly of herbal soap and shampoo in the antiseptic environment of the interview room.

After introductions, where Lestrade smiled politely, his eyes flicked toward Mycroft multiple times, more than the others in the room, the woman to the left of Mycroft began to read from a sheet. "On the night of the 12th of April, you were called to an incident of a possible fight. Can you tell us more about it?"

"Right," Lestrade said, nodding as if accepting the premise of why he was called in. "Well - "

The interview was conducted with the list of prepared questions, Lestrade answering them adroitly enough, with a minimal amount of stumbles.

Mycroft suddenly asked, "What about your French, Mr. Lestrade?"

His fellow panelists said nothing, but one gave him a little side-long look.

Lestrade blinked. His attempt to bring the question into logical progression with the previous ones failing. He cleared his throat. "I can speak, some. I have some proficiency but I'm not fluent. It's been a while since French class."

"Can we test this?"

Lestrade, taken by surprise, gave a bob of his head.

They began to speak, sliding from English to a standard schoolboy French, and then, egged on by some of Lestrade's unconventional pronunciation and vocabulary, suddenly into a fluid burst of archaic tongue Mycroft himself had only heard a few times in person. It was enough for him to learn the gist of it, but he doubted that would have been enough for most other people

"Was it your graundmaèrr who spoke Gallo?"

Dark eyes widened, mouth momentarily slack in charming, nearly uncomprehending surprise until Mycroft's words arrived at Lestrade’s brain. He replied, "And my graundpaèrr and great graundmaèrr."

"Did you live with them?"

"They lived here, with us, my parents and I." Eyes alight with the pleasure of being able to speak and be recognized as a speaker of the language of his childhood, Lestrade asked, "I don't know anybody else who knows it. How did you know?"

"You told me," Mycroft said.

"What? How?"

"Some of your pronunciation and vocabulary is more inline with Old French than modern, and there are some similarities with isolated French-speaking enclaves in rural Quebec, many of whom came from west Brittany in the 17th century." Mycroft didn't talk about how current estimates leaned toward only a handful of elderly native speakers in remote hills and valleys to the west of Brittany, and a small group of potential terrorists who sought to strike at some of Europe's capitals, their movements carefully covered by the obscurity of their language.

"How did you know about my graundmaèrr?"

"Your watch. It's a wristlet from the Great War, French made, still with all its original parts, with a metal shrapnel guard still on the glass crystal. It looks nearly new, so it's been treasured but not worn."

Lestrade looked at it as if he were looking at it with new eyes. "It belonged to my arriere graundpaèrr, he bought it during the war, when he was in the trenches. My graundmaèrr gave it to me when my father passed away." Dark-lashed eyes looked up at Mycroft in wide-eyed wonder. "This is amazing. You are amazing."

It was as if they had been suspended in a bubble, away from the other interviewers, focused only on the other, on this moment of communication.

Even though he had never been the object of such warm and seemingly genuine astonishment, Mycroft resisted preening. He had a job to do.

"Tell me, Mr. Lestrade," Mycroft said, switching back over to English, "About your ability to speak patois yet only qualifying for an O-level in French."

Lestrade flushed. "Being able to speak something that isn't quite school French ain't exactly what the exams are grading for, begging your pardon, Mr. - "

"Holmes," Mycroft said. He disregarded the rest of the panel to the point where it became apparent who was, in fact, in charge. "That is precisely what we are looking for."

"Excuse me?" Lestrade said. "Mr. Holmes?"

"My department is looking for a few officers to take on a secondment for a couple of months. We're hoping you might be willing to join us, as your knowledge of Gallo would be tremendously helpful."

"It's the Gallo you want?"

"Yes."

Lestrade shook his head, silky brown hair flopping into his eyes. "I've always been told it wasn't proper French and I should give it up - "

"It appears it is time to prove those people wrong. Your ability could very well prove to be the thing we need for this case." Mycroft continued. "If you do agree, it would take you far in advancing your career and provide you with some valuable experience. What do you think?"

"Yes, sir." Lestrade began to smile, as if he couldn't help himself. "If you think I'll suit."

"I wouldn't offer if I didn't think so." Mycroft fought to keep from returning that most charming of smiles. Instead, he extended hand.�� Lestrade reached for it, his own wide, rough hands grabbing. "Welcome to the Department for Transport, Mr. Lestrade."

As Lestrade walked out, Mycroft tried to bury his other impressions. That Lestrade was simply, profoundly, unforgettable. With his unruly hair and a quick, charming smile that lit up his dark eyes was something Mycroft would simply have to ignore. He had just procured a valuable asset, he could not, would not, bring anything but professional behavior to this mission.

@mystradepromptsandscenarios

#mystrade monday #mystrade monday prompts #always running a little late

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limey-self-inserts · 1 year

Note

howdy!! perhaps … 24 and/or 37 for those touch prompts? B-) with your dear Aniketos!

24. whispering in their ear, lips touching the skin and 37. putting their head on the other’s chest

art tag crew: @atlas-parcae @bugsband @rexscanonwife @operni and dryad bestie @carbo-ships

----

Hold Me

Avon didn’t like to talk about their bad experiences on the road. At most it was a case of another scar to show off with a grin and a laugh, or it was yellowing bruises that Aniketos gazed at more tenderly than he ran his fingers across the skin. But those were moments that left marks, those were moments where Aniketos could see what had unfolded, in the brutal aftermath and his beloved still standing in his arms regardless. Avon could fight, but not everything could be fought.

The worst moments came in the middle of the night, when everything was soft and quiet and still. Aniketos was no stranger to night terrors from his guests in the past, although the incidents had been rare and far spread - usually when he invited a stranger into his home, it was in order to provide them shelter and safety. Such people had fears wafting over their shoulders, waiting for their eyes to close before burying into their heads with gusto. And Avon had night terrors of their own. In the early days, Aniketos would lay next to them and hold them close, letting his presence provide a balm to chase the fears away. Perhaps he thought that was enough. But now that Avon stayed more frequently and for longer, and the pair now shared a bed almost every night, he found that the night terrors cared little for whether he was close to them or not. Should a day be long and exhausting, or knights make their presence known nearby, then the night carried a greater chance of Avon waking up sweating and with tears in their eyes. But sometimes there would be no trigger during the day, instead the night terror inflicting itself without a reason if only to shock Avon awake, and nowadays that meant shaking Aniketos awake too.

He would never complain. That would suggest he found something draining about the process, and he loved Avon too much for that.

Tonight Aniketos was roused by a familiar stiffening of muscles, held within his arms. A faint choked sob bubbled up from beyond his sight, and the sound urged his mind to waken quicker, eyes blinking open into the faint moonlight. Avon’s back was facing him, their form nestled into his chest so he could wrap himself around them better. But it also meant their face was turned away from him.

“Avon,” he murmured, voice low and bleary. “Avon, heart.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“No, no.” He started to gently press on their shoulder, rolling them over in his arms to face him. They did so without resistance, pupils gleaming as they caught what little moonlight reflected into their side of the bed. The light refracted over trails of tears already beginning to roll off their cheeks, lips pressed together to swallow their sounds.

“I shouldn’t have woken you up,” they whispered.

“I would rather have been able to comfort you than let you suffer alone,” he replied softly, hands lifting to their cheeks to wipe away some of the tears. There would be more, he knew this much. Avon’s nose wrinkled inward, the same way as always when they tried to hold back more of their tears. Letting out a slow breath, Aniketos held them tight and rolled onto his back, drawing them along with him. Here he could hold them better, hold them tighter. Here they laid across his chest and their head automatically rested against his sternum, looking up into his eyes.

Words stuck across Avon’s tongue, thick and heavy and sour. Continuing to blink down tears, they nuzzled their forehead into Ani’s hand as he brushed his fingers over their hair, clearing it away from their face. Guilt would never fade, no matter how often they woke Aniketos up in the night and every single time he would unfalteringly gather them close to bestow sweet kindness. And this night was just the same. Careful fingers ran through Avon’s hair, drawing circles on their scalp and doing well to drive back the thoughts that continued to spiral inside their mind. Not completely gone, but pushed down by hands and kisses. His lips, soft against their brow, a prayer at the steps of a temple. It was enough to let Avon feel like they could breathe again, slowly exhaling against Ani’s chest.

Lying here, they could hear the slow steady beat of his heart. It was the most reassuring sound to bless them with. Without a shirt on, Anikteos’ warmth rose straight up into Avon’s cheeks, their hands bundling up into the bed sheets to find something to grip onto.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Ani asked.

“No. I just want to listen to you,” Avon replied. They needed to know he was safe and alive and fine. His heart was doing just that. It was when Aniketos shifted to a more upright position that Avon realised maybe they should have been more clear on what they’d meant by ‘listen to you’.

“Sit up a little for me, bluebell?” Aniketos murmured, shuffling himself back in the bed ‘til his back was leaning against the pillows, drawing Avon along with him. By now they were straddling his hips and his arms were loosely locked around their shoulders, leaving them still mostly leaning into Ani’s chest. Glancing up to Aniketos, Avon caught the glimmer of lavender in his pupils before he leaned in closer, one hand drawing up and against Avon’s cheek.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, and his voice was so low and soft and close that Avon’s whole spine did a solid attempt at shimmying.

“Ani?”

“Is this comfortable for you?” Despite the rush of blood now flowing through Avon’s face, they nodded, and received another tender kiss to their forehead. Aniketos leaned in and down, letting Avon rest against the curve of his collarbone, his lips brushing up against their ear and earning him another small shiver.

“You don’t need to do or say anything,” he murmured to Avon. “Just rest against me, and listen - you are safe here. And I am safe here. You are here, in my bedroom, in my arms, and we are both safe. Downstairs in the receiving room, the fire is still burning softly, giving the tree just enough warmth that we wouldn’t be chilly if we left our bed. The bed is soft, the blanket wraps around us both, holding us the way I hold you. It is quiet here, it is still and calm. The night outside carries on. You are safe, I am safe. There is nothing for us to fear inside my tree. There is nothing that I need to be afraid of. I hold my trust in you fully, every hour of every day, when we rise and when we sleep. I know you would not harm me. I know you would defend me if you so dared need to. But you are not a warrior or a monster. You did not come into this world with sharpened teeth. You learned of them, and you learned how and when to bear them. I trust that in you, I know that of you. I have never been more safe than with you.

“It’s okay to cry. So much of the world has taught you to believe that those around you will be afraid of you, and it has made you afraid of yourself. You have learned it is better to hide that which makes you wholly yourself, instead of embracing it. Shhh, yes, you can cry. It’s okay.”

Aniketos continued to whisper quietly to Avon, reassurances and comforts dripping from his lips with golden sweetness, until he was certain they’d been still for some time now. Leaning back, he brushed some of their fringe away once more, seeing their eyes closed and soft again. With some gentle wriggling, he eased them both to lying down once more, leaving his hand at the back of their head.

“I love you,” Aniketos whispered. Avon’s face scrunched briefly in sleep, shifting to curl up better on his chest. Oh gods, he loved them.

#writings #answered #ship: full bloom #self ship #romantic self ship #awwwhhhgjjfgdkj I full melted writing this it was wonderful~#thank you for the prompt!

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