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kunikuma · 1 year

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this ain’t build-a-b♡tch—! pt. 1

...but it is build-a-bear workshop with kunikuzushi

relationship | college student!kunikuzushi x gn!reader

synopsis | build-a-bear workshop has a limited time only collab with sanrio! and kuni’s clown ass sent you the ad, so guess which lovestruck man is keepin’ you company? content | fluff cw | swearing a/n | if u follow me, u know i said this was supposed to be a double feature with both kuni and xiao oop. but i was taking too long, so i finished made this kuni one longer and decided i’d post separately. xiao’s is still in a messy notion page. check out kuromi and my melody if you don’t know what they look like. also, i remembered my first build a bear being hello kitty when i was 7. if kuromi ever gets released there, u WILL find me ass there and i WILL name her something scara related.

p2 | p3🔞 | build a bear masterlist

“why is it so ugly?”

a big ole pout found a home on your face as your excited finger drooped; it was originally pointed at a weird pink and blue monstrosity on the shelves. kunikuzushi pinched the bridge of his nose as you laughed, waving around the…pelt?

the… unstuffed… husk of the ugliest mf plushie he has ever seen.

“…you already have too many at your apartment,” he grumbles, fiddling with the black earring hanging from his earlobe. was he nervous? the fidgeting would say so.

that's what he said, but you knew deep down he didn’t mind them all that much. the way he would neatly rearrange them on your couch… keeping a bear propped up against the right arm of the couch while a deep purple cat laid on the left arm spoke for itself. don’t even bother mentioning the way he would tidy up your bed after a study session and lay three of them sweetly against your pillows. if you called him out, he’d only scowl and cease that entirely.

the build-a-bear was basically empty, but that wasn’t a surprise since it was a random wednesday evening during the school year. so, you unapologetically stuck your tongue out at him, “listen, i was kiddin’. you know im here for my sanrio pals,” you gestured to the few colorful characters cutely arranged on the shelves. “‘sides, even if i wasn’t here for them,” you muttered, lacing your hand with his, “you really think your opinion of my plushies is gonna stop me? we don’t live together.”

the indigo-haired man jumped at your feather light touch yet forced an unperturbed mask on as he cocked one of his brows up, “oh? so my opinion doesn’t matter to you? for shame, y/n,” he tsks, ignoring your swat at his shoulder and the hammering of his heart as the two of you strolled closer to that section of the store. the two of you occasionally held hands if one of you needed to guide the other.

that was it. nothing more.

he wanted it to be more.

“…and i thought you were kind.” he ignored the thought that flashed in his mind about how the two of you could totally live together.

you rolled your eyes as the two of you finally stood directly in front of the… pelts? kunikuzushi had zero ideas of what you call an unstuffed stuffed animal. pelt wasn’t entirely wrong. but it was a little grotesque, but again, not entirely false.

there was a limited-time collaboration between sanrio and build-a-bear and he saw the ad on social media earlier today. he debated on sending it to you for a short bit, weighing his options.

hang out with you vs get his homework done early.

after biting the bullet and sending you a screenshot because he knew you’d be delighted by even the mere idea of the collab, you sent him a ‘come pick me up >:p’.

kunikuzushi would be lying if he said he wasn’t already fixing his hair in the mirror by the time you sent that.

“cinnamoroll is so cute! but so is chococat-“

your chipper voice filled his ears as he half-listened to your jabbering. your free arm pointed at each character you were gushing over, but eventually, your voice faded into a light hum. your other arm wiggled in his grasp due to your motions, but he held strong, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb back and forth over the hand he did have access to. his eyes were fixated on your lips whenever you turned in his direction.

despite his earlier display of displeasure of being dragged out of the house (reminder: he was already fixing his hair), coerced to drive your ass to the mall (he texted his offer as he walked to his car), and forced to watch you squeal (he thought it was cute), you could tell he was starting to relax a little. at least the unwrinkled area between his brows and slouched shoulders hinted at this.

“-earth to kunikuzushi? my guy, are you there?” you pressed, your free fist propped against your hip as you looked at him with an unimpressed stare, “i can see you’re not home up there,” you whined, flicking his forehead.

he grunted and smacked your grimy finger away from his face, “i was listening. you were going on about each one of them. im not dumb-“

“wrong! i was asking you which one you think i am,” you interjected, huffing as you wrangled yourself out of his hold. he let out a tiny sound of protest but quickly cleared his throat to cover it up. he shoved his hands deep into his hoodie’s pockets. one hand was pleasantly warm while the other was unfortunately at its usually cool temp.

“hah? how am i supposed to know their personalities?”

you sigh deeply, “well, maybe pay attention next time. i said you’re definitely kuromi. potentially batz-maru. both of them give stink eyes and like to stick their tongues out.”

your finger raised as you pointed to a white plush with a bat-like… hood? she had her tiny pink tongue out and her eyes looked a little mischievous and devious. the corners of kunikuzushi’s lips curled up a teensy bit at the comparison.

“…from what little information i’ve gathered, i’d say you’re right,” he admits, walking over to the said plush and giving it a closer look as he leaned forward onto the table. he grabbed the stuffed animal from the shelf and flipped it over, “an imp tail? yeah, i’d agree with your choice,” he murmured, turning to you. he idly fidgeted with the soft black tail in his hands.

your eyes brightened at the more obvious sight of kunikuzushi loosening up in the store. he was against being here, muttering during the whole car ride. before you could comment on his relaxing demeanor, he ripped you from your thoughts.

“is… your plan to have matching plushies?” he inquired, gently placing the kuromi store display back on her pedestal. the gentleness of his actions was not all that surprising, especially since you’ve secretly admired the way he treated yours at home. the way his hands made sure she was securely set on her shelf was heartwarming; when he saw she slumped over a smidge, he quickly fixed her position.

you hummed, “well, yes. that’s why i asked who i reminded you of, but you weren’t listening, remember?”

his mouth opened slightly to let out a silent ‘ah’ as his eyes examines the various sanrio characters on the wall. a yellow dog, a blue penguin, a green frog… after a beat, he turns his body to you.

“…does kuromi have a popular character she’s paired with? we could just go with that.”

you pointed at the white and rosey pink one to the one he carefully placed, “my melody. they’re more like polar opposites, but you can be kuromi and i’ll be my melody. then we can swap so we can have a little version of each other when we’re not hanging out.”

wordlessly, kuni grabs two husks, one kuromi, and one my melody. he didn’t outwardly respond to your idea, but the faint redness at the tips of his ears was damning enough.

damning if you were paying attention.

damning if he didn’t have his hair covering his ears.

you grin to yourself as you gingerly slide my melody out of his hand.

kunikuzushi… admittedly really liked the idea. but he would never ever fuckin’ actually admit that to you, at least for now while the two of you weren’t together.

if you two started dating, maybe he’d come clean about how much the paired plushies really meant to him.

if you grabbed his face and forced him to look at you, he’d reel back and shout at you, demanding to know why you were trying so hard to be annoying to fluster him.

but the way he felt warm inside as unsightly butterflies rammed against the walls of his tummy reminded him that he wouldn’t entirely mind if you grabbed his face to make him look at you.

the two of you walked over to the stuffing station and the employee chatted with you both. well, more like he just chatted with you because kunikuzushi was just standing there with his arms crossed as he stared out of the shop.

it was sort of embarrassing for him to be a young adult yet inside a build-a-bear… especially embarrassing to be partaking in the activity. the worker’s question shook him from his thoughts.

“would you like to add a scent?”

his mouth opened but before he could answer ‘no, i would not want a migraine’, you chimed in.

“lavender would be nice. maybe he could chill out with the aromatherapy.

he glared and you smirked.

the employee just chuckled as he tossed in scented bear-shaped discs into the filled plushies. after placing both on his lap, he grinned as he held out a basket full of thinly stuffed hearts, “you guys know the drill. pick a heart, whisper some love into it, and pop ‘em into the little dudes.”

“what? whisper love into it?”

“we can do that, but i was thinking about opting into the voice recording as well,” you explained, peering into the basket and picking out a red gingham patterned heart.

fuck, what? what??

“y/n, you’ve got to be kidding me. you know that’s cringe and a scam to milk more money from us,” he tried to reason as he also glared into the basket of hearts. the audacity to call out the huge shit-eating grin on the employee’s face as he started setting up two small recording devices.

you laughed as you clutched the patterned heart tightly in your hand, patting kunikuzushi on the back. he shivered a little and any further bite died in the back of his throat.

“not a scam. people love hearing those messages, even if it’s a little cringe.”

“wasn’t talkin’ to you.”

“just trying to be helpful,” the nosey employee snickered as he handed the both of you small plastic boxes, “hit this button and go crazy. but not too crazy because it only records 20 seconds.”

you hummed as you thumbed the bright casing, “is it fine if i go outside to record? i want it to be a surprise.” the guy nods and you swiftly turned around and abandoned the two young men at the stuffing station. kunikuzushi sputtered when he saw your darting figure turn the corner and disappear further into the mall.

“gotta be fuckin’… ugh,” he disdains, giving the seated employee one last icy stare as he swiftly turns to slink over to the dark corner of the store, back where the two of you were discussing which sanrio pelts to stuff. he shuffled back and forth in the corner, muttering under his breath as he mulled over what he was going to say.

a loving insult? decent contender.

a grossly lewd moan? funny, but he’d rather die than do that in public.

weird breathing so he could creep you out at night? okay, hilarious. very strong contender.

a confession?

mm.

he flicked his middle finger up when he saw the employee knowingly smirk at him as he leaned back into the bright yellow bear chair.

kunikuzushi stared at the employee, held the box near his mouth, and hit the big red button.

after a few minutes, the two of you returned to the station. you gleefully plopped the plastic box into the back my melody and gave an obnoxiously loud kiss to the little heart. as the guy stitched up her back, kunikuzushi was nervously thumbing his own recorder with a glazed look in his eyes. but he remained silent with a dusting of pink sprinkled on his cheeks.

“your turn bud. give that heart a big ole kiss and drop both of those things in,” the aggravating employee nodded in his direction as he finished your my melody. he hands the plush to you and you immediately hug the soft thing, quietly commenting about how soft she felt in your arms.

hesitantly, kunikuzushi’s hand that held the recorder hovered over the opened gash back of kuromi, wondering if he was really going to go through with this. as soon as he drops that thing into her back, his future was sealed. his friendship with you could either ideally advance or crumble into nothing.

he drops the plastic box in. along with the heart—

“that’s not how we do it here. kiss the heart,” you interrupted, holding your plush into your arms.

grumbling, he quickly snatches the red heart and pecks it, grimacing at the idea of the germs on his lips from the numerous grimy kid hands that might’ve touched it. “this is so degrading,” he huffs as he wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve.

the employee’s shoulders merely shake with silent laughter as he stitched up kuromi.

“by the way, you activate the recording by hugging it.”

the two of you nod in understanding.

kunikuzushi’s, a slight and curt bob. your’s, an excited jerk.

as soon as the employee started to hold out the rabbit with bat ears, kunikuzushi snatched both kuromi and your hand to the clothing station to pick out outfits for your new additions to both apartments.

the two of you ended up picking up mall pretzels on the way out and you chatted away in his car as he drove you home. the entire time, you were excitedly gushing about the whole experience as you teased him, popping pieces of your pretzel into your mouth. eventually, you stole his pretzel too.

meanwhile, the nervous young man had a tightening grasp on the steering wheel, his rings digging into his fingers every time he glanced down at the soft item in his lap. at red lights, he fiddled endlessly with the tail, twirling and untwirling the faux velvet around his fingers as he quietly listened to you ramble. at green lights, his hands dart back to the wheel to grip hard.

once he parked on your street, the two of you swapped plushies; you buckled my melody into the shotgun seat. he barely heard your chants of ‘thank you’ and ‘this was so much fun!!!’ as he gave one last look at that archon forsakened plush in your arms.

that thing held the fate of his relationship.

he squeezed his eyes shut for a second and exhaled shakily before giving you a hardened stare with his amethyst eyes. if you looked a little more carefully, you might have noticed how little he looked in the driver’s seat with the way he sunk into the cushions, the weight of his decision sitting heavily on his mind.

“…don’t listen to it until you’re in your apartment, alright?”

you waved him off, “yeah, yeah, i remember, kuni! you do the same. i’ll text you after.”

you shut the car door and wave at him one last time before walking away.

he sighs and rests his hand on the pink plush in his passenger seat.

after you entered your apartment, you let out a loud shaky sigh you had been holding in, biting your lip as you finally dropped the nonchalant mask you were keeping up. the frantic pulsing of your heart finally stabilizing now that you were home alone. after toeing off your shoes, you quietly padded into your room and collapsed on the bed, enjoying the lavender scent while hugging kuromi really tightly.

suddenly, the sound of kunikuzushi’s disgruntled, frantic, and hushed voice startles you.

“—a-ah, is this thing fuckin’ workin'- oh fuck it is— okay, uh. i absolutely despise the fact you’re making me do this because i feel extremely humiliated right now and — archons, the guy is still staring at me — you’re lucky i really like you. you make me feel butterflies every time you grab my hand o-or when you fuckin’ look at me and i really love yo-”

the recording cuts out and you lunge for your phone.

#wanderer #scaramouche #kunikuzushi #wanderer x reader #scaramouche x reader #kunikuzushi x reader #wanderer x y/n #scaramouche x y/n #kunikuzushi x y/n #genshin impact x reader #BaB - kuni #kunikuma’s fics

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half-algorithm-half-deity · 1 month

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Tips for making actually cheap punk clothes from someone that has spent a maximum of $11 on any specific project over 3 years:

Bottle caps make AMAZING pins. There's countless ways to make bottlecap pins, but I mainly do it by 1) filling the cap with hot glue and 2) gluing a safety pin to the back. It's up to the individual. But the point is: Save bottlecaps.

DRINK CANS ARE AMAZING FOR MAKING SPIKES! Any aluminum can works - Monster cans, beer cans, etc. - all you have to do is cut off the tops and bottoms; make it a flat sheet; cut the metal into small semicircles; and roll it into cones. They stay in place easily with hot glue, and when you put them onto anything, they look just as good as store-bought.

Save Can Tabs. They can be put onto jackets, made into chains, earrings, necklaces, or anything else you want.

Literally anything can be made punk. Jeans, cargo pants, denim jackets, t-shirts, shoes, hoodies - the sky's the limit. Don't let these tiktok punks tell you that only their $80 Social Distortion pants and $120 denim jackets can be punk. Any clothes you pull out of a dumpster can be punkified.

Old T-shirts that no longer fit and have a design on them can be cut out and made into backpieces. Band shirts are particularly great for this, so if you thrift a Motorhead shirt that's too small, you can cut out the design and sew it onto a jacket and bam - you've got an exclusive piece of merch.

This one's more of an opinion, but: If you're patching up a jacket, sew the patches onto the outside of the jacket. If you're patching up pants, create holes where you want the design, and sew the patches from the inside of the pants.

Do research. If a "thrift store" calls itself a cheap alternative store, but has $50 jeans, it's not a thrift store. It's a vintage reseller, and the clothes are almost always WAY overpriced.

Shoplift carefully. Go somewhere you don't usually go - a large chain like Walmart or Target or Staples, not a local business - and take small things. Don't go somewhere that you're a regular at, or shoplift multiple times in a short period of times, or do too much at once. You will develop a track record and have more of a chance of being caught. However, the workers don't get paid less for you stealing, and the big suits in corporate won't notice or care about a missing pack of dental floss.

Experiment! Have fun with it! I've been Frankenstein-ing my jacket for years and counting - I've taken off the sleeves, added new sleeves, painted on it, put patches on it, added pins, anything you can think of. Be loud, be ugly, be weird, be happy.

If you have a painted patch or spot on pants/a jacket/whatever and it's old, but you want to take it off now, or if you just made a mistake, acetone can get pretty much any amount and age of paint out of any fabric. By acetone, I mean most nail polish removers or rubbing alcohols.

Now, I hate buying things for making punk clothes, but there are a few things that, in my opinion, are investments that last FOREVER. This includes: Hot glue guns; nail polish remover (for the last tip, mainly); paint pens and containers of paint (fabric or not); sharpies; dental floss or just normal thread; fabric scissors; and SAFETY PINS. None of them are very expensive, but they'll come in handy for years.

ESPECIALLY SHARPIES. That's the one thing I won't debate is a perfect investment. You can get a set of 12 colors or 12 black ones for like $9, and you can use them for EVERYTHING. The color also won't bleed when washed, as opposed to most pens and markers.

SAFETY PINS ARE A FASHION STATEMENT IN AND OF ITSELF. They're super useful in making clothes and jewelry, they're cheap and easy to find, and just nice to line the hems of your pants with.

When you make a square patch, fold in the edges slightly so that the edges don't fray. This makes it slightly harder to sew on, but it keeps the patch in good condition for longer - unless the idea is to look tattered. Then don't.

Don't be afraid to add something random and weird to your clothing because "oh people are gonna see it and know I like this weird niche thing" - that's the whole point! It's an expression of who YOU are, not what people want you to be. If people - especially other punks - judge you for it, fuck them. Unless...

No swastikas, no iron crosses, no symbols of oppression, no TERF shit. I'd say that's the only rule of punk - to say "oppression is punk" is going against everything punk stands for. Of course, if you do it anyways, you should at least know you deserve the beating you get at a basement show attended by underpaid and rage-filled faggots.

Of course, these are just mine, and there's plenty more that I do not know. If you've got your own way of doing things that goes against mine, that's awesome. But if you need to start somewhere as a kid punk, I hope this helped.

#punk #punk fashion #punk rock #skate punk #punk music #art punk #eco punk #alt rock #diy fashion #alternative fashion #crust punk #diy punk #diy patches #diy or die #battle jacket

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thisapplepielife · 5 months

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Written for the @steddieholidaydrabbles December challenge.

Paint It, Black

Prompt Day 9: No Upside Down AU | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: M | CW: Referenced Drug Use | Tags: AU, Corroded Coffin, Established Relationship, Eddie & Gareth Are Best Friends, Motel Room, Road Manager Steve Harrington Has Had Enough, It's Like Herding Cats

This is set during my fic Tuesday's Gone With the Wind, but this can be read alone. All you need to know is Corroded Coffin is a struggling band on the road, and Steve Harrington, Eddie's boyfriend, has recently taken a job as their Road Manager.

1990 Fresno, California

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

What the actual fuck?

Steve can't even believe what he’s seeing. Can’t fathom it. It’s madness, absolute fucking insanity. What on earth has he signed up for? This isn’t normal. None of this is normal.

"What the fuck are you two dickheads doing?!" Steve finally shouts, unable to modulate his tone even a little bit. He’s a goddamn babysitter. No, being a babysitter would be better than this. Kids don’t know any better. These two assholes definitely do. Goddamn. Fuck.

Eddie barely turns to look at him, and that just makes Steve even madder.

"Eddie, look at me!" Steve yells, and Eddie turns to look.

"Hi. What are you doing?" Steve asks, though it’s very fucking obvious what they’re doing. They’re painting their motel room black.

Eddie doesn’t answer, but Gareth does. "Eddie has a thing about orange and green," Gareth says, like that’s a fucking excuse for this. Gareth keeps painting the wallpaper of the dingy motel room.

"Stop it!" Steve yells, and they both freeze for just a second, then their brushes are moving again.

He’s quitting. He’s going home. He can’t manage these people. They’re crazy. This is crazy.

"That’s…that’s not even how you paint a wall!" Steve screams at Gareth.

And don’t even get him started on the ceiling. That’s just bullshit. They’re gonna get arrested. Like, for sure. They need a lawyer on retainer, but they can’t afford a lawyer. And they definitely can’t afford to pay for these kinds of damages.

"Looks like it's getting painted to me," Gareth says, slapping more black paint on the wall.

"Do you know how much this is going to cost?" Steve snaps, putting his hands on his hips. He tries to guess, and can’t even come up with a number that seems plausible. They’ve ruined the wallpaper, the carpet, the bedding…the ceiling. The goddamn ceiling.

Eddie’s standing on the desk, which, also ruined.

"Hey, assholes! What are you on?!" Steve yells.

Because it must be drugs, there's no other excuse for this kind of behavior. Or they're psychopaths, and he doesn’t think that’s true. He loves Eddie. He’s kind, and sweet, and fucking unhinged, apparently.

"Little coke," Gareth says, "that's all."

"That's all? That's all?! Where are Jeff and Goodie?"

"They’re at a bar. They didn't want to go to Sherwin Williams with us," Eddie says.

Why would any store sell these two dickheads two gallons of black paint? It was never gonna be used for good. Never, ever.

Where's the satanic panic when you need it?

"You two dickheads are explaining this. I don't have the words to even try," Steve snaps, but he knows that’s not true. He’ll take care of it. That’s what they’re paying him for. He’s not sure this is the job for him. He loves Eddie, but this is stupid. Cocaine, no cocaine, they both have to know better. Have to know you can’t just paint a motel room because it has a fucking ugly color scheme.

He gives himself a few minutes to calm down, and then heads for the front desk and asks for the manager.

"I’m Steve Harrington, road manager for Corroded Coffin. We’re in room 420. Two band members have painted the room partially black," Steve says, unable to believe he’s actually saying these words. "I’m sorry. We’ll pay for the damages."

They go back and forth. When the manager demands to go see the damage, Steve gets there and takes the brushes away, and sends Eddie and Gareth outside to wait. They are definitely banned from this motel for life.

They want to have them arrested for vandalism, and Steve thinks that’s a fucking fair assessment of what happened here. He talks them out of it. Offers to write a big check. They finally agree, and tell him to get their shit out, and never come back.

Jeff’s camera is in its bag, so Steve takes it out and films the damage. They might need this, if they end up slapped with a lawsuit.

The band doesn’t have this kind of money, not at all, so Steve gets out his personal checkbook and pays for the damages. If he doesn’t do that, he’ll have to pay to bail Eddie, and Gareth, out of jail, and he’d rather Eddie not have something so stupid on his record.

He packs up everybody’s shit, and when he gets outside with it, they are both sitting on a curb, as far from the lobby as they can get. Smoking a cigarette, passing it back and forth. Steve snaps his fingers, and points to the van. He has everybody’s shit piled on a cart, and they are gonna load it all up. Then they have to find Jeff and Goodie, because they’re gonna stumble back to a motel they’re no longer welcome in.

Eddie’s hands are a little shaky, Steve can tell he’s sobered up, and now he’s embarrassed. Or worried. Both, probably.

Gareth crawls in the backseat, seemingly unbothered, as always. Figures. Steve gets in the driver’s seat, and Eddie climbs in beside him.

"Do you still love me?" Eddie asks, looking at him, hair in his face.

"Unfortunately, yes," Steve says, and reaches for Eddie’s black paint-stained hand, kissing his knuckles.

"How 'bout me? Do you love me?" Gareth asks, sticking his head between them.

"No, never. Sit back," Steve snaps.

Gareth does.

"I’m sorry," Eddie says, and Steve is pretty sure he means it.

"I know," Steve says, "but that’s the end of that. We can’t afford to damage rooms like that again."

"Did we have enough to settle up tonight?" Eddie asks, looking worried.

Steve nods, "Yeah, it’s taken care of. Don’t worry."

"Thanks," Eddie says, "we won’t do anything like that again. I swear."

"Good. Thank you. I’m not paid enough for that kind of headache," Steve says, and it makes Eddie smile.

This is a terrible job.

But Eddie's here, and Steve's pretty fond of him. So, he'll stay.

Notes: This incident was mentioned in Wake Up Time, but I thought it'd be fun to get Steve's POV on these two dickheads for once. In Tuesday's Eddie had mentioned their property damage in this documentary segment:

Eddie Munson, Rhythm Guitar & Songwriter "Our tours were a clusterfuck before Steve whipped us into shape. The property damage alone. Bunch of assholes, we were. He eventually broke us of it, it just took a while and a lot of money."

And this is that story, lol.

This idea is based off these lyrics from a Willie & Waylon song:

And there's a motel out in Fresno Where neither one of us can go back You had a thing about yellow and green So you painted the whole room black

Which is total Eddie and Gareth BFF vibes from this universe. (I changed it to orange, to match the Hawkins HS colors.)

And I've said it before, and I'll say it again, this gifset is the perfect embodiment of Road Manager Steve's energy.

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun!

If you want to see more of my entries into this month-long challenge, you can check them out in my Steddie Holiday Drabbles tag, right here!

#steddieholidaydrabbles #no upside down au #corroded coffin #steve harrington: road manager #gareth & eddie #tuesday's gone with the wind #steddie ficlet #steve x eddie #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #corroded coffin fic #stranger things #thisapplepielife: short fic #thisapplepielife: steddieholidaydrabbles

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reds-writings · 1 month

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Ooo any grump/sunshine day to day with old man Rust!!! Maybe fluff prompt pt.2 #3 or #6!

You’re writings for Rust are incredible please never stop! <3

i mostly combined 3 and 6 with this ask and went with something kinda new?? this features a nurse!reader with a bit of an age gap taking place but nothing crazy. i love the sunshine/grumpy trope so i hope you enjoy!! (also I'm trying out using a placeholder nickname for the reader so i don't have to use y/n as much so pls let me know if y'all enjoy that at all)

When Marty first sprung the idea of a temporary at-home caretaker on Rust the man had half the mind to think the blonde was just being a tremendous chain-yanking shit. But his friend was dead serious and it was less of a ‘think on it’ idea and more of a ‘I got Maggie to pull some strings and a nurse will be coming in next week’ idea. No matter how much Rust reared and protested Marty insisted that he have someone to keep an eye on him since Marty couldn’t be his personal maid for much longer given that it had already been a couple of weeks since their hospital visit courtesy of that fucker Childress.

Rust didn’t want a damned nurse. He wasn’t some pathetic geriatric fuck in desperate need of some lousy assistance. Sure, anytime he moved too much or stood for too long he felt like he’d pass out from the pain of the wound that nearly took up his whole abdomen but that didn’t mean jack shit. Marty brushed off any complaints without so much a blink and kept reassuring that it’d do the grump some good to have company other than himself or the neverending onslaught of his usual doomsday-esque thoughts. The day you showed up at Marty’s door bright and early on a Monday morning with a smile too genuine for Rust to fully comprehend, you were not at all what he was expecting.

Not that he really had any expectations to begin with. Maybe that you’d be older. More seasoned. Not nearly 10 years or so his junior. Certainly not possessing such a radiantly pleasant disposition that no one else seemed to harbor anywhere around these parts. He wasn’t above immediately clocking the beauty you exuded but eyeing younger women was more of Marty’s MO than his own.

You seemed untouched by the vast ugliness of what the world fostered. There weren’t many moments where you didn’t have a look of general felicity painted on the soft planes of your face. It was a habit of yours to wear brightly patterned or colored scrubs that he, at first, deemed a semi-loathsome eyesore (which then eventually grew on him). An array of silly patches and pins allowed on your work bag full of the necessities you slung along for the day’s endeavors with him. Kitschy socks you kept as a hidden surprise within the confines of your clogs that you’d show to him even if he never gave the inclination that he cared about something so trivial. Your unmoving cheeriness translated to a certain form of naivety that had something ugly burning beneath the prison of his ribs. At first, he thought he just felt this brand of annoyance towards a preconceived notion of cluelessness you carried but over time it found itself melting away into a subconscious need to shelter you from the horrors of earth.

It took plenty of time to chip away at that impossible exterior of his but with your incessant refusal to let his initial gruffness and straight-up disregard of your presence deter you he had no choice but to give in to your efforts of friendly engagement.

Given that there wasn’t much to do for him care-wise besides keep his wounds clean, change bandages, make sure he didn’t collapse, and keep up with any meds he was prescribed post-hospital stay you took on the role of making the passing days a little more interesting than they’d usually be if he were by his lonesome. You’d find little non-exertive exercises to do in the afternoon to keep his muscles from getting too weak. Drag him along to the grocery store to shop so that you could try out some new recipes you saved online. You were steadfast in making g sure he wasn’t just surviving off the cigarettes and beer he’d stubbornly sneak behind your back. You also made it a goal to keep up with trimming that bristly mustache of his and making sure his hair didn't get too unruly. You’ve gone as far as to bug him about letting you practice your braiding skills so that you could fulfill your niece’s creative hairstyle wishes but no dice. One day you’d wear him down enough into agreeance. That was becoming easier, though, wearing him down for just about anything. One look at those doe-ish eyes and the battle he was prepared to fight had already been lost. Rust had a feeling you were more clever than anyone probably gave you credit for but there was no use in acknowledging that your stare was having an increasingly strengthened hold on him.

To say Marty was absolutely tickled by the noticeable change in his friend’s demeanor throughout this new development was an understatement. It was about time there was something Rust somewhat enjoyed besides stewing over the point of humanity’s existence or yapping on about unsavory ideas involving shit like damnation. It didn’t take long for your attitude and delightful qualities to earn you the nickname Sunny. Marty deemed it exceedingly fitting and even Rust found himself playing into it much to everyone’s surprise. Hearing it from him had a splendid giddiness sparking throughout your system more than you’d like to admit.

Today you’d driven him out near the water where you both could sit and read for a while. You always stressed the importance of fresh air doing him some good and he never complained. If it meant getting him out of Marty’s bachelor pad here and there he’d let you drag him anywhere as far as Timbuktu. As chatty as you could be, you stayed mindful of any moment of solitude he may require during these daily visits. Sometimes it was nice to just exist and absorb the ambiance the outside world had to offer in each other’s presence and for that he was grateful.

“You’re starting to walk better on your own, Rusty.” You broke the bubble of serenity, looking up from your book –some light read of a romance– to fix him with a small smile that quirked the corner of your lips. The sun’s fading light drenched your figure in the hues of impending dusk and some nagging part of him found it to be an effortlessly alluring sight despite its simplicity. You’d have to be calling it a night soon but what was a few more stolen moments in each other's company?

“Yeah, s’gettin’ a bit easier I suppose. Soon enough I’ll be back to mostly functional as opposed to some lame cripple.” He replied in dry amusement, dog-earing the page he was on to bring his full attention to you. Marty often gave him flack for his outgrown hippie look but it added some sort of rugged appeal in your opinion. Not that you’d ever find the courage to forgo any sense of professionalism by making your whims involving Rust Cohle known. But as he looked at you now with weathered blue you couldn’t help but give in to the ideas of something beyond this current format of companionship.

“Cripple is a bit of an exaggeration. You’ll be up and at em’ before you know it. Though it sucks I won’t be of much use no more.” There was a twinge of sadness in your voice and he hated the frailty of it.

“Ah…don’t worry, Sunny. There’ll be some other helpless old soul who’ll need you around.”

“That’d imply you’re just some helpless old fart in the throng of said souls. Which you’re not. Plus, none have ever entertained me as you do.” You chirped in that playful matter-of-fact way you often do.

“Entertainin’. Hm. That’s new.” He shook his head before looking out toward the water.

“Even if your physical health will no longer be of issue I’ll make it my new mission to spruce up that self-deprecating brain of yours. Not that I’m necessarily trained within the realm of mental health but I can youtube it or something. I have my ways.” You wiggled your fingers in jest as if casting a spell. In truth, it was as if you already had when you came around all those weeks ago.

“Can’t get rid of you that easily I’m guessin’.” He shot back in a lousy attempt at a joke. Whether you could read his poorly hidden desire to keep you around or not, he couldn’t tell.

“You know by now I’m like a leech. A cute, fun leech! It’ll take a lot to get rid of me for good,” You paused with a bout of slight insecurity, “unless you don’t want me around to bother you longer. I know I can be a bit much sometimes-”

“You can stick around, Sunny. Can’t have Marty as my only friend. That’d be plain sad.” He was playing it off cool, unaware of the barrage of butterflies he had set off in your chest with that simple statement.

“I might have to alert the masses now that you consider me a friend. This is by no means a small feat– wait does this mean I can practice my braiding finally?! My niece is getting antsy and I-”

“Don’t push your luck.” He had to look away from the blinding beam of your cheek-splitting smile as he moved to stand up. Without fail, you rushed to his side to place your dainty hand into his so that you could help. The small action sent lightning down the length of his spine. The warmth of your joking jabs about your newfound title of friendship encased his whole being. He couldn’t help but think back on the conversation he’d had with Marty outside of the hospital, about light versus dark. Perhaps you manifesting into his orbit was another indicator that the light just might actually be winning.

#reds-writings #rust cohle #true detective #true detective season 1 #rust cohle x reader #anon ask #writer blog #true detective imagine #rust cohle imagine

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astroboots · 1 year

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Where does Boa hide these around the house to best fuck with Santi?

BEHIND ENEMY LINES

Summary: Santiago is on a mission to take out your army of freakishly ugly mutant toys that you keep placing on his desk.

Homecoming Drabbles | Homecoming Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist

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They're back again.

Santiago stares at the horrifying toy creature. Half husky and half--- penguin? Is that what it fucking is?!

He can't keep his eyes from the small miniature toy, its hauntingly blue piercing eyes and dog-like snout, its two flappy wings held against its protruding belly and standing on two webbed feet.

He doesn't know. Doesn't know where you managed to find this godless toy. Doesn't know what the toy manufacturer was thinking when they greenlit this for production. Doesn't know what kind of hallucinogenic drugs the designer must've been on when he made it.

Only thing he knows, is that it's fucking hideous is what it is.

Narrowing his eyes at the abomination, he glares at it in indignant anger where it sits perched on his desk. He threw this out last week. Stealthily took it out on the day it was Frankie's turn to take out the trash, so you couldn't find it and stop it beforehand.

So he doesn't know how it's back. Or worse, he doesn't know how now there's not only a husky penguin but right next to it there's also malformed sad looking half-tiger, half-squirrel.

He thought there was only the one. But with the appearance of this second one... fuck it can't be.

... Fuck.

You have the whole fucking line up hidden somewhere don't you?

And if he throws these two away... he's pretty sure like the fucking mythical Hydra of Lerna, there's going to be four of them lined up on his desk by tomorrow.

That won't do.

But he also doesn't want to sit here, looking at schematics for his latest consulting project, and having to stare up at these hideous crimes against nature and god. No, he needs to get rid of them...

But there's no way out of this that doesn't end in an escalation until his desk becomes a gathering ground of these horrifying mutant toys... Unless he takes it out by the source. Destroy the nest so that it cannot breed more... Sniff out where you've hidden this mutant-freak toy army and get rid of them before you'll ever see him coming.

Santiago glances up at the clock. 4.30pm, you'll be home within the hour, he still got time. Pushing his chair away from his desk, he skulks down the hallway to the guestroom where you tend to store all your junk. All the crazy shit you keep dragging back home from the antique stands and farmers market you drag him to at ungodly early hours on Sunday morning. The haunted porcelain dolls, the joke taxidermy--with mice wearing human clothes and squirrels that are in a boxing match-- and the collection of inappropriately sexy Christmas baubles you got in a moving box on the shelf.

He continues to root around, in the empty shoe boxes stored under the guest bedroom. The first one contains--- more sexy Christmas baubles, one that looks eerily alike Michael Bublé that makes his skin crawl. The second--a bunch of old photo albums. The third-- just a bunch of brightly colored socks, that shouldn't be stored there in the first place. He digs around and-- Bingo.

In the very bottom, inside a sealed plastic bag he finds what he is looking for. It's the rest of the pack. A confused looking zebra-kangaroo, a lion-gerbil?! (or is it hamster, jesus-- it's horrifying). And finally a face that will haunts his nightmares until the end of time... The face of a gorilla staring up at him, eerily detailed and accurate, with the body of an elephant.

Actually forget seeing this in his nightmares, Santiago doesn't think he'll ever sleep again after seeing this. He shakes his head as he pulls up the bag pinched between his thumb and index finger, not even daring to clutch it in his hand, as he tucks it inside his sweater, closing the lid before leaving the room and heading down towards the garage.

He's not taking any risks, he's heading straight into the car to the junkyard himself to make sure these things aren't recovered by some deus ex machina intervention.

"Santiago have you been going through my stuff?" you ask.

Santiago doesn't look up from the pages of his book, as he takes another sip at his piping hot coffee. "What do you mean sweetheart?"

He doesn't need to look at you to know the look that will be in your eye. The way you're narrowing your eyes at him in observation, the way a detective would pin down their suspected perpetrator in an interrogation room.

"My stuff in the guestroom," you clarify.

"No clue." He has to bite the inside of his cheeks to tamper down the grin that's threatening to escape.

What follows is your usual morning routine after breakfast. When he says bye by the front porch, you throw him a quick kiss goodbye, but you linger for longer than you normally do. Your eyes squinting down on him, a silent accusation of, "I know what you did."

Santiago doesn't say shit.

Instead he waves you off like a young maiden in an old timey black and white movie waving off their husband to war with a handkerchief, as he turns back into the house, smiling like a loon. The feeling of victory surging bright in his veins.

Santiago practically skips on each steps up the staircase back to his office, humming, and if he could be any happier he would be floating.

He opens the door, the refreshing spring breeze flowing in through his window. The morning sun spilling across the length of his desk when he sees it.

His smile drops.

No.

Fuck no.

You gotta be kidding.

They're back again.

Standing in a neat tidy line in front of his computer screen, the whole family is gathered. Husky-penguin, Tiger-squirrel, Zebra-kangaroo, Lion-gerbil/hamster and the most nightmare inducing of them all... Gorilla-elephant.

He doesn't understand.

He drove them there.

Personally chucked them into a bag and into the junkyard where it can never be retrieved. But...

They're all back... and they brought friends.

He threw away five, and now there's ten....

He stares at them, the whole of the line up. At each ugly, deformed, mutant, hybrid animal toy creature, eyes lingering in particular at the horrifying shark with four slim and graceful legs and hooves.... And he doesn't even know what to say.

He doesn't even know what the fuck this is.

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#oscar isaac #pedro pascal #triple frontier #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfiction #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santiago garcia x you #💌 asks

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soleilandpeaches · 1 year

Text

would a kiss be too much to ask?

KeigoxFem!Reader

synopsis: Keigo’s been planning on finally telling you how he feels, stupidly, he spontaneously decides to show you instead.

warnings: uses of drugs/alcohol, masturbation, drunken confessions, angst, cliffhanger, shorter chapter

song title inspo: Too Much to Ask by Arctic Monkeys

(pt. I) (pt. III)

“He seemed way too infatuated, plus, he wasn’t really my type.” You drone on, keeping your eyes trained onto the mug in your hands, the one he had made with you about a year ago. He watches as your fingers idally trace the colorful patterns edged into the clay. He can tell you’re disappointed and yet he feels guilty, happy it didn’t work out.

He can’t seem to ignore the rising ugliness of jealousy bubbling up inside him. All he can do is clench his jaw and hope you don’t notice. But you can’t, because you keep your eyes downcasted and away from him. He wants to shake you by your shoulders and shout in your face that: “He’s right here! He’s always been here.”

He listens to you complain about failed talking stages, dates that never seem to make it past the 2nd week mark, the people you seek out only to eventually be let down. He keeps thinking about how he could treat you so much better, better than those idiots who don’t know how to please you like he can. He takes you out, he pays for things you like even when you insist he shouldn’t, he showers you with compliments, hugs, affection, whatever you ask for! He does things for you without asking, stopping at little stores to buy you little gifts, tokens to signify your friendship. Yet still, why do you feel so out of reach, centimeters away from the tips of his fingers yet too far to grasp; you slip away just before he reaches you.

Is it because of his job? He’s aware dating a hero doesn’t compare to dating someone who isn’t, the risks of it all threatens even him to reconsider pursuing you. He also isn’t oblivious to how the media often likes to portray him. He doesn’t consider himself to be the uncommitted playboy the tabloids paint him as. Still, he understands why you might be hesitant to consider him as a partner. Even though you know he isn’t like that—there has to be another reason.

He ponders for a moment, questioning if you even see him that way at all. Although as soon as the thought comes it leaves just as quickly. No, he decides, that can’t be it either. He’s not stupid: he knows your relationship hasn’t exactly always been completely platonic. He wouldn’t do the things he does with you with anyone else, even if he had another best friend. He sees the way you sometimes look at him, your eyes tell him the truth.

He’s a good-looking guy, he knows. He takes pride in his appearance, taking time out of his day to stay clean and pretty. He knows the effect he often has on others: he’s a heartthrob. So how come it’s taking him this long to tie you down and make you his? He’s probably overthinking it, he’s considered that possibility for a long time. Yet, the mere thought of tossing everything he’s built with you down the drain isn’t far off from the idea of plucking each feather from his back, one-by-one.

The image of your face twisting into distress or pity, quietly telling him you don’t see him that way, that he’s just a friend and never anything more. Even worse if you just see him as some kind of brotherly figure, solidifying the concept of your relationship to never progress into anything more.

He knows that’s just how life is, people and relationships come and go but you, you’re different. You and your pretty face will forever haunt his dreams or appear every time he closes his eyes. He will always yearn for your touch, your voice, and your smell. And even though his throat tightens at the idea of losing you, his restraint is hanging on by a thread.

Because now, he’s home alone, fisting his cock as he mutters your name into the hem of his shirt gritted between his teeth. His pants hung low on his hips, unruly and unshaved pubes tickling his knuckles every time his fingers stroke his base.

He lets his thoughts roam from the memory of you, to imagining himself fucking you the way he’s been desperately craving. He’d hold you by your hips, pulling you backwards to meet his unforgiving thrusts as you beg for more. He’d whisper filthy nothings into your ear, forcing you to look at him as he fucks you harder.

He’d ask you to beg for him before he’s filling your pretty little pussy with his seed. The image of your cunt dripping with white has him coming with a shout, he lets his shirt fall as he tosses his head back, Adam’s apple bobbing as thick cum spills down his hand and spurts onto his stomach.

Slowly pumping his cock as he rides out his high, he’s murmuring your name over and over. He lets the shame wash over him, completely used to it by now but he’s done promising himself it would be the last time. His fingers itch to call you, drunk on the thought of your voice lulling him to sleep. Yet he refrains—he needs time to cool off anyway.

You’re both drunk, him more than you it seems. You decided tonight you’d rather get high instead, but the taste of alcohol was too sweet to pass up. He wanted to tell you mixing was a mistake—“Oh, let me live a little.” The memory of your grumbled bickering caused him to smile. Your droopy eyes and your puffed cheeks, pouty lips and twitching nose, he could never seem to say no to you.

You were leaning against your kitchen counter, laughing at your phone and eating away at a bag of chips. In his defense, he wasn’t exactly sure what came over him at that moment. There was only one thought echoing in his mind: He needed you to know.

Willing himself to stand, he makes his way over to you, not even hesitating to grasp the phone out from your fingers and onto the counter behind you.

“Hey!” You protest, seemingly irritated with his rude gesture. “What gives?”

Leaning into you, his arms snaking their way around your waist as his lips twitch against the shell of your ear: “You’re not paying attention to me.” He murmurs with a flirtatious grin before nosing your cheek with a happy sigh.

“Well you could’ve just said so…” You grumble, your hands reaching to scratch at his scalp, waiting for his hum of approval.

“You’re so pretty…” He’s backing away now to stare into you, face drawn serious yet pleading. His eyes are darting back-and-forth between your own, searching for any signs of discomfort.

You’re smiling, but your eyebrows are pinched together in confusion. You let out a chuckle: “You’re so drunk.” You opt to say, causing him to frown.

“But you’re still beautiful.” He’s holding you in a way a lover would, hands gently resting on your waist, thumbs massaging back-and-forth into your supple skin.

“Thank you Keigo,” you whispered after a moment. “you’re beautiful too.”

“Yeah?” His teeth glimmer against the faint blue light of the T.V. as his lips stretch into a smile. He’s adoring you affectionately, eyes only speaking in tongues of love as his nose crinkles and his dimples portrued. He knows he’s beautiful, but hearing you say it so matter-of-factly has him higher than any drug.

“Can I kiss you?” The question leaves his lips before he catches it, mouth already parted to carry out the action as his eyes flicker to yours.

“What?” You ask in a quiet, hushed voice, as if you didn’t really believe you had heard him correctly. He doesn’t repeat it though; he knows you heard him.

“Please?” He begs instead, he’d promise you just one but it would be a lie. He’s leaning into you now, face centimeters from yours, eyes meeting yours again for any sign of approval. You wait, the noise echoing from the T.V. combined with your shared breaths being the only sound to escape.

“I–“ You begin but fail to finish as he watches your attention divert to his mouth. He knows now that you’re considering it, but he needs to hear you say it.

“Yes?” He wasn’t sure if he was asking you to continue or your permission. Yet the hilt to his voice creates goosebumps to litter your skin as you shiver against him. Just as he thinks you’re going to allow him, your hand comes to push him away by his chest, turning your cheek and you stare at something other than him.

“You’re drunk.” You assert with less warmth, ears red and lip caught between your teeth.

“So?” Almost angry, he’s pinching you by your chin to face him again, he fights back the urge to force your lips against his.

“Stop. Let’s just go to sleep.” You coax his hand away from your face as you push past him, leaving him stunned and at a loss for words. Still, he follows you blindly and into your room like a lovesick puppy.

He calls your name as you leave him standing alone amongst your things to go wash up. You stay silent. Whatever.

He’s peeling away his shirt before slumping against your duvet, letting out a much needed drone of remorse. He’s beginning to regret his actions but at the same time, relieved he got to see you so flustered because of him. He knows now you at least wanted to kiss him.

You reenter the room demanding him to wash up because: “your breath reeks.” He wonders if that’s why you rejected him. He pulls himself up to do as he’s told, stalling as he watches you climb into bed.

Once he’s finished and has you wrapped around him, he’s shoving his face into your breasts and forcing your hand to pet at his hair.

“Will you kiss me when I’m sober?” He wonders aloud, half to himself. You sigh, your hand pausing in its menstruations. “You won’t even remember…”

“Yes I will.” He wants to continue arguing, but his eyes are falling in weight as his breath heaves for a long yawn.

“Just go to sleep.” You refuse him your usual nicknames, your voice holding a slight quiver as you wait for him to sleep. After a moment he feels you pull away from him and roll over with your back turned to him. He attempts to spoon your body but you simply stand up and exit the bedroom, sniffles following you.

He attempts to call after you but sleep seems to overtake him instead. And just as quick as it comes, it’s over, a bright blue sky greeting him instead of your face. Hungover and groggy, he sits up wondering where you were and what time it was. Pulling the sheets off of him, he rubs his palms into his eyes.

Creeping out of your room and into your living space, time slows as fear pools into his stomach at the sight of your body splain across the couch, memories of the previous night flood his brain. He went too far, he realizes as he stares at your dried tears and chewed lips. He’s going to lose you.

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getsikndie · 1 year

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Where I get my clothes, and where to buy clowncore fashion

Alright so, ever since I’ve started posting my outfits on here and instagram I’ve been frequently asked where I get my clothes so I decided to just make this post I can direst people to when they ask. What I’m going to be covering in this post is:

☆ Where I buy my clothes

☆ Where I got the specific pieces that are most frequently asked about

☆ Brands/shops that sell clowncore and kidcore fashion

☆ About where the pieces used in my urstyle sets come from

Let me know if you want me to make a clowncore style guide/ post with basics and recommendations for starting to wear the fashion.

WHERE I BUY MY CLOTHES

The answer to that is that majority of my clothes, and especially the more interesting pieces are bought second-hand, either from thrift stores or depop. If you’re looking for weird or colorful clothes, thrift stores and antique stores are the first place you should check because a lot of common things in clowncore fashion such as weird/ugly sweaters or colorful frilly blouses are vintage.

When buying stuff online, yes you can search for terms like “clowncore” or “kidcore” and get results from people who know those aesthetics, but I usually have better luck finding stuff I like by making a pinterest board of clothes I want, and then searching for specific items on depop and ebay.

For example some of the things I search for are “colorful vintage sweater” “clown sweater” “colorful 80s blouse” “vintage rainbow sweater” “vintage bed jacket” “square dance dress”. I also search for old Lazy Oaf stuff, because I feel like 2010s Lazy Oaf goes well with clowncore. The only other brand I specifically search for is Eagles Eye, who made some of the weird sweaters I own.

Accessorizing is also important for this style, and you can find stuff like patterned socks/tights, novelty purses, and quirky earrings pretty easily on Amazon and Ebay. But I’d also recommend looking on Etsy to find more unique and better quality accessories.

WHERE I GOT SPECIFIC PIECES:

These are just the ones most frequently asked about so I thought I’d put them in here, if there’s something else not included here feel free to ask.

Blue clown face sweater: This was bought in 2016 from beautifulhalo.com and sold out soon after I got it. It’s actually a dupe of a very similar Lazy Oaf sweater that was sold out before that.

Red letter skirt: I actually made this myself out of a plain red circle skirt I thrifted, and some foam letters that you can buy in the kids arts and crafts section of walmart or similar stores.

Fuzzy red cartoon eye dress: This is from Lazy Oaf, I got it second hand on ebay.

Crayola crayons sweater: I bought this on ebay, the brand is the Eagle’s Eye.

Blue burger top: This is another Lazy Oaf piece I got on ebay.

M&M button up shirt: I got this in NYC from the M&M store there in 2019, I’m not sure if they still sell them or if they’re available online.

Red clown sweater: I bought this on Etsy in 2017 and I’m under the impression it was one of a kind, but I’m not 100% sure.

Rainbow striped top: My mom got me this for Christmas in 2019 I think, and I’m pretty sure she got it from Amazon. It’s a dupe of a top made by Minga London, although the original uses a darker shade of blue. You can probably still find it if you search “rainbow stripe turtleneck” or something.

Rockafire Explosion Rolfe and Earle tee: Got this from https://www.cafepress.com/rockafireworld, they have merch of the other characters as well.

BRANDS/SHOPS THAT SELL CLOWNCORE AND KIDCORE FASHION:

Here are some links to brands, stores, and depop accounts that sell clowncore and kidcore type clothes. Note that some of them sell other clothes besides that so you might have to look through their stuff.

https://www.kinaandtam.com/ (Can be a bit pricey, but I’ve bought a sweater from them and it’s great quality, def recommend)

https://www.lazyoaf.com/collections/lazy-oaf-x-nhozagri (while i feel like the lazy oaf aesthetic has shifted and become less kidcore over the years, they still do make colorful weird stuff sometimes)

https://theraggedpriest.com/ (have some cool colorful stuff if you look for it)

https://www.depop.com/kitschcore/ (vintage clothes)

https://www.depop.com/sweetcarolinesvintage/ (vintage clothes)

https://www.depop.com/sweaterweatherco/ (colorful sweaters)

https://www.depop.com/maekshift/ (clown costumes)

https://www.depop.com/bluebearboutique/ (colorful collars)

https://www.depop.com/mysticalbaby/ (jewelry)

https://katabasisagora.com/ (upcycled/altered pieces, featured in my urstyle sets multiple times)

https://www.etsy.com/shop/MaliciousDesignsLA (dresses and sets, very melanie martinez-esque but some also give me clown vibes)

https://www.etsy.com/shop/ichigoblack (bloomers, dresses and skirts)

https://www.etsy.com/shop/KawaiiKave (accessories)

https://www.etsy.com/shop/YellowThreadd (accessories)

https://www.etsy.com/shop/SistersEnchanted (clown collars)

https://rommydebommy.com/ (realistic food purses - super expensive but very cool i dream of owning one T_T)

https://www.fashionbrandcompany.com/ (duh)

That’s all I can think of atm, hopefully I’m not forgetting anything I know of

ABOUT MY URSTYLE SETS

If you follow me it might be because of my urstyle sets, aka outfit collages I’ve made on the website urstyle (it’s just like polyvore). I make these as moodboard basically, putting together outfits for whatever style I’m into at the current moment, but none of the pngs I use are my photos and only a couple of my sets include clothes that I own, since they’re more like pictures of outfits I wish I own. If I want to make outfits with my clothes I can just wear them lol

Some of the pictures I use I uploaded myself from pinterest or other websites, but I also use a lot of pictures that weren’t uploaded by me. For the majority of the clothes, I don’t know where they’re from or where to get them, although there are a few that I do know. If you want to know whether I know where a specific piece is from, just ask me, but please don’t ask the general question of “where are these clothes from” or “where do you buy these” under my urstyle posts since that broad of a question is hard to answer.

Hope this answered some questions people might have!

#clowncore #kidcore #weirdcore #clown fashion #colorful fashion #quirky fashion #alternative fashion

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an-au-blog · 5 months

Note

Just craving fluff and imagining College Au Shuggy celebrating the holidays by just doing very unchristmassy things together. They both seem like the type to like certain aspects of Christmas only to then be hit by waves of depression when the actual holiday arrives, so they just huddle under the covers together and watch Christmas classics such as “Die hard” or Gremlins together instead while eating Pizza and drinking eggnog till they can’t stand this stuff for another year. Buggy gives Shanks his gift at 2 am in the morning, an extremely ugly and old tacky sweater he found at a thrift shop a while ago. Shanks can immediately tell that it was cheap and Buggy most likely just went out and got him… SOMETHING, but also it’s hideous in a way he just adores and it has one of his favorite childhood cartoon characters on it and the fact alone Buggy went out and got him something is PERFECT and to Buggy’s horror that thing is gonna be his favorite sweater till the end of time. Buggy on the other hand suffers a mild mental breakdown and “Oh god I am the scum of the earth” reaction because Shanks actually went into a makeup store and got him an expensive eyeshadow Palette that Buggy has been eyeing for a while now. Kicker is Shanks didn’t even know that’s the Palette Buggy wanted, he legit just spent an hour in there with a picture of Buggy describing what Buggy looks for in makeup and what colors he likes and such and such and accidentally just landed on the correct one and rightfully deducted that he would probably like this one.

“WHY DID YOU GO AHEAD AND BUY ME THAT YOU HORRIBLE, UNFLASHY FANTASTIC BOYFRIEND?!” “I thought it would make you happy.” “IT WOULD IF I GOTTEN YOU ANYTHING GOOD AS WELL!! JUST A BED BATH AND BEYOND GIFTCARD WOULD HAVE BEEN WORSE!!” “Come on Buggy I love this thing-“ “THIS IS LIKE GIFT OF THE MAGI IF IT SUCKED EVEN MORE THAN IT ALREADY DOES!” “You could always kiss me to make up for it.” “I ALREADY DO THAT.” “Then let me kiss you… AND you’ll have to let me do it for the entire day without telling me I’m being sappy or disagreeing with me when I talk about how much I love you.” “…. Okay but you’re not allowed to say weird shit about my nose.” “…Can I kiss your nose?” “Ugh. I’ll allow it. But not in public!” “Deal. I won’t talk about how cute and kissable your nose is and I especially won’t talk about how cute and kissable it is in front of other people.” “YOU JUST- AUGH! You’re horrible! An absolutely awful boyfriend!” “Glad to have landed someone as amazing as you then.” “You-“ “Ah! We agreed on not disagreeing when I talk about how great you are!” “….fine.” “I love you... and I love how hard you blush when you can’t answer with a sassy comeback” “….mmmmnnnggghh!!! loveyoutoo.”

At first I was like "awww this is so adorable:')" but thwn I got to the dialogue part and went "ok, so we're assuming they're gonna get together, now are we ahahah"

I'm guessing you're the same anon who sent me a couple other college au asks - so first off: Thank you, you honestly keep me productive and remind me to finish this fic lol (since I named some of the others, maybe I can call you ogan - bc og anon or something idk, you can refuse or give me another nickname if you want...)

But also... have I given any indication that this will be a story with a happy end? Because, I've written ends with a doomed one sided love triangle, one of the main characters being hated by the love of their life and in a hospital, while the one the other was chasing rejected them indefinitely... it was my magnum opus for quite a while, so who's to say I'll give this one an ending like that?

I'm joking, I'm joking... or am I >;]]]

Anyway, I love the idea of them spending the holidays together! Buggy doesn't really have any close relatives to go to, all his friends went home, and thinks that Shanks is the same way, because why else would he stay behind with him?

Shanks is just so happy that he can finally be with his boyfriend. He makes hot cocoa (and it's horrible, but Buggy remakes it), he buys a cardboard cutout of a Christmas tree and they put stickers on it instead of decorations. At one point they start printing out memes and pictures of themselves and stick them on there as well. (Shanks secretly writes a wish, something cheesey like how he wants them to be like this for the rest of their lives, on the back of some of the photos)

In all reality, I believe that "Die Hard" and "Home Alone" (because these two franchises are basically the same, just one is kid coded lol) would be both Shanks and Buggy's favourites. I mean look at how they turned out ahahaha tho I must confess, I've never seen Gremlins, so I'll just trust you on that one':)

I also think thay Buggy would get horrible gifts very purposefully. Like he would look for hours to find the most raggedy and washed out looking sweater with the ugliest print of like... a green cow on red mars with a Christmas hat on both the cow and mars saying "moo-ry christmas" in comic sans or something horrifying like that. Like that one video of the guy who bought a card for the wrong occasion, for wrote a message to someone else and scratched out the name to look like it was a second hand card. I couldn't find the og video but I found this tiktok, hope it helps with the explanation.

In my mind Buggy thinks it's hilarious. Him and Shanks both love pranks and just jokes like this in general, so he would get it, right? Shanks liking it unironically wasn't in the plan. But then bad comes to worse and Shanks takes gift giving seriously - Buggy is caught off guard.

I love the image of Shanks standing in the cosmetics section of a big store that was one of the best according to google. He's just staring intensely, and color checking, and googling, and staring again - trying his best to remember everything Buggy had told him about make-up.

At some moment in the time he's searching, one of the workers there goes up to him to see if he needs help thinking "aw, poor lost man looking for something for his girlfriend, he looks like he needs help" and then Shanks shows her a picture of an honest to God clown going "I want the best for my boyfriend". And they have a little "This is your man?" "yeah" "Look at the picture" "that's mine :')" "and you're ok with this?" "imma stick beside him " moment. And then they just start looking together. Before they notice it's a whole horde of helpers and Shanks going all, "is that teal? I think he said he loves teal, but not one with glitter, wait, bring back the cherry red. Can you compare it to the sour cherry. Which one would match his lipstick best? This one's his favorite." and they're like a council, super invested at that point.

I also like to think that on new years eve, they're watching a marathon, and Buggy just falls asleep on Shanks's chest halfway through. He does that often and Shanks loves it. He doesn't even care that much that sometimes his make-up would be imprinted on his shirt .

Shanks showing love to Buggy's nose, despite his insecurities, makes me melt. (spoilers ig:) I was going to have a little dialogue/confrontation that portrayed that, but I was going to make it a "Shanks not caring about it and just acting like it's not there" thing, but him actually thinking it's cute and being all loving towards the one thing he's most insecure about is actually way better. I might utilize it later on lol :))

#shuggy #college au #shanks x buggy #buggy x shanks #answers #op

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ladylooch · 5 months

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The Ugly Sweater [Lio Meier]

A/N: Major props to Bestie for coming up with this idea yesterday. Thank you for living in my AUs with me daily ❤️

Also, yes, I am feeding you sweet Lee before the major angst. Because I want us all to suffer? I love punishing me and us? I don’t know. But enjoy this holiday flavor until then😘

Word Count: 2.9k

Lio Meier isn’t one to get nervous. He plays in front of 20,000 people every other night in the greatest hockey league in the world. He can walk into any bar in New York City and leave with a willing woman on his arm. He thrives at being put out in 3 v 3 OT with an entire franchise strapped to his back.

But something about being invited to Savannah Miller’s place of residence scares the shit out of him. And he isn’t even the only one going.

Savannah is hosting the holiday party for the team and their significant others on the first day off for Holiday break. Apparently the theme is ugly sweater? It really isn’t Lio’s style, but as per usual, Savannah has him outside of his comfort zone. Admittedly, Lio is embarrassed about the amount of time he spent sifting through racks of sweaters at the local thrift store trying to find the perfect one. He finally settles on a florescent green one that mimicked a Christmas tree. Balls of fluff hang off every few inches of his chest in various colors as ornaments. Green, crunchy fringe wraps around his body and the entire smell of the get up has an underlying of must despite washing it twice when he got home.

A cloud of white fills the air in front of his face as he breathes heavily walking up Savannah’s front steps. He can hear music and laughter inside. His fist knocks forcefully on the door to be heard over the music. The distinct click of high heels against hardwood can be heard from the other side. The knob turns and Savannah appears. Whatever she is wearing is not the theme she told Lio about earlier this week. Her gorgeous body is wrapped in soft, red velvet to her mid-thigh. A deep V cuts down her chest showing off her plumped cleavage like it’s just for Lio. He has to hold his tongue to the roof of his mouth to prevent it from dropping open in appreciation.

“What! Lio Meier came to my little party!?” She squeals out excitedly.

In one of her hands is a glass of red sangria. Apples and cranberries bob in it as she leans forward to hug him with one arm. He steps forward, careful of her toes in her peep toe heels that show off her white toe nails. Her blonde hair is down and curled, getting all up in Lio’s face as he leans in further to their hug. She smells like home to Lio- specifically the Swiss Summer when the mountain wildflowers are at their peak. When Savannah pulls back to take him in again, she bursts out laughing. Despite the daze she has him under, Lio laughs and grins back at her.

"You asked me to." He knows his reaction is delayed but he couldn't speak with how good her breasts felt against his disgustingly ugly sweater. "Is this your interpretation of ugly or did something get lost in translation?" He chuckles, grabbing her hand and encouraging her to spin for him. He is unashamed at the way his blue eyes curve over the soft velvet hugging her ass cheeks. His favorite thing about watching her walk away from him after they get sassy with each other.

Savannah has had a few glasses of sangria already; she was nervous about offering to host the Holiday party, so the spin makes her a little dizzy. Her free hand comes to Lio's chest to catch herself. He wraps his hand around her back, holding her close until she looks up at him with wide eyes, very aware of how close their lips are to each other.

"This feels like a bad time to tell you I was kidding." She bites her lip, but giggles too

Disappointment surges through Lio's chest.

Fuck.

He thought this would be an opportunity to impress the pretty girl he can’t stop thinking about. The one that makes his stomach flip in his body when she smiles or laughs, even if it is at his expense. He figured if he showed up at this party in the ugliest, most outrageous sweater, maybe Savannah would start to see him as something more than a hockey superstar. She has him pegged for exactly what he is, but… maybe for her he wants to be something different. Now, Lio feels like he won’t have that opportunity.

He looks beyond her at his teammates, seeing them all dressed in suits or nice attire while he is in this loser ass sweater and black jeans. At this moment, he makes eye contact with Rob, a seasoned vet, who spits out his whiskey neat at the sight of him. Great.

"Holy fuck, Meier!” Rob hollers down the hallway.

This gets the rest of his teammates curious and they all take turns, peaking around the walls to take in Lio Meier in his ugly Christmas sweater. This is what he gets for breaking his own rules and trying to impress a woman. The same woman who purses her lips against an obvious laugh. Her blue eyes squint up at him as she covers her hand with her mouth, eyes squinting closed as she laughs again. The distraction luckily hides the bummer in his eyes as he takes the jokes and cat calls while moving further into the apartment.

Savannah's place looks amazing. It has an air of HGTV or those magazine you always see on the end caps in the grocery store. Everything has a place and it’s bright and shiny, but incredibly welcoming, just like it’s occupant. Savannah has a clear knack for decorating that reminds him of his mom. Mama Meier would love it in here.

From his left, someone hands Lio a beer and he quickly chugs half of it down. He scans the room, giving head nods and accepting the continued razzing from his teammates. He spots the alcohol cart across the room by the rookies. Figures they would be posting up there. Lio works his way to the front, grabbing a shot glass and taking a quick hit of whiskey. The comfort of the burn grips his esophagus and he feels his heartbeat fall down ten more beats to normal.

”Yeah, that sweater is so fucking ugly, I need to drink." One of the rookies, Jax, jokes to his right. His laughter is silenced by Lio's direct, angry side eye. The look also diverts Jax’s eyes away from Sav's ass a few moments later.

"Hold my beer the rest of the night, rook." Lio snaps after recognizing where he was looking. Nobody looks at her like that in front of him. Plus this dipshit’s girlfriend is right there. Who does that?

Lio converses with a few guys, feeling looser after he finishes his beer and whiskey, chasing them with another of each. At some point, he tries some eggnog. It’s not is favorite but it packs a serious punch so he keeps drinking the creamy concoction. Eventually, nature calls and he dips out of the room to go to the bathroom. As he is washing his hands, he catches a glimpse of his sweater. Frustrated and disappointed, he tugs it over his shoulders, going with the crisp white undershirt beneath instead. He has suffered enough.

On his way back to the main area, he walks by Savannah's office on his right. He backtracks a few steps, peeking in. Just like Sav, it's perfectly put together. He walks in further, running his fingers along her white desk. He sees pictures of her and her friends and of whom he assumes is her parents. She’s a blend of both of them. He can’t remember seeing them around the Prudential Center before. In the corner, a small Christmas tree lights the room up. The twinkling lights call him over to it. He takes in the pink, white and teal ornaments, scrunching his nose at all the glitter on the tree. He lifts a pink ornament up with his pointer finger.

"Don't touch, Mr. Grinch." Sav murmurs from the doorway. Lio turns quick, cheeks turning pink at being caught snooping

"Mmm, I may be a snoop but you're a liar, Savannah Miller.” She laughs at his ribbing.

"I'm the liar in this room? How many times have you lied to get someone in bed with you?”

"Too many." Lio admits. He watches her face. She isn't even phased by his confession. She knows all about him and his games yet she walks further into the room with him. Lio’s stomach does summersaults. There is a heaviness in the air with each tap of her shoes closer to him.

“I called you a Grinch because you don’t seem to be having much fun at this holiday party.” She murmurs, drawing an imaginary frown over her lips.

“You watching me?” He tilts his head at her.

“Hard to miss with that color on. And stop dodging my question.”

“I’m having a great time. Beer is cold. Whiskey is warm. And now that I don’t want to claw my skin off cause of this, I’m ready to enjoy the rest of the night.” He holds the sweater up at her.

“I really thought you would get all squinty and then we would laugh about it like we usually do. Not… whatever this is.” Lio shrugs like he isn’t sure what she is talking about it. “I’m sorry if I hurt you. I thought it would be fun and it obviously fell flat.”

“Takes more than a joke to hurt me.” Lio chuckles. Savannah’s blue eyes bore into him. It makes Lio uncomfortable. He hates the way she sees him, worms her way right under the shiny, metal armor he puts around himself to keep everyone out except a few select people. Savannah keeps staring. Lio shifts awkwardly from foot to foot. “What?” He finally asks.

“I just can’t stop thinking about how you’re the only man who has ever been in this room. Despite all the deliberate decisions on decor in here to bring out a feminine energy, your dark masculinity completely dominates the space.”

Lio doesn’t notice feminine or masculine energy. All he feels is the buzzing connection between the two of them. Can’t she feel it? How a large magnet is pulling his arms up to reach for her. The way the room dares him to fuse his fingers to her hips and bring her into his body until every inch of them connects. Because for Lio, the urge is all consuming. Savannah steps forward. Her hand brushes at the long strands of hair falling across his forehead.

“Sav.” Lio croaks, voice coated roughly from the alcohol and his desire for her. “If you don’t want me to kiss you, step back in three… two…”

Lio doesn’t get to one. Savannah hastily closes the gap.

Her fingers move from his forehead to his cheek and she tugs. His face collides with hers. The kiss is awkward for a moment as their lips miss each other, connecting with cheeks instead. Quickly, Lio turns, connecting them finally. At Last by Etta James may as well be playing as their own movie soundtrack. Lio’s body screams at the delicious pressure of her mouth. Of all the kisses he’s had, this one accelerates to the top. It consumes him in a burning fire that lights his soul up. Explosions, bells, and whistles go off in his brain as he wraps his hand around her. They are as much warnings as they are encouragements. The softness of her dress makes for an easy glide of his skin across her back. Then Savannah let’s out a soft moan into his mouth.

Fuck.

Lio feels the tightness building in his pants. Savannah pushes forward and he stumbles back. His other hand comes to her hip so he has one in each of his palms. She steps forward again, not letting their lips part except to run her tongue along his bottom lip.

Oh fuck. If Lio’s eyes were open, they would roll to the back of his head.

Gradually, Lio falls backwards, startling until his butt hits the cool leather of a chair. Savannah climbs into his lap. Her hands greedily grip his cheeks as her tongue nudges into his mouth. She moans against it. Lio sighs, resisting the urge to roll her hips into his tight zipper. He wants this to last, become a slow build that irritates and inspires him if she’ll ever let him have her completely. Her dress is bunching up higher on her thighs. Lio forces the fabric down a bit more with his thumbs to help keep her covered.

This hasty make out continues until their lips are puffy and their chins and noses are bright red. Wetness is highlighted by the blinking lights of her Christmas tree. They both pull away panting for breath. Lio can still taste the slight sweetness of sangria from her mouth.

“I wish I didn’t know how good you are at that.” She whispers. Lio pecks her lips again. “Gonna think about this every time I’m in your interview scrum. You’ve always made it hard for me to do my job, Meier.” She leans back, ghosting her fingers along his lips that she made swollen. Lio plumps his lips beneath them to kiss more of her skin.

Laughter carries down the hall to them. Regretfully, Savannah eases herself out of Lio’s lap, both of them knowing they need to rejoin the group. She shimmies her skirt back down her thighs completely as Lio looks away to give her a bit of privacy.

“You go back first.” Lio gestures, not getting up from the chair so he can hide what their kissing did to him. Savannah nods, heading towards the still ajar door. She glances over her shoulder at him, fingers touching her lips in wonder. Those same lips tilt up at Lio before she disappears into the hall.

Lio leans his head back against the chair, closing his eyes.

Sav is righ. How is he supposed to forget about that?

- - -

Sweat drips down from Lio’s hair as he leans down, working out his skate laces at their first practice back from the holiday. All the fondue, desserts, and bread Lucie and Liv stuffed him with this holiday felt like a 12 pound balloon in his stomach with each stride he took. But it was worth it. He wiggles his foot from side to side to work his first foot up and out. Once the first one is free, he leans down to work on the other foot.

A pair of black, high-heeled boots come to stand in front of his locker. He shakes the hair out of his eyes, looking up to see if those boots belong to who he hopes. They do.

Standing in front of him in the ugliest sweater he has ever seen is Savannah Miller. It’s red with ruffles on every square inch of the fabric, including around the collar and each wrist. Bells are attached in random points including two that are weirdly close to the middle of each breast, almost like it was intentional. She grins down at Lio, tapping her phone against her thigh anxiously. Snickers fill the room as Lio leans back up, letting his hands hang off his legs between his thighs. He has not seen or heard from Savannah since his lips were on hers a few days ago.

“That might be worse than mine.”

“It is.” She confirms. “Felt necessary to go big to get back on your good side.”

“Really wasn’t. I’m fine.” He reminds her. But fuck if his little Grinch heart isn’t growing two sizes in his chest right now.

“Sure, but I am also doing a feature on you for February, so I need your full cooperation. Thought this might help.”

“Ah, work related.”

“Not completely.” She shakes her head while biting her bottom lip.

“Well, in that case, I’m happy to be featured but, ah, I only talk over dinner and a bottle of wine.” A coy smile spreads Savannah’s lips further apart. She leans in closer, glancing to each side to make sure no one is eavesdropping.

“How about my place? I can interview you in my office? You seemed to like the chair in there. Really comfortable…” Lio can’t help but laugh.

“It was a good chair. I liked the velvet blanket in my lap too.” A deep red blushes up Savannah’s cheeks and down her throat. He wants to lean forward right now and kiss the path of her embarrassed rash in front of the whole locker room.

“Tomorrow?”

“I can’t tomorrow. Have a date with my favorite Rangers fan.” He promised Stell he would come over for hot dogs and Kraft macaroni.

“Now that’s a girl I’m okay playing second fiddle too.”

“She’s pretty great.” Lio nods, kicking off his skate and Savannah glances over her shoulder.

“I should go.”

“Friday works though.” He fills in, not wanting her to leave without a plan in place. “I could come over at 5.”

“Sure. Bring your sweater.”

“I wound’t last five minutes in that thing.”

“Yeah. I know.” Her direct eye contact makes Lio’s eyes widen in surprise.

If this sweater gets him laid by Savannah Miller, he is keeping it the rest of his god damn life.

#Lio & Lucie

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class-1b-bull · 10 months

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class B with a friend/SO who loves to draw and paint? and is really creative

anajabaisbsjsbsh

thank you 🙏

lord and saviour provider of 1B content

have a nice day :)

Thank you so much! Have a great day! <3

Also I leaned more towards the SO side on some of these but it could still be either or!

Not proofread we die like men.

Awase -

He LOVES watching your creative process when drawing and painting. If you start to pull out your sketch book or whatever he will try to look over your shoulder. Loves drawing little smiley faces in the corners of your art.

Sen -

His entire social media page is pictures of you, random ass scenery and your art work. Every time you finish a piece hes practically running to go take a picture of it. Hes so proud and it shows.

Kamakiri -

Honestly didnt care for the art at first until one day you doddled him or his favorite bug or something on a random piece of paper you found and now he adores your art. He doesent show it but he goes over the moon when you ask him what to draw

Kuroiro -

Hes really edgy about it. Everytime he sees you painting hes just like. "The jet black on the tip of your brush is represents my darkness tainting you, who is the pure white canvas..." or smthn and your just like "actually the background is just black on this one..." please let him be poetic.

Kendo -

Loves seeing the finished product but she loves it more if you show her the ugly stage first so she can see how much changed! She just loves watching your process and how each piece changes over time

Kodai -

She has a few pictures youve drawn hanging in her room but other than that shes not very interested in the actual process. She does like going shopping for supplies with you tho.

Komori -

The two of you make 3d art pieces together. You paint a painting and she grows mushrooms on the sides of it or on the canvas itself to make it look like pop up art <3

Shiozaki -

"$100 to paint jesus" she loves your art! If you ask her for suggestions theyre all gonna be either religion related or scenery because thats just what she likes the most. Shes also one of your biggest supporters!

Shishida -

He loves your art and he makes sure your at your best when painting! Thirsty? He'll make some tea or get you a glass of water. Hungry? Hes already making a sandwich. If youre about to accidentally drink your paint water he will point it out to you before you can.

Shoda -

Hes not one for art but he likes to help any way he can! If you ran out of a specific color he will go right to the store for you. Hes also getting your favorite drink while hes there just so you dont get thirsty!

Pony -

Theres two wolfs inside of her. One is saying to keep all of your amazing art forever. And the other says to watch people bid for it on e bay (with your permission) and sell it to the highest bid. No matter what she is always supportive of your art!

Tsubaraba -

Hes known to be a bit of a perv so if you do nsfw commissions, his wallet will always be empty.. even if you dont though he adores your art! There is no more room in his room for your works.

Tetsutetsu -

Has probably accidentally messed up some setting paint on a canvas and then grabbed a brush to try and fix it.... only making it worse. Poor dude almost cried when you caught him ngl. His life savings is going towards art supplies as an apology!

Tokage -

You two tag team every painting. Youre coming up with ideas while shes looking for good references. You say youll need some pink in a minute and shes already mixing it. Need paintwater cleaned or a pencil sharpened? Shes already doing it.

Manga -

You know that art challenge where you and a friend switch paintings every 10 minutes until your done painting, he LOVES doing those. He also just enjoys both of you silently drawing in the same room as eachother. The class fridge is full of you twos drawings.

Honenuki -

Anything that has your drawings on it he loves! Once you gave him a sticky note with a quick 15 minute drawing on it and he carries it with him EVERYWHERE! One of the pockets of his hero costume is that sticky notes dedicated pocket! After each drawing he will message your hand to stop any injurys from forming <3

Bondo -

Like Shishida, he just makes sure youre taking care of yourself while drawing or painting. What good is an amazing artist if your sick and cant draw.

Monoma -

"I could totally do that.." then you hand him the brush and suddenly he shuts up. Will talk shit about how easy art would be for him if he tried but he would fight anyone else that said it.

Reiko -

She coaxed you into drawing a creepy ghost once and she used her quirk to make it float and chase people around the dorms in the middle of the night. She now keeps that same painting on her wall <3

Rin -

I really like the idea of using his scales for textures idk why. Like imagine you just drag him away from whatever hes doing, you ask him to cover his arm in scales and you just start painting him yellow. He loves helping tho and if you ran out of room to store things in your room his dorm is always open!

When I was writing this I got a random flash back to me selling nsfw drawings to highschool students when I was in 5th grade. I dont remember what I charged but I ended up with about 2k by the end of the school year. :>

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starlahuskyz · 6 months

Text

Chances - Chapter 1

A TLB fan story

Summary: It's 1988 and Jordan has been alone for a while now. She's tried to escape her past which has forever tied her to Santa Carla, but now has to learn to trust again. She also finds out that her past will always come back to haunt her.

GIF by @hypnoticvamp

This is my first ever fic and most likely one of my only ones. I plan on telling this entire story so stay tuned for updates. BTW I'm not a very good writer but I'm just telling this story for fun. If you don't like oc x canon stories then you are gonna want to avoid this one.

TW// none for now

Chapter 2

Feedback is appreciated ^ ^

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Boardwalk

Summertime only means one thing in Santa Carla, it brings in hordes of new tourists and visitors into this crazy town. And you can expect it to remain that way for the next few months. But amongst all of the people on the boardwalk, there is one individual who walks alone. She isn’t a particularly special individual, not really attractive or ugly, dresses casually but not really normally either. She’s a stranger to most people and seemingly can’t be read by most who pass her. She has one goal in mind and one only, she doesn’t let anyone get in her way as she goes.

Within a few minutes, she’s reached her destination…Max’s Video Store. Looking through the entrance she doesn’t see the owner, “Awesome…” She isn’t a fan of the owner. He always gives her a ‘look’ when she walks in. She makes her visit brief as she sifts through old VHS’s looking frantically for something that catches her eye.

As she finally finds something, A new presence makes itself known by slamming its hands onto the box she was looking through. She winces as she already knows who it is.

“Before you say anything, please save it” She looks up at them with the most uninterested face she could muster.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything, I was gonna simply admire you from afar…” They said with a snarky yet lovestruck smile. It was Marko…

That curly haired blonde who sported the most complex looking jacket she will ever see and wore black leather chaps. He also had the face of a Greek statue and eyes that she swore could change colors at will. A part of her wanted to feel flattered that he liked her, but at the same time she knew she didn't quite trust him.

“Well I’ll have you know that I’m pretty busy, so you should do yourself a favor and go with your buddies before I let you down again.” She walked towards the counter to pay for the VHS when she heard a new voice.

“Jordan! You didn’t tell us you would be here today! Why didn't you tell us?” A tall lanky blondie who looked like Twisted Sister wrapped his arms around Jordan’s much shorter frame and spun her around much to her dismay. “You guys don't need to know what I'm doing OR where I'm going!" She twisted and writhed in his arms as he simply dangled her over the ground.

Paul kept blabbering while Marko came up to her and simply said, “You said I should go with my buddies, but I already brought them here.”

Jordan finally got herself out of Paul’s arms and slammed cash onto the counter for her VHS. “You can keep the change just please let me get the hell out of here” The lady working the register simply smiled and laughed to herself “I know how you feel.”

“What’s the hurry?” A new voice intervenes. Everyone looks from what they are doing, it’s David.

Jordan could recognize the platinum blonde from anywhere. Walking up to Jordan he puts a rough hand on her shoulder. “You should know they are just excited to spend some time with you.”

“You forget yourself, it’s just Marko who wants to spend time with me. You guys are just third wheeling his sad attempt at flirting with me for god knows how many times. I’m sure he’s wonderful and all but I’d advise you to give him a wake up call.”

Jordan snatches the VHS off of the counter and makes a beeline for the exit before she is blocked by the one brunette of this club of crazies. “Well, you haven’t even given him a chance, so how do you know you don’t like him?” He grabs her shoulders and turns her around to face Marko who is giving her the biggest frown she’s ever seen. “See? You can make that frown turn upside down if you give him the chance to-”

“What did I tell guys you about coming in here?”

#the lost boys #the lost boys 1987 #tlb #david the lost boys #dwayne the lost boys #paul the lost boys #marko the lost boys #oc x canon #tlb oc #tlb jordan

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bigenderanne · 9 months

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Today was the first time I've checked my inbox since I wrote my side of the situation. I'm working on another post in my drafts now that's bringing out more emotions in me so it might take awhile as it goes more into detail my history with transphobia and abuse, but I wanted to write some more quick and to the point (and less triggery) for those of you who are checking in on me, and to answer a few questions that have repeatedly come up in my hundreds of asks.

Most of the asks have been supportive and checking in on my mental health and physical safety. Thank you for that! Obviously my mental health is still a little shaken, and I'm uncomfortable with the fact she knows we've bought a new house, but I believe we are physically safe. That being said, it is part of the restraining order that's she's not allowed to interact with us on the internet in any way, shape, or form, nor is she allowed to use any electronic means of communication to interact with us, either. This is why I have refrained from responding to any of her posts. It would be completely unacceptable for me interact with her with the expectation she cannot reply.

This leads me into restraining orders. No, you cannot get a restraining order on anybody for any reason. You certainly cannot get one "just because you don't like someone's hair color" as one asker put it. We had to provide evidence that it was necessary for our peace of mind and safety. Stalking is incredibly hard to prove, and "professional" stalkers know the laws and how to skirt them. I am lucky that she didn't. I've worked with people who have been stalked, due to the nature of my job, and will say I had it pretty easy in comparison, just due to the fact she was being so blatant.

I'm obviously not going to name names because she may be reading my blog, but if anything I say upsets her she only has herself to blame. Someone involved in the group chat had been lurking, just due to the fact they joined for the fandom and when it devolved into her talking about how much she hated me, they lost interest. However when she started talking about the intervention, they'd gone back and taken well over a hundred screenshots and compiled them into a folder. In these screenshots were also pictures she had taken of us from afar. Mostly pictures of me at clubs, or at arcades, or drinking/vaping, sometimes talking to men (strangers, people I never spoke to before or since, so I don't even recall these men, but I am a very chatty person and strike up conversations with people I don't know often) insisting that I must be having sex with them based on body language. If anybody even tried to say that I was just probably being friendly, she would immediately tell them she was going to kick them from the group. (She started the channel.) She would often post memes she found on the internet with the theme of how extroverts are terrible and simply leave my name as the comment. It seemed to have become a meme itself within the group chat: they'd find a meme about extroverts that was cruel, or even just a meme about how introverts are so much better, and simply respond with my name. This led to them using my face as a meme and simply reposting the extrovert meme texts around my face. The picture used was one she had taken of me sneezing, which looked absolutely ugly because I was sneezing. (To the handful of asks who made comments about me being an extrovert automatically made it ESH and all extroverts are obnoxious: try hard not to stress too much about starting high school in a few weeks. Freshman year is hard on everyone.)

Outside of the groupchat, although the photos she had taken of me without my consent was probably the only evidence really needed, "Mike" did recount the many, many times she would show up to events "coincidentally" or how she was shopping at all the places he shopped at the same time he shopped despite the fact she lived on the other side of the city where there are more stores closer to where she lives. Furthermore, many of our friends corroborated that she would often ask them what we were doing, if we had plans, and would often show up to events they were at but if we were not in attendance she would leave as soon as it was apparent we wouldn't be showing. Since we had all noticed this behavior, and die to my job I am well aware of the warning signs, we had all began writing down and taking pictures of these incidents, such as how her car was parked outside Mike's street (where it was public property) until two am a few times. The people that were in my house, I have come to find out, were minors, so im trying to be forgiving. I have not spoken to any of them since, and frankly I have no desire to ever speak to, or see, them again, but they are young and she absolutely had them convinced I was cheating. I ought to have called about her entering my home without permission, but I didn't. I didn't want to get cops involved.

Also, there has been a few "lesbians uhauling lol" comments that I can only assume are from terfs, so I don't particularly care, but for those who may be worried about the living situation for non terfy reasons: we have known each other for four years and been best friends for at least three of those four years. We got even closer this past year. Also, I was renting and the screaming did piss off my landlord and even though I explained the situation and I wasn't given an eviction notice, I didn't feel safe staying there because I started getting text reminders about noise complaints for, like, doing laundry in the afternoon. I brought up moving in together to his apartment, but we realized both of us were first time home buyers. He has good credit and doesn't have any school payments, so his debt to income ratio was practically nonexistent. I have great credit, although my DTI is higher than his. The mortgage was more than half what either of us were paying for rent. So really it actually made financial sense as well. We had been casually discussing it before we started dating, moving in as friends/roommates.

I feel like I'm doing as okay as I can, considering the circumstances. I'm a private person so I won't be putting my actual blog title nor hers anywhere. I have no desire to attract more attention to my blog, which is honestly just destiel, Good Omens, OFMD, and other ships. It's not a personal blog at all and I'd like to keep it that way.

#update #mentions of stalking

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hauntedjpegcollection · 4 months

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poor broke ugly

wc: 2946 au: band au ch: lark, matilda, benji

Lark doesn’t usually drink.

He’s not opposed to one or two beers, especially when they’re free (Lark Tanaka has never, in his life passed up something free), but he also doesn’t drink really. Not with the intention to get drunk and never because it tastes good—because it doesn’t, and people are lying when they say it does. Alcohol makes his throat burn, sours his stomach, turns his face unpleasantly warm. It darkens his cheeks pink, which he’s always found unflattering a look and neither bar or club lighting does much for his complexion to begin with.

That’s why they’re outside.

That’s the excuse anyway. Outside, for the cool night air and not outside, because then it’s just them. Lark had suggested it (“Do you want to come outside with me?”), when they’d both gotten that free second or third or maybe fourth drink from the bartender. She was a fan, liked their underground grass roots style, had a tattoo of a lyric that Benji had written when he was only eighteen years old—and Lark for what’s it’s worth, had tried so hard to pay attention. He was good with fans, he cared about fans, not the way some lead singers did because it bolstered their ego or put them on a pedestal.

The band didn’t exist without the fans. But…even when she was talking, when she was mixing Matilda’s cocktail and she was asking Lark about something (what was the bartenders name? She had said it to him when he’d leaned over to shake her hand), all he could do was stare at Matilda. She didn’t look bad under the wavering neon lights. He didn’t think she could look bad.

They’d dipped out the exit door behind the bar seconds later into cool night air that instantly made Lark feel just a smidge more sober. It was a sweet hole in the wall sort of place, the kind of venue that Benji really loved. There’s a twinge of guilt that Lark isn’t inside with Benji—they don’t have to stick hip to hip and usually don’t. That was always the best part of Benji and Lark; that they could be Benji and Lark, not something squished together. They could have their own moments of peace completely unconnected to the other, no matter how much starting a band together had solidified they were together forever now.

Maybe he just feels guilty, because it was so obvious how badly he wanted to be alone with Matilda. Maybe he feels guilty because he’s still unsure of their new guitar player or he feels guilty because he’d not done his best this show, because he was tired and hungry and his phone had twelve missed phone calls.

Matilda and Lark fall into an easy, if not safe, conversation. Did you like the opener, your mic was too loud, I almost tripped, Benji broke another stick tonight, someone asked me to sign their hand—it isn’t the sort of stuff he wants to be talking about. It’s just the sort of conversation that happens between…coworkers, he supposes. The thought makes the entire night feel duller.

She’s sipping her cocktail, the straw between her fingers, when they pause in front of a dark antique store on the strip. It’s well past midnight. The sign is flipped to close.

“That says poor broke ugly,” Lark says, pointing to a shoddy made zen garden with a wooden stick sign, something obviously not vintage at all. Matilda laughs so suddenly and so hard that she spits a bit of the cocktail (Goddess of the Underground had been the name, and its an ugly sort of purple color that smells too much like vodka). She’s wiping at the little spill on her chin with her thumb when she leans closer to look at it. Lark has to struggle not to pay attention to the spill of her hair over her shoulder. He keeps one hand in his pocket, the other holding the glass of beer he shouldn’t have been allowed to leave with.

“My sister was always better with Japanese,” he comments.

“How come?”

“No idea,” Lark laughs. “I dunno—maybe she just gets languages better. Japanese is hard enough even people living in Japan can fucking suck at it.”

“American’s aren’t that great at English, either, if you haven’t noticed.” She takes another sip of her drink. Something hangs in the air between them. A moment that is either going to pass, or going to be taken. Matilda fiddles with the straw in her drink, casts him a sideways glance as they stand in front of the fake antique shop.

Then,

“My brother too. Like the language thing, but not by being bilingual. He was just always better in every dinner conversation—or networking thing we had to go to. Always knew what to say, or when to laugh.”

“Not at a funeral.”

“What?” Matilda laughs then, steps closer, lets her shoulder hit the glass window. He knows he’s drunk because the outline of her is fuzzy and soft, ethereal and distant. If he lifted a hand and touched her shoulder, they’d just disappear right into each other. Lark tilts his head back, smiling up at the night sky. There’s too much light pollution in this shitty city to see the stars, but that’s okay. He closes his eyes briefly, sighing.

“I laughed during my grandfathers funeral and almost got kicked out.”

Matilda lifts a hand. Her fingers take the zipper of his jacket. She toys with it.

“What was so funny?” She asks, head tilted. The sound of the zipper is agonizingly loud. The wind touches the hollow of his throat as it’s exposed. The hint of her tongue behind her teeth every time she speaks is purple, just like the drink.

“Nothing,” Lark replies truthfully.

—

“Oh my God, fourteen?” Her laugh has gotten louder the longer they walk. She’d drained the rest of her cocktail and placed the glass on a low brick wall to forget about—and then they’d shared his beer together. Taking sips, passing it back and forth. Now, they’re drunk. No longer in the middle of sobriety and tipsy. They are both drunk, walking back toward the bar, as the night ends somewhere between pleasant and surreal. Lark is smiling at her, hands deep in his pockets so he isn’t too tempted to take one of hers.

“I don’t have a good excuse.” Lark shakes a palm through his messy hair, trying not to continue smiling. He shouldn’t be grinning ear to ear, talking about his juvenile record like this. Only, that was the game they were playing. Trading little vulnerable secrets, because the night felt immortal like that. Deeply intimate and only for them. “It wasn’t even a nice car. It was a Honda.”

“You have shit taste.”

“It was unlocked.”

“That’s like—that is so much less impressive, then? I’m not impressed anymore.”

“You were impressed to begin with?”

He watches her roll her eyes. Some of her eyeshadow has started to rub away. Mascara sticks in little dots underneath her eyes as well. He wishes the bar was further away.

“It’s your turn,” he reminds her. He dares to nudge Matilda with his elbow, glancing up at her once more. Every time he does, he’s distracted once more by a strand of hair that continues getting caught in her lip gloss by the occasional gust of wind. She’d once applied it, standing beside him in a shitty bar bathroom. He was trying to not poke his eye out with an eyeliner pen and she was laughing—and then taking it from him and making him lean against the sink counter and doing it for him. She’d imitated the popped mouth look that girls always wore when applying make up to their eyes.

Fuck, he’s drunk. He wants to kiss her.

Then remembers the notorious disaster of his ex boyfriend being their guitarist for their first EP.

Matilda swings around to stand in front of him, pausing them on the sidewalk. She drapes her wrists over his shoulders—not really touching him but, not not touching him either.

“I was a cheerleader in high school,” she confesses. It makes Lark laugh immediately, head tilting back. One of his hands leaves his pocket, without thinking. It closes in around her hip. She’s wearing a satin textured top that drapes all over her upper body. Her skirt is tight though, the material stretching around her more square shape. He likes the look of her, the silhouette she creates when the lights are on her in the dark, on the stage.

“That’s adorable.”

“Wow, adorable?” She sneers, her lip curling. “That’s not how most men react to cheerleaders.”

“Ew.” Lark says it without meaning to. Then he blinks, feeling stupid and caught off guard. “Sorry—I just mean, if any guy hears that and is immediately thinking anything other than ‘wow that’s so cute’, he’s probably a fucking weirdo.” Matilda is silent in her observation of him. Her wrists are still sitting on his shoulders, their chests closer than they’ve ever been. Lark hasn’t moved his hand from her hip.

“How come Benji never calls you Elias?”

“Oh.”

“Oh?” She presses a bit closer. One of her hands has suddenly moved to the back of his head. Her long keyboardist fingers capture a few strands of his hair. The idle movement, the soft playful tug makes something dark and hungry unfurl in his lower stomach. He blinks more than a few times again, looking down at her exposed collarbone.

“I hadn’t started my transition when I met Benji. I mean, I had, but—I hadn’t figured out a name yet. I went by Lark on the website we posted our samples to. It was a nickname Xavier had given me.” Not for the first time, he wishes Xavier was more than just a part of stories he’d occasionally tell to everyone. He wishes Xavier was there—had even a shred of musical talent so he could be part of a band, instead of part of the U.S. military industrial complex he’d accidentally sold his soul to at seventeen. Matilda would like Xavier. He feels sure of that.

“Anyway—Daisuke is hard to pronounce. No one gets it right on their first try.”

“Daisuke,” Matilda says confidently.

“I just said it.”

“Doesn’t seem that hard to pronounce.”

“Okay, but I just said it—I meant every teacher I’ve ever had has pronounced it wrong reading it off an attendance sheet.” She’s grinning, a little mischievous, a little mean. Her eyes are two bright sparks in the dark. He realizes she’s teasing him. And he realizes how much he likes it. It only makes that hungry arousal in his stomach worse. Lark snorts and squeezes her hip, a bit harder than maybe he would have if he was entirely sober. She shifts a bit closer.

“When I finally picked another name, I had just been going by Lark for so long. I dunno, it doesn’t bother me. Half the time Benji is calling me dickhead and I’m telling him to shut up.” They both laugh then, which makes the heat in Lark feel less like a devouring need to press her against a wall and more like—more comforting. Fireplace warmth. He can feel himself sobering up. Something about Matilda liking Benji so much made Lark like her even more than his obvious attraction.

“Can I call you Elias?” she finally asks, chin tilted down so their eye contact is direct and severe. Maybe he isn’t that sober. Her words feel like a wax drip over his sensitive skin. He licks his lips—something in her expression suddenly looks a lot less practiced. She’s staring at his mouth now. He almost wishes it was cold enough to see their breaths mingle in the air. He wants to know how close he is to her, in a measurable distance like that.

“Yeah,” he finally concludes and then promises to hate himself for it later. Because then Matilda is grinning again, pushing their chests together in one quick shove. And then she’s gone. Dancing forward on the sidewalk toward the parking lot of the bar. The crowd has mostly thinned to nothing.

“I was lying, by the way!” She calls, head tilted over her shoulder. The streetlights make her look like something painted in watercolor. “Like, I’d ever be a cheerleader.”

“You lied?” Lark huffs. “Now I have to guess what else you lied about! I told you I stole a car!” Her laughing begins to mix with the sounds of cars starting in the bar parking lot, people still lingering and talking, not the kind that would want their attention, and he’s thankful for it.

He rushes after her, but still doesn’t take her hand.

—

Lark opens the back of the beat up white van that carries most of their shit and crawls inside. It smells like cigarette smoke, sweat and burnt plastic. Somehow it’s one of the most comforting things in the world, considering Lark doesn’t smoke and hates being close enough to people he can smell them and the burnt plastic means something probably got unplugged wrong when they broke down their set. Someone will get yelled at for it later, but in that moment he doesn’t care about anything.

Instead, he finds a curled up body on a blanket covering amps. Benji sleeps with his knees tucked up, one hand pressed underneath a cheek and the other arm somehow holding his legs closer. He looks angelic like that, in the dark, shoulders rising and falling calmly. Lark shouldn’t wake him up—Benji doesn’t ever sleep enough.

But Lark is already crawling over top of him without thinking. He thought he was sober before, but the second Matilda parted (at the entrance to the bar, still smiling that slightly mean-sweet grin, telling him she’s not sleeping in a car, thanks for the offer) he felt drunk all over again. The alcohol he doesn’t usually drink swims in his blood stream and clouds all thoughts—her lips had been stained dark by whatever had been in her drink.

“Ge’off me,” Benji snaps, suddenly awake. His rough hands curl around Lark’s shoulders, fingers dug in. Suddenly not angelic looking, but snarling mad and ready to fight for his personal space back. It only takes a second for Lark to blink, both bleary and innocently, for Benji to melt back. “Fuckin’ hell, don’t just do that. Alright?”

Instead of answering right away, Lark continues his path up Benji. He slides his way between the wall of the van and the drummers solid back. Benji has the lingering faint scent of a cigarette after all—means he’s not as good about quitting as he keeps claiming he is. It’s such a wildly familiar scent that Lark doesn’t mind it at all. He wraps arms around Benji’s stomach, pulls them in close.

They used to have to sleep like this a lot on the road. After a gig, they’d take the night in the van because hotels were expensive. And sometimes when they weren’t expensive, they’d just walk out to their van having been broken into anyway. A guitar stolen, or something vandalized. It was almost safer to keep themselves tucked into the back like this, but Lark also thought a part of it was indulgent. It felt realer this way. Like they were a real pair of musicians, trying their best.

Benji is still grumbling under his breath, but he adjusts to get himself comfortable again.

“Are you tired?” Lark asks.

“I was just fuckin’ sleepin’, yeah?”

“No, I mean—are you tired of trying to do this? Make this a thing?”

It was better, now. They were going places, now. Matilda had connections that were taking them farther—they were getting in touch with agents, with potential record deals, with bigger venues, better vans, maybe a tour bus. Maybe hotels that could be comped here and there. Lark resists the urge to squeeze Benji, just to remember he’s real and has been there since it was—

Since it was skipping food afterward because they needed to afford gas. Or eating ramen five nights in a row until they were both sick, but at least it was food. Since his ex boyfriend almost ruined it, since Reno almost ruined it, since Lark almost ruined it once before because his parents wouldn’t stop trying to get him to come home (and that was all he’d wanted since he was sixteen, but he knew that come home meant, help us with Akari).

I just want t’play drums, mate.

I just want to sing, man. Lie, because when he looks at Matilda, he wants more and…

“You’re ticklin’ my hair every time you talk,” Benji replies instead.

Lark leans around a shoulder and blows air against Benji’s ear, which makes him bark out a sound. He rolls onto his side, taking Lark and shaking him until they fall onto the floor of the van, in a terrible wrestling match that has them both laughing like rabid hyenas.

The shaking van and their loudly rough and playful sounds do not dispel the rumor that Lark and Benji are sleeping together, which is a rumor that has thrived since the conception of the band. And yet, the next day comes and Lark takes the first leg of the drive and Benji tells him;

“Just ask her on a date, already. Like, after this stint. Just go to a fuckin’ movie or somethin’.”

“She likes horror movies,” Lark replies, because she’d told him, just the night before.

#writing #lt #mmr #bp #lt x mmr #lt x bp #band au

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figthefruitfaeth · 1 year

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Mail, Murder, & Other Mysteries

From the Nancy Wheeler Files

Chapter Two: The Anonymous Letter(s) (prev chapter) (ao3 link)

Eddie wakes up to the shrill ring of the landline and stale taste of sugar rotting his teeth. A weak ray of mid-morning light streams in through the windows. The ringing stops. The faint sound of traffic and city life drifts into the quiet of the apartment. He breathes, in, then out.

Just when he starts to relax, the ringing starts up again. He groans, rolling over and shoving his face into the back of the couch.

Eddie knows what he’s doing is stupid. Not just stupid, but a fool’s errand, because trying to avoid Chrissy Cunningham is about as easy as avoiding sunrise. Bright, blinding, and only averted by the machinations of the solar system or God himself. He should write that down…

The ringing stops. Then, a click and—

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

Christ, she’s leaving a message.

Looks like we’re unavailable at the moment, so leave your name and number at the tone and we’ll get back to you when we can—BEEP.

Eddie! It’s Chrissy. I know you’re there, unless you’re checking the mail again, which I guess means you’re not there. Well, if you’re actually busy then give me a call back when you can! And if you’re not, I’d really appreciate if you’d stop avoiding me. I know it’s a foreign concept to you, but most people would consider that rude! Alright, well I’ll call back later, we’ve got a lot to talk about. Byeeeee!

He sighs, rolling himself flat on his back. This wouldn’t be so hard if she wasn’t so nice about it. For their five years of friendship, he’s never seen her get mean, not even when her shitbag ex-boyfriend showed up at her house drunk and calling her every name in the book (Eddie keyed his car for that, because of the two, he’s the mean one). Worse than that, Chrissy knows it too, using her sweet small-town charm to weasel him into meeting his deadlines. He works best under pressure, and guilt is a motivating pressure alright.

The ceiling is the same ugly off-white color that dominates the rest of their apartment, but it’s also got a popcorn design, which he knows Nancy can’t stand, but he likes it. Maybe not like—intrigue is the better word. It’s a bit like TV static, in that if he stares at it long enough, his brain will drift past himself and the answers to all life’s problems will sail in. It’s how he figured out the twist ending of his last novel (that the Queen’s guard had survived after all) and what to get Nancy for her birthday (a lock-picking kit you could only get at specialty stores).

He lingers in a patch of sunlit popcorn near the edge of The Board. It’s not like he wants to avoid Chrissy’s calls and it’s not like she deserves it either. She’s a good friend and she’s good at her job, which means she won’t let him sulk around in his writer’s block no matter how much he wants to. And God, does he want to.

His latest work, the next in the series, just won’t come together. Nancy had balked at his villain’s third name change, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. His plot is all over the place, the dialogue stilted, motivations out of character. His editor keeps saying it’s fine, that it’s exactly what the readers (all six of them, he’s not exactly flying off the shelves) want, but it feels wrong. It’s overplayed conformist bullshit he doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole.

The phone rings and Eddie is suddenly very aware of the gnawing pit in his stomach. So much for those answers.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment—

He shoves a handful of store-brand cereal in his mouth, washing it down with the rest of the milk straight from the carton. He ditches the takeout containers in the trash, wipes down the table, and starts a load of dishes.

I’m trying to contact a Nancy Wheeler. This is John from KX News. Like I’ve said before, we don’t have the capabilities—

He sits at his keyboard for five minutes, then makes himself a sandwich.

Eddie, it’s Jeff. Can’t make the next jam sesh, does Thursday work?

The couch would look better against the windows, actually. Or if he moved the coffee table—

Ms. Wheeler, please stop calling me, I don’t know—

You’re not happy with it, I get it, but I can’t help you fix it if you won’t talk to me about it—

You’ve reached Nancy and Eddie’s apartment—

2:30 pm, his watch beeps. He breathes a sigh of relief, throws on a pair of jeans, grabs his keys, and heads downstairs.

Though Nancy may tease him for it, to Eddie, the mail is serious business. Though his fanbase is small, they’re a dedicated bunch, and he gets a nice little chunk of fan mail. He’s particularly fond of the ones he gets from a local group of high schoolers, who send weekly letters with theories about his newest novel or asking for his opinion on movies they’d seen recently. The highlight of his life had to have been when he dedicated, The Battle of Starcourt, to them, and received a 20pg letter in all caps from the group.

It also gives him the chance to get out, or close to out, of the house during daylight hours, which is apparently important according to Chrissy. When he eventually calls back, he can at least give her that.

On the second floor, he passes Mrs. Romero, a withered old woman only ever dressed in floor length floral nightgowns. He waves, she rolls her eyes.

It also, also gives him the chance to, outside of Nancy which apparently does not count according to Nancy herself, engage in more regular social interaction. If maybe one of those interactions includes seeing the cute guy from 3B, would that be so wrong?

He jumps the last few steps, landing against the black and white checkered tile with a satisfying slap. The lobby, which is really just a long hallway with a few signs and a wall of mailboxes, is empty.

Eddie tries not to pout. It’s not like he sees the guy from 3B every day, but when he does, it always seems to be about now. If Nancy’s Nancy Drew act is anything to go by, which, it usually is, then he doesn’t have a reason to check the mail anyway because he’d already picked up everything he’d end up getting for the week. Not unless he’s actually flirting with him, which after yesterday’s fiasco, isn’t likely anymore.

Maybe it’s better this way anyway, Eddie reasons, jamming his key in the lock when it won’t budge open the first time. No 3B, so at least he won’t have to face his humiliation so soon. Big boy? He couldn’t have gone with something a little more casual? And the guy’s face—

He lets his head fall against the mailbox, cold metal biting against his forehead.

“Bad news?”

Eddie’s never been a particularly lucky guy. He failed his last year of high school twice, been arrested for weed that was actually his friend’s, and always dies in campaigns he isn’t DMing. Today, however, luck definitely isn’t on his side because the voice behind him is none other than 3B.

3B saunters up next to him and leans against the mailbox, a hand at his hip and an eyebrow cocked, like he knows just how good he looks. Which, Eddie bites back a groan, is particularly good today—snug in a pair of the world’s tightest Levi’s and a yellow sweater brighter than the sun. It’s just a tad dated—something he’d see the popular kids in high school wear rather than the loose fit everyone’s starting to sport now. He can’t tell if that means 3B is trying to hang on to the last vestiges of his high school glory days or is sticking to his guns despite the popular opinion, and more concerning, knows the answer wouldn’t change much.

It’s actually really unfair how much Eddie is into him.

“No news, actually,” he swallows, tugging on his key for effect. “I can’t get the stupid little door to open—” he tugs again, and the door swings open, and with it all of his mail.

“Oh shit—”

“Here, let me—”

Together they collect the mail, which isn’t even a lot this time around, but spread out across the hall it takes an awkwardly long time. Eddie can feel his face flush red, and while he hopes it isn’t noticeable, the look 3B is giving him suggests otherwise.

“Well, that’s a newsflash for you,” Eddie mutters more to himself than anything.

3B tilts his head.

“Cause, you asked if I had news…”

“Oh,” he nods. “Right, yeah.”

If the ground could open up and swallow him whole that would make the situation a lot better.

“Well, thanks for the assist, I guess—”

“Oh, hold up,” 3B stops him, a hand clutching his forearm. He lets go just as quickly, but Eddie stays kneeling in his black square, struck still by the other man’s order and the ghost of his palm along the soft of his arm. 3B leans over to the far side of the mailbox, sweater riding up just past his hip, revealing a thin strip of scarred skin. They’re relatively new, still pink and shiny near the bone, but they must feel fine if the way he’s twisting is any indicator. Eddie thinks back to Nancy’s observation, and desperately hopes it’s not true.

“Here we go,” 3B smiles, pushing a few loose strands back with one hand and flashing Eddie his bounty with the other. It’s the latest edition of Fangoria, one Eddie had finally managed to get an article in. “My kids love these.”

“Kids?”

“Not mine!” He scrambles, cheeks tinting a rosy pink. “Not that I don’t want some of my own someday. Or, they don’t have to be mine mine, adopting is just as good, better sometimes in fact, actually. But I’m not ready for kids now, obviously. I mean the apartment is way too small and Robin—” he winces. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

“No, go on,” Eddie grins. Getting his terribly hot neighbor to fall apart on him, well, it’s certainly a confidence boost that’s for sure. “You got names picked out yet?”

“Haha, very funny.”

“Oh, I haven’t heard those before. Family names?”

3B pushes him, but laughs as he does it, the sound a bright and clear echo in the hall. Eddie falls over with little resistance.

“God, this floor is disgusting,” and then there’s a hand in his face. Eddie grabs on and is heaved up with a surprisingly little effort on his part, bringing him close to the warm, sunny chest of 3B. He’s got a soft smile, one that pulls at the corner of his mouth and leaves a crinkle at his eyes. Eddie’s solidly on his feet now, and still, 3B is holding onto him.

“I’m Steve, by the way. Steve Buckley.”

Steve. It’s exactly the kind of name a yellow sweater wearing prep would have. Steve, a guy’s guy, who plays sports and flirts with pretty girls and who lives a nice, normal life. It’s such a cliché it should turn him off.

“Eddie Munson.”

“Ah, so now I know who’s name to yell when Metallica comes on at 3 am.”

“I thought you didn’t know who they were?” He squints, desperately ignoring the part of his brain playing the idea of Steve yelling his name on a loop

Steve shrugs, “I might’ve picked up a CD yesterday on my way home from the center. Not really my thing, I think. Too much noise.”

“Too much noise? What are you, sixty?”

“Fifty-nine, actually,” he smirks, drawing another laugh from Eddie.

Steve is leaned in close enough that Eddie can get a good hard look at him. He’s got a few dark moles dotted across his face and trailing down his neck, almost black where they meet the collar of his sweater. There’s a whisper of a mustache on his otherwise clean-shaven face, like maybe he forgot to shave this morning. And although Eddie can’t imagine he’s actually any older than himself, Steve’s already got a few lines along his forehead. Not a lot, and they mostly fade when he relaxes his face, but enough to make him think he spends a lot of time frowning. Or laughing. He hopes it’s the latter, he wants to be the latter.

“Well,” Steve says after a few moments, finally letting go of his arm and pressing the long-forgotten magazine into Eddie’s unoccupied hand. “Try to hold onto these this time.”

Steve leans back, like he knows he should go, but expects Eddie to say something else. Maybe even, Eddie hopes, wants him to say something else.

“So, the Buckley twins are fans of horror?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s leaning back into his orbit.

“Again, I don’t actually have any kids. I’m a Big over at Big Brother, Big Sister. Technically, I’m only a Big to Dustin, but his friends are clingy so I end up driving all of them around when we hang out. They love all this kind of nerd shit,” he points at the cover, featuring a sickly pale Dracula leering over the title, “and apparently their favorite author’s in it or something. An Edwin something?”

Eddie sighs. Of course, this would happen, of course—

“Edgar M.W.?”

Steve snaps a finger, “There you go. Yeah, they go crazy for those books, won’t shut up about them. You know him?”

He bites down on a panicked laugh.

Edgar M.W. His pseudonym. His publishers had thought ‘Eddie Munson’ wasn’t a right fit for his brand, which was bullshit, and almost made him keep it just to piss them off. Ultimately, he’d wanted the anonymity a little more than that, so he’d made up Edgar and added the ‘W’ for his Uncle Wayne.

He’s got six fans, and they’re definitely not adults. They don’t sign their full names off, but he’s got more than a sneaking suspicion that the letters he’s been getting, always signed Yours Faithfully, D. and Company, may in fact belong to Steve’s children. Of course—

“Yeah…we, uh, run in similar circles. I’m a writer, too. Fantasy horror.” It’s technically a lie, but it doesn’t feel like one since he’s not legally Edgar M.W. It’s also not a lie in the way he really hasn’t felt like Edgar M.W. in a long time.

“No way,” Steve’s eyes light up, honey brown in the dead of winter. “Publish anything I’d know? Or, that the kids would?”

“Nah, not lately.” The last work he’d published under ‘Eddie Munson’ had been in high school. Not to mention his work in progress, Untitled (1), which he hadn’t touched in the New Year.

“Why’s that?”

It, or, some variation of it, is the question that’s hounded him since he first started writing it. Where his work was, when was it going to be ready, why couldn’t he pull it together. The question he can’t avoid try as he might, what sends him running, because at the end of the day, Eddie’s only brave in stories.

That’s what should be happening now. He should be giving Steve a polite answer and excusing himself back to avoiding his responsibilities. But…

Steve is watching him. He’s not flashing a smile, but the crinkle around his eyes is still there, still happy talking to him. He’s only an inch taller, if that, but he’s got his head titled down the way tall guys always do when they’re trying to listen—trying to catch what Eddie’s going to say, the same way he had pointed at his bleached-out tour t-shirt yesterday. The t-shirt he’d asked about, and then went and bought a CD just to understand what Eddie meant.

Eddie feels…maybe not brave, but less like a coward.

“Cause it’s shit.”

Steve quirks an eyebrow.

“It is! Grade A, 100% bullshit, as my roommate would call it. It’s overwritten and predictable, it’s got absolutely no heart. And the worst part is, I mean, I’ve written something that could be published. It’s a pile of garbage, but it’s ‘sellable’,” Eddie laughs bitterly.

“My editor loves it,” he continues, everything that’s been rolled up tight in him all pouring out at once, “and the guys who sign my checks really love it. Forget making a statement or art, forget trying to wake people up and do something for a change. Sellable is good! Sellable means the readers get to enjoy a nice bedtime story and we all get to pop champagne. It certainly shouldn’t be a problem, because I do like being able to afford more than canned meat and cold showers, but, uh—” God, he sounds stupid, doesn’t he? He could still be stuck in the trailer selling poppers to high schoolers. He could be Munson Senior, behind bars for a rap sheet longer than his IQ, and he’s worried about selling out. Back then it was easy to talk about artistic integrity when he didn’t have shit to lose.

“Sounds hard,” Steve nods sympathetically.

He rolls his eyes, “Thanks, but it’s really not. I mean—”

“Give yourself a break man,” Steve jostles him, the arm just barely grazing his stomach a shock down his spine. “It sucks, trying to live up to expectations and shit and not getting to be who you are. It’s not fair. And maybe it’s not the biggest deal in the world, but uh…it still hurts. Just, quietly.”

Eddie nods.

“Well, whoever said life was fair, huh?”

“Yeah…yeah, you’re not wrong,” Steve hums, eyes still on him but looking past Eddie to something painful. He wonder if Steve would tell him what he’s thinking, which lines in his face hurt and which he’d wear with pride.

Just when Eddie thinks he’s really brought the mood down just after salvaging yesterday’s mess, Steve comes back to him. He smirks, and he can tell it’s a little put on, but not disingenuous.

“Shame though, I was looking for something new for my bookshelf.”

“I thank you for your artistic integrity, but honestly, if I’m selling out, I’m gonna need you to buy a copy,” Eddie grins at the laugh the bursts from Steve. “Maybe even ten. Something to sandwich between all those Sports Illustrated and the high school copy of The Catcher in the Rye I know you’ve got squirreled away.”

He casts Eddie a wary eye. “How’d you know about those?” He asks, leaning back just slightly, a razor thin edge to his tone.

“Just look the type,” Eddie shrugs, uncertain where he’d fallen off track. “I’ve met a lot of jocks and they’ve all got the same library. And you, Steve-o, with the polos, and the hair, and the clear lack of fine musical sensibilities, well. You fall right into that sweet, sweet preppy jock stereotype.”

Quick as it came, the tension melts from his shoulders, and Steve is back on him again.

“Ouch. I’ve got layers, you know.”

Eddie gives him a considering once over. He’s not exactly the tough guy he’d expected, but there’s something in Buckley he wasn’t prepared for. The flat, small-town plain he’d anticipated had suddenly turned off into a forest without a clear path. Deep, winding, and though perhaps not frightening, something to tread through with a clear mind. An adventure.

“Oh, I’m not saying you don’t,” he smirks, pocketing Steve’s little moment for further inspection. “I’m sure there’s a lot under there I’d like to see.”

“Oh, yeah?” Steve breathes, eyes dark and focused. “And what would that be?”

Eddie swallows, throat dry and wanting. Steve’s eyes dart with the movement, before slowly trailing back up to meet him, a smug smirk playing on his lips. The distance between them is barely a foot, just a few inches at most. They’re not touching, but Eddie can feel every carefully measured breath between them, the warmth emanating from Steve seeping into his usually freeze-numb fingertips.

“Well—” he starts, when there’s a beeping, and Steve is out of orbit in a snap. Eddie blinks, the temperature drop an unwelcome wake up call.

“Oh shit—I gotta go,” Steve resets his watch, other hand buried in his hair. “It’s my day to pick up Dustin and his freeloaders, and the last time I was late I got chewed out for an hour.”

“Right! Can’t delay the esteemed royal court,” Eddie says, still dizzy.

Steve snorts. “Royal somethings alright.”

He takes a step back, then stops, and before Eddie can think of anything cute to say, Steve’s tugging at his mail. He pulls out a thick white envelope, one of the square ones that always means someone’s in trouble, and he’s got a cap between his teeth and he’s writing—

“I’m usually home after seven. If Robin answers, hang up. She’s being the most right now,” he presses the letter into Eddie’s chest, keeping his hand there.

“You can throw it away if you want, but if you need someone to talk to. Or see what’s underneath,” he winks.

Eddie blinks. He blinks again, mouth dropping open for a response he simply no longer has the braincells to muster. This is—

He looks down, and he notices three things in an order of increasing despair. The first being that Steve’s got nice handwriting, and he signed it ‘Stevie’ with a little heart over the ‘i’. It’s cute for someone who just technically committed a federal crime, so he’s going to be obsessing over that for the next few hours. Second, the number lands directly over the mailing address, which isn’t Eddie Munson. The means Nancy’s letter, an official looking document spelling only trouble, has been scribbled over by his crush. She’s going to yell at him. Or laugh. Probably both.

And thirdly, Eddie notices Steve’s hand. Pale, with those same dark moles just lightly dotted along the smooth skin and up his well-manicured nails. He hasn’t had a life of hard manual labor, but there’s strength there. The fingers spread wide across his chest, keeping the letter pinned in place, are holding back. Eddie knows he’s also going to be thinking about those fingers later, when he sees it. A little flash of gold gleaming cruelly in the thin winter light.

Steve takes a step back, snapping a finger gun at Eddie.

“See you later, big boy.”

He trips a little on the outer door, then exits with a wave.

Nancy was right. Steve Buckley is definitely flirting with him. Steve Buckley, who is also married.

—

Eddie trudges up to the apartment one stair at a time, letters heavy in his hand. He walks in, slips his shoes off, and slumps into the seat by the window overlooking the alley.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He tosses aside a few credit card offers, and sets Fangoria to the side for himself, same with the letter from the kids, which is particularly heavy today. Star Trek VI must’ve been good. D. & Company. Steve’s Dustin. Steve who’s good with kids and cheats on his wife.

Eddie groans, letting his head fall onto the tiny side table. This, this is why he didn’t want to see the signs. Because just his type is also code for unavailable. From ‘straight’ boys wanting to experiment in high school to sleazy one-night stands in the city, he has a knack for attracting the worst guys. So of course, his cute, flirty, kind and considerate neighbor is legally spoken for and less than morally upstanding.

Why else would a guy and girl move in together? Why else would he mention wanting kids?

If Robin answers, hang up. He’s met Robin before, mostly in passing and never for a terribly long conversation, but she’s funny and a little weird the way he likes his friends. There’s also something distinctly not-straight about her. She’s got a pink triangle pin on her bag and she manages to bring up Nancy in every single one of their five-minute conversations. Maybe she’s just a great ally, a true feminist, but it’s more than that. It’s the way she carries herself, the carefully placed confidence along her shoulders, like she’s not used to being loud and proud but fighting for it anyway.

Steve didn’t have those shoulders. His spoke confidence, a lightness to them that detailed a life of things being handed to him, of smiles and pats on the back and the easiness that came with being blissfully unaware of slurs thrown out car windows and nightmares of hospital rooms.

Just, quiet. The lines in his forehead. The tender pink of his hip bone. The CD he bought and the book he wanted to read.

He shoves his hands into his hair, rings knotting up in the greasy roots, and pulls hard, hissing at the sharp pain along his crown. He’s being stupid, he’s acting desperate. Sure, Steve’s hot and good to kids, but at the end of the day, he’s like every other guy. He’s a straight guy bored with his happy marriage. They’ll hook up and maybe it would be fun for a weekend, but he’ll always get The Look. A sneer of disgust and shame, a blank stare when Eddie mentions breakfast. No, Steve’s nice, so he’d get a pitying smile and a pat on the cheek before he leaves to pick up Robin for t-ball practice.

No. Fuck. He’s not going to be another repressed guy’s outlet. He’s not going to call, he’s not going to think about the little heart, and he’s not going to get the look.

Determined, Eddie pops up, sorting through the remaining pile for his number and does his best to crumble it up, the thick cardstock texture unwilling to bend very far. He doesn’t get the ball he wanted, and he’s a little sweaty at this point, but the symbolism is there. He chucks the envelope out the window before realizing that one, it’s still Nancy’s fucking mail, and two, that the window is in fact still shut tight, bouncing back on his face.

You’ve reached Nancy—and Eddie’s—apartment.

He only screams a little.

Outside, a flock of birds fly over the adjacent apartment building. A car horn blares. That’s when he notices an unfamiliar face leaning up against the trash bin. Cities are big, sure, but their alley isn’t one you exactly wander into by accident. The guy’s got tight blonde curls, a gold tan unhindered by anything more than a short-sleeve button-down, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. There’s a distinct edge to his stance, one Eddie recognizes from his dad’s old buddies. This guy’s done time, and he did it well.

Unease itches along his spine. Eddie might scare easy, but there is definitely something wrong with this guy.

As if sensing his thoughts, the guy looks directly up at him. Logically, Eddie knows he’s not really looking at him, the vantage from the alley into the living room is pretty shit, but there’s a smirk on his lip more akin to a snarl than anything. Like a predator that’s finally caught sight of its prey.

Quick as it came, the cigarette is crushed under the heel of his dark boots and he struts back out to the street.

Eddie sighs. This city is so fucking weird sometimes. God, he’d kill for a cigarette.

What he settles for instead is curling up on the couch with a Lucky Light and the rhythmic flick of his lighter. He misses their TV. Not by much, but it was always a nice distraction. More than anything, he misses the old westerns Wayne used to watch, misses his gentle snores and the death grip he had on his stone-cold mug of coffee. No cigarettes, no TV, no goddamn luck. Not unless you count the bubblegum, which ain’t much.

At some point he falls into a restless sleep, tossing and turning, each time almost drifting off until another call comes in or the radiator screams randomly.

“Hey,” and there’s a short, strong tug on his shoulder. He jerks up, blurry vision focusing on Nancy setting down a take-out bag on the table. “Got Thai tonight.”

“Oh, thank God,” Eddie mumbles, digging into the first plastic container she hands him, groaning as grilled chicken and sweet and sour sauce hit him full force. “Cross that—you are God, Nancy Wheeler.”

“Jesus, okay. Did you eat today?”

“Yes, dad. Had a sandwich with bread and everything.”

She raises a brow, “That’s it?”

He rolls his eyes. It’s not his fault his brain doesn’t tell him he’s hungry till three hours later. At least it wasn’t a nothing-in-this-house-is-edible day. “Oh, yeah? And what’d you have?”

Though she doesn’t have the same malfunction, Nancy is just as bad as him, regularly skipping meals in favor of shitty office coffee. A cliché if he’s ever seen one, though he can’t blame her. He’s right too, because suddenly, she seems very interested in her spring rolls.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he smirks.

“Anyway,” she breezes through, shoulders clinched tight, “How was your day? Did you call Chrissy back yet?”

“…no.”

“Eddie—”

“I know! I was going to but—” he sighs. She’s going to get it out of him one way or the other, might as well submit to the inevitable. “I saw 3B again.”

“Oh?”

“His name is Steve. As always, you were right, he was definitely flirting with me and it was going, if I say so myself, really well. That is, until I saw the ring.” He hums a few notes, miming a piano with one hand.

The heavy pit in his stomach from earlier grows twice in size at the sight of Nancy’s face. Mouth pinched, eyebrows slightly upturned. It’s the look he gets whenever he tells her a story from his childhood, even though some of those are actually funny just in an admittedly fucked up kind of way. He shifts uncomfortably.

“It’s whatever, Nance. Life sucks, and then you die,” he shrugs, trying to play it cool. It doesn’t work, it never works with her, because she’s still got her look. “Probably better not to get biblical with the neighbors anyway. Don’t shit where you eat and all that.”

He itches under her gaze.

“Eddie—"

“Just—leave it. Okay? Honestly, it’s not even that big of a deal. I’m just sorry for Robin if anything.”

The radiator clanks.

“I told you she wasn’t into me,” she says, just as cool.

“I wouldn’t say that, I mean—"

“What would you say, then?” Her voice has the razor-sharp edge to it, the kind that tells him if he pushes, he’s getting cut, and Eddie’s had enough slashes to the heart for one day.

She goes back to her spring rolls, skipping the usual third-degree he’d be getting over his feelings and what exactly he saw. Great. Fucking great. As much as she’s the rock in this relationship, he forgets how sensitive she is underneath it all, and now he’s gone and fucked it up. He sinks further into the couch.

The rest of the meal is quiet, both of them stewing in their own take-out container of disappointment. When they’re done, Eddie cleans up, a quiet apology for ruining the mood.

Nancy’s with The Board now, back turned to him. He slouches over to the couch, burying himself in one of the pillows. It’s always easier for him to sleep with someone else in the room, something about the noise of cohabitation lulling him to sleep, but the weight of 3B presses in on him.

He turns over, still deciding between a joke and a more sincere apology, to find Nancy not where he left her. Instead, she’s by the window, opened envelope clutched in one hand and its contents in the other, brow furrowed.

“What is this?”

Panic floods over him, “Oh, shit—listen, he wrote it down before I realized—”

“No, Eddie—” she crosses the room, thrusting the letter in his face. “What is this?”

Instead of anger or frustration like he expects, her face is almost completely blank, just the slightest twitch of her lip like she’s holding herself back from firing off. She raises a brow at the mail, wiggling it for effect.

At first, Eddie’s sure he’s somehow still halfway asleep, because it won’t come into focus. He blinks, then wipes at his eyes with a clumsy hand. The first page, creased from his earlier attempts, has a row of columns with a series of numbers running down the left-hand side and dotted throughout the main text. The text itself is strange, letters he recognizes but strung together wrong, forming half a word before falling into gibberish. Some of the letters themselves don’t look right, ‘N’s that face the other way or ‘O’s with slashes through them. Wait—

“Is that—”

“Russian,” she nods, eyes shining bright as she shuffles through the pages, “And look. No sender, no return address. Just this.”

The last page has the same column structure but is almost entirely empty save for a few notes in Russian at the top. Scribbled across the center in thick black ink are two distinctly English words:

KEEP. DIGGING.

Holy. Fuck.

“Barbara Holland was murdered,” Nancy says. “We’re going to find out why.”

#stranger things fic #steddie fic #ronance fic #steddie #ronance #eddie munson #nancy wheeler #steve harrington #robin buckley #st4 #my writing #my work #this chapter got long dude #next chapter i fear will be WAY longer asdfghjkl #next chapter also heavily featuring ronance and ms buckley herself soooo look out

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darkcrowprincess · 4 months

Text

Lunter the summer I turned pretty au:

Luz has never thought of herself as ugly, but she's never in her eyes been pretty. Growing up she's either been adorable, hyper, or in some rude parents words "like a wild thing that's been raised by wolves." It's especially hard when you grow up in a small town like Gravesfield. Where most of the population is white and only 20% is people of color. It's even more especially hard when you have adhd. Fortunately Luz has never let things like that get her down. Not when she has her mom's, her friends, and her best friend Hunter.

That's why it was so weird when this summer started. It's like in between 14 and 15 a switch flipped for Luz and all the Gravesfield boys around her. Yes she did spend a year away with her family in the Dominican Republic. She let her hair grow out in its natural curls, she got darker being out in the sun. She finally feels like she fits in her body. With her long legs and her curves(yet still small chest she pouts at). She didn't feel any different. But unknown to her she definitely looked different.

When she went into the old corner store with King and Hunter to get some snacks, that's why she didn't notice the teen boy's eyes on her. She was too busy snacking on cheetos and looking at the small stack of books on display. Hoping they had some cute fantasy romances she could buy. When she did notice, it felt weird. Made her uncomfortable. Boys didn't look at her. A few girls here or there certainly. But not boys. If they did she was certainly too oblivious at times to notice(*cough* Hunter *cough*). But the boy at the cash register made it so obvious he was staring at her in that way.

Him with his hungry big blue eyes and smirk never seem to leave her profile. So much so it made her uncomfortable. Uncomfortable in her jean shorts and Azura the good witch take top. It made it hard to swallow the cheetos she stuffed in her mouth. Anxious she turns back to the books and magazines. Trying to ignore the eyes she feels on her butt and long darkly tanned legs. She rubs one of her legs up the other. Feeling nervous goosebumps pop up all over her limbs.

"Luz?!" A voice cuts into her thoughts. Blinking she looks to her left to see Hunter by her side. Him holding Kings hand and snacks in the other. Hunter dressed in beach shorts and a tank top too. He looks worried as he stares down at her(having gotten a growth spurt after his 16 birthday). "Hey, me and King have been calling your name. Are you ok?" King nods by his side, his mouth busy sucking on a red lollipop. Luz smiles to hide her discomfort. No need to start any unnecessary trouble for something so small. "I'm fine just got lost in my head a bit. Let's go pay." The sooner they pay, the sooner the eyes of the guy at the cashier would leave her alone.

"Wait didn't you want a book?"King asks confused, in between sticky licks of his candy. He was also dressed in beach shorts and a kids t-shirt. A gravity falls t-shirt with a big yellow triangle on it. Hunter silent as he stares at her. Luz lies badly, not looking back at them. "Don't have enough money, besides I want to get to the beach already." Slapping down her open bag of cheetos on the counter, she says without looking at the boy, "Only this." The boy doesn't scan the chips. Instead he starts flirty. Badly. "How come I haven't seen you around here cutie? Usually I know all the pretty girls." Luz blushes, still uncomfortable.

Unfortunately because she's too nice, she tries being polite to speed things up. "Oh I've always lived here." She finally looks the guy in the eye. He's objectively attractive, white, blue eyes, dark hair(though she's not into dark hair. Light haired brunettes or blondes were her type). Except for his smile. He had perfect white teeth, straight, no gap tooth in sight. She didn't like that smile. Made him look like a shark. He leans on his chin to stare even more at her. "Oh I certainly would have remembered someone like you. Especially that hair." He goes to touch one of her curls(she's too surprised at his audacity and forwardness to move away). Before he can touch a curl a quick hand grabs his wrist hard. A familiar scarred hand, which squeezes the jerks wrist tight in warning.

Hunter than let's go as the guy yelps and pulls his hand away. Hunter pissed off, drops a book and snacks between them to add to Luz's cheetos, as if to make further space between her and the blue eyed jerk. "You don't touch a person's hair without their permission," Hunter growls. Sounding like one of those wolves he's been hyper fixationing on for a while. "Ring these up together. " He says. The guy apologizes, doing as he's told, scans and bags everything quickly. Not even mentioning King and the lollipop he's still sucking on. Hunter glares at him, his look causing sweat to drip down the guys forehead. Luz just watches on behind Hunter. Without realizing it their both holding hands. Hunter squeezes hers in comfort. Kings just watches quietly. Finally the guy rings up their stuff and hands them the two bags. "Here you go, sorry about that. Didn't know she was yours dude." Luz blushes at the implication. She says nothing as she grabs the two bags in one hand. Than pulls Hunter and king with her by the hand outside. The guy as another apology offers to their retreating backs, "There's a bonfire party tonight at Gravesfield Beach if you guys want to come. Free food, drinks, and music. Everyone is coming if you want to go together. " Luz again, can't help being nice(and again not correcting him about her and Hunter being a couple) thanks him.

Back in the car, Mama Eda from the front seat eyes their faces as they all three scoot into the back of the mini van. "Why are you blushing? And why does blondie look like he wants to murder someone?"

Luz says nothing, covering her embarrassed rosy face. She stays like that for a while, waiting till the heat leaves her cheeks. Something tapping her covered face is what finally gets her to peak out into the world again. Hunter(who isn't looking at her)has a book near her face. He has an angry look on his face as he stares put the window. But that look feels safe too, oddly enough. She can't help how protective he's being. Though she doesn't say it out loud.

She finally looks down at the book he's holding out for her. It was a new fantasy romance novel. Just what she was looking for before Mr rude eyes (and hands) distracted her. " You bought this for me?"Her voice sounds soft and different, that she doesn't recognize herself speaking for a moment. But she's happy, and feeling soft pink fuzzy inside. Hunter finally turns from the window to look at her. His eyes wide and honest. "Well yeah, you wanted one yes?"

"Oh" Says Luz, at Hunter's thoughtfulness. She feels like the gesture is so much more. She also doesn't want to look to deep in her feelings right now. "Thanks Hunter." She accepts the book with a smile. Hunter smiles back, anger gone. 'Their it is.' Thinks Luz. 'His gap tooth smile.'

#the owl house #lunter #huntceda #goldenlight #luz x hunter #goldenluz #my writing #summer I turned pretty au #it's loseley based on the show #Never read the books or saw the show #Just the premise peaks my interest #my thoughts

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