#not like we have money or connections of any kind so there's no 'setting me up' with other people my age | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ghost-proofbaby · 6 months

Text

SO SCARLET (IT WAS MAROON)

CHAPTER FIVE: HOLY GROUND

I LEFT A NOTE ON THE DOOR WITH THE JOKE WE MADE, AND THAT WAS THE FIRST DAY. AND DARLING, IT WAS GOOD NEVER LOOKING DOWN.

☆ pairings: rockstar!eddie munson x fem!reader

☆ warnings: no use of y/n, strong language, angst, minors dni

☆ WC: 8K+

☆ A/N: trying something new in the formating here amongst the chapter - please bear with me <3

thank you to my love @hellfire--cult for the divider!

masterlist

“I’m sure you’ll find a way.”

Oh, how you realize you’ll come to regret that taunt.

The first week of working on organizing Corroded Coffin’s single release party is easy enough. Most of the communication is restricted to Matt and vendors, beginning the process of assessing venues as you start your list of all that will be needed for the party. An actual location, an open bar, entire stage crews. Matt is able to provide a few connections here and there, people in the live music industry that owe him a favor as he had so kindly put it. You had your spreadsheet of contacts that was growing with each passing day, you had several venues that looked as though they would work well for the occasion — the only thing you had yet to do was go over options with the band or properly reach out for their list of requirements for their night of celebration.

You had tried to be sneaky about it. Get around asking for any of their emails, continue living comfortably in the radio silence of not hearing from Eddie. And then you’d made the fatal mistake of asking Matt if he could gather the list of things the boys may want.

And of course, as any sane person would do, he had only forwarded the email to all of the boys’ professional emails and replied: I’ve CC’d our rockstars. I’ve instructed them to personally send you any requests they may have.

Fuck.

Eddie’s email sat at the lead of the list of CC’d emails, almost teasing you as it stared back at you from your laptop screen. A full week, you had avoided this. Even if he could have gotten your email from Matt, he hadn’t, and like a fool, you’d assumed that meant you were in the clear.

So much for that.

You compose and erase multiple emails until you decide that if the boys want to reach out, they can. There was no need for you to make first contact; they now had your email, a bait set for them to initiate a conversation by sending you their lists. If Eddie wanted to reach out to you, he had the perfect excuse to do so.

For a few hours, you don’t hear anything, and instead of sighing in relief, it only puts you further on edge. You want him to just get it over with. To send you an email, preferably an impersonal list that allows you to continue your job. No relations, no interferences. You didn’t know it, but the Universe was already laughing in your face.

The first email from any of the boys comes from Jeff.

A simple list, just as you’d requested. There was nothing outrageous; he’d recommended an open bar, asked for a specific brand of whiskey if possible, and thanked you for all you were doing. Simple, kind, appreciative. Jeff, it seemed, had stayed as humble as you remembered him.

The next email came from Gareth. Less simple, but still just as expected.

Nerds (the CANDY) of any kind. That vodka infused whipped cream (does it even get you drunk?), the softest robe money can buy. Actually, can I get matching house shoes with that robe? Can we also have some cigars in the dressing room? (We are getting a dressing room… right?)

You’re so busy snorting at his requests, rolling your eyes but also losing yourself in the warmth to know he also hadn’t changed much, you don’t see the next email come through.

It was comforting. You knew Eddie had changed — more than you could ever wrap your head around — but these boys you once knew seemed to still be connected to their roots. You read the requests and recall the times you’d spent in Gareth’s hot garage over the summer, sitting on warm concrete as you cheered overly excited, even occasionally standing up to jokingly mosh to their rehearsals. Sweltering summer nights between friends and beers that lost their chill far too quickly, laughter that echoed down the driveway and out into the empty streets of Hawkins. Nostalgia burns away at you, sitting restlessly in your chest as you let yourself simmer in it for the first time since…. since moving to New York, really. Even in that first year, life had moved so quickly, you and Eddie never took the time to ruminate in your past too often. If you did, it had caught you off guard, always fleeting to make room for the next uncertain experience.

You two had been so busy running away from your hometown, you’d never stopped to consider what you had given up in the process.

A soft sigh escapes your lips, and you swear you can still taste the shitty Miller Lite, the only brand that seemed to occupy the Emerson’s fridge, on your tongue as you exit the email and scribble on the notepad before you. Even if Gareth had been joking around with some of his requests, you’d take them seriously — besides, the mental image of Gareth in a plush robe and fluffy slippers to match made you laugh. You were thinking about your past, and for once, you were laughing. This part wasn’t a stain, wasn’t something you had scrubbed away at in a haste to make it fade from your ledger. This was the part you should have been lingering on.

And linger you did until you glanced up to find the next unread email.

Eddie.

[email protected]. You could fool yourself, tell yourself that email is from anyone else, but you know it isn’t. It isn’t even the email that had been CC’d. It’s his personal email.

Your mouse hovers over the highlighted and unopened message, heart dropping with each passing second. There’s a small preview of his message, but your vision blurs just enough that you can’t make out the small words.

Is this how you were always doomed to live out the rest of your days? To freeze, to panic, to malfunction at every slightest thing that has to do with the man you left to begin with? Would he always pull such visceral reactions from you?

In an act of bravery, you press the tip of your finger against the smooth mouse pad, a muted click that doesn’t reach your ears signaling the official opening of the email. All of your hopes are shattered as you realize it’s clearly too short to be a list similar to the other boys, a simple response that you could acknowledge and move on from.

No, he sends something that specifically calls for you to play with him. To reply and interact, to give him what he wants. To talk.

Two fucking words. Two loaded, vexing, provocative words that call to you with the titillating grin you imagine he wore as he typed them.

Your fingers work faster than your brain, slamming away at the keys hurriedly without thought as you type your least professional email to date.

The bottom of the email is automatically signed off with your work signature, including your direct personal line. If you had half the mind, you would have erased that bit of information to keep it from Eddie. It even has your actual signature, a mature one that differs from how you used to scrawl your name atop of schoolwork in high school, that you had scanned into your computer after having gone through the painful process of rewriting it what must have been a thousand times. No one had let you in on the fact that most other corporate monsters and coworkers just used one of the sloping fonts available to them. No one had shown you the ropes – you’d just assumed that it was the normal, to go so above and beyond.

Another brick in the foundation you’d built for yourself, separate from Eddie. Another attempt to change from the girl he’d once loved.

You’re shocked when a reply comes very quickly. You hadn’t even clicked out of the thread before it entered your inbox.

You try to channel fury, years of irritation and calluses you’d built up against him. But your chest has been weakened by that brief moment of nostalgia that Jeff and Gareth had triggered, and it’s a fruitless battle when he sends another message rapidly. He’s treating it like casual texting rather than stiff business interactions.

Your entire body flushes, a shock to your system coming that brings you out of the allusive hypnosis easily.

My emails are monitored. They’re going to see that we know each other. I’m going to get fucking fired.

You steady your breathing and try to stave off the anxiety. It’ll be fine; Lydia has no reason to comb through your emails at this time. Nothing said would trigger any bells or whistles to cause concern. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. It has to be.

You wish you had it in you to see red. He had an incomprehensible amount of nerve to be asking for your personal email all because he refused to use his professional email.

Soft. You’d worked on becoming a hardened version of your old self for two years, and all hard work was quickly going down the drain as you remained too soft for him. It was easy, too. All the rough edges had melted so discreetly somewhere amongst the in between.

You think he’s dropped the topic of your personal email, but you should know better. Not even mere seconds after you receive the first email, brimming with nonchalance and a teasing tone that has no room between the two of you, another message comes through.

Good to see he’s still annoying and persistent as ever, I suppose.

He’s all bark, no bite. That’s what you convince yourself. There’s no way he could find your personal email, a plethora of power and connections at his fingertips or not. Even if he could, it would take him ages and more effort than it would be worth.

All bark. No bite.

You hadn’t realized just how quick and consistent his replies had maintained until you’re met with silence. You wait impatiently, biting at your fingernails as you await for another one of his responses. The more the time passes, the excessive minutes piling up in the quiet midday hum of your midtown apartment, the more noticeable Eddie’s online silence becomes.

No, you think suddenly and strongly. No, I am not doing this.

You refuse to sit around like this and succumb so easily. All your half-healed scars thrum with aches deep-rooted within the skin you’ve grown over the last two years, screaming out in phantom pains with a reminder of what happened to you the last time you’d let yourself sit around and wait on the boy on the end of the line. Every lonely night, every tear shed, every beat of your bleeding heart — you cannot be doing this again, and not so soon.

Quickly, you click out of your email tab and back onto the list of vendors you needed to contact for the bar commodities. Distract, distract, distract. You comb through your list. Some vendors seemed to hold more potential than others, more attainable in the grand scheme of it all. For the first time ever in your very short career of event planning, budget wasn’t the issue.

Eddie’s reputation was.

But you’re not thinking about Eddie. No, your focus was anywhere but him right now. You weren’t thinking about him, or his new cologne, or his new rings, or his new life-

Just as you pick up your cell phone to start your calls down the list, a notification pings.

Only seven minutes had passed. Seven minutes, and your phone is suddenly alight with a small but terrifying notification from your personal email.

New email from [email protected]!

Oh, fuck.

Your thumb hesitates over the tiny banner before you release the breath you were sure you’d been holding the entire seven minutes. It shouldn’t have taken him such little time. You expected it to realistically take him a few hours, all your anxious waiting aside.

There had been only one fatal flaw in your taunting — well, technically there were several becoming more apparent as the seconds ticked by, but only one so glaringly obvious. Your personal email address. You had forgotten.

You hadn’t changed it since high school, since moving to New York, since meeting and since leaving Eddie.

[email protected].

The stupid inside joke haunts you.

“Why does your email even matter?” Eddie huffed from where he was sprawled out on your bed, tossing around some bouncy ball he’d acquired a few nights before during dinner at a local pizza joint, “No one even uses email anymore.”

He tossed the ball of rubber into the air once more, a blur of the rainbow swirl pattern whirring too close to your ceiling for comfort. Your focus waned from your laptop for just a moment as you suddenly shot out a hand, attempting to intercept the ball.

No use. Eddie used one hand to swat yours away, the other happily capturing the toy in his palm with a muted thud.

“Nuh, uh, uh,” he drawled as he looked at you with his boyish grin, eyes sparkling as his fingers closed loosely around his prize, “If you wanted one so badly the other night, you should have also coughed up a quarter.”

You snorted, “Are you really proud of that? You spent a whole twenty five cents on a hunk of rubber, Rockstar.”

“A hunk of rubber you’re now trying to steal from me.”

“I’m not trying to steal it,” you scowled, “I’m trying to focus here. Emails are important, despite your pessimism. Something my English teacher said about professionalism.”

“You’re really going to listen to that dinosaur? The old O’Donnel-saurus?” Eddie mused, chuckling beneath his breath at his own joke.

You refused to crack a smile in return, or show any recognition at the awful joke, but your chest still warmed. The smoke of your affection for the boy in front of you unfurled, thick enough to choke you up a few extra seconds but thin enough to not suffocate. Never suffocate — it was a time in which you could never imagine your love for Eddie Munson being your downfall. It was a wispy and adaptable type of adoration, just like the smoke that flows off of the end of the incense you’d taken to burning in your room lately in lieu of candles.

“It’d do you well to also come up with a professional sounding email, you know,” you hummed. You were mere seconds away from shoving your laptop away and joining Eddie in his relaxed position, maybe even laying your head on his chest or shoulder and bringing up the idea of a late afternoon nap you knew he’d never turn down, “Can’t go around emailing important people when you’re a rockstar with your Dungeons & Dragons nickname.”

“One,” he held up a stern finger, “Like I said — I don’t use email. And two, I’m very happy with my email, sweetheart. I’ll probably email the damn President with that name. Life’s too short and we’re too young to get a stick up our ass about shit like that.”

You reached out and wrapped your palm around his finger, tugging it down. Unlike with the ball, he let you capture him in your grasp, “I don’t have a stick up my ass about it.”

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Then make it something funny,” he wiggled his brows, “Make your email something stupid and live a little.”

“A little?” you scoffed, “I think I live plenty for the both of us. You’ve put me through at least three lifetimes worth of stress before I’ve hit twenty. I probably have grey hairs already.”

Your hand curled around his pointer finger drops to your thigh, but doesn’t release him. The touch remained, ever constant, now more for comfort rather than defiance. And he let you continue to hold him, as if your touch was a luxury he was indulging in just as much as you were his.

“Wanna check?” he taunted. He lifted up off his back for a microsecond, tugging your arm with his before the roll of your eyes had him falling back flat once more.

It was a losing battle, arguing with Eddie.

Your conjoined hands settled back atop your thigh as you sighed. Maybe Eddie had been right, and you were stressing out too much about this. He was right; you were young, and having a dumb email was a right of passage. Something to giggle at in your maturity when you’d provide it later down the road, a flash of your youth to keep close.

Fuck professionalism, or whatever high horse O’Donnel had been on.

“Fine,” you huffed, “What do you suggest?”

“… To check for grey hairs?”

“For my email, you idiot.”

A bit more back and forth, a bit too raunchy of ideas that passed Eddie’s lips only to be rejected quickly with rough shakes of your head. His finger remained locked in your palm, at some point his knuckle wiggling between suggestions to stroke at your skin.

“Sweetheart, you’re being too picky,” Eddie finally whined as you shot down yet another one of his ideas, “At this point, just make it something related to the band. You’ll probably be Corroded Coffin’s manager when we make it big, anyways.”

“That sounds like a nightmare,” you murmured, even if you enjoyed the thought. You already had started to get a hang of wrangling the boys in your small town for menial tasks and day-to-day activities. But on a wider, professional scale? You could already feel the headache pressing into your temples. If they ever offered you the proposition, you wouldn’t have said no, but you certainly would have complained to no end. And definitely got grey hairs.

“Sweetheart.”

The repetition of the nickname froze you. Your eyebrows furrowed as the wheels in your brain turned and you looked down at your boy, the formulation of an idea that was combining both of Eddie’s suggestions suddenly.

“Why do you call me sweetheart?”

Eddie was taken back by your question, face crumpling with confusion, “What?”

“Why do you call me sweetheart?” you repeated yourself as you finally let go of his finger and twisted to face him fully, laptop momentarily forgotten as your legs folded beneath you and pressed into your worn mattress, “Like, I call you Rockstar because I know you’ll be a rockstar someday. Already are technically, to me, but don’t let that go to your head,” you explained, smiling shyly as Eddie narrowed his eyes and shined his dimples at you, “So why do you call me sweetheart?”

He hardly had to think about it, although his answer came out as more of a question, “Because you’re my sweetheart?”

“That’s all?”

“Is this a trick question?”

You nearly cackled at his hesitation, “It isn’t, I swear. Just… humor me.”

This time, he took his time to carefully deliberate his answer, “Well, I guess because it just fits,” he paused, wide eyes catching yours as you lifted your brows in question, “You know? Cause you’re sweet like sugar, and you’ve got a heart of gold,” he grabbed up the hand that once held him and drew it into his lips, peppering kisses across your knuckles and fingertips, fighting a grin as he groveled, “There. Is that romantic enough to humor you?”

“Almost.”

You pulled your hand away despite the fact that you wanted to let him continue his display of affection. You would have laid around all day, letting Eddie Munson shower you in all the affection he had to give. But you really needed to create this email.

And now, you had the perfect name.

CORRODEDSUGAR.

You created the account quickly. Set everything up with ease before you proudly turned your screen to Eddie.

“Corroded sugar?” he read outloud in a murmur as a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth, “Cute. But also, very metal. Very badass. I approve, Sugar.”

A new nickname was born that day, to haunt you and taunt you at every corner. In soft mornings when he woke before you, his voice softly cooing ‘wake up, Sugar’ as he’d brush his nose along your jaw and attempt to awaken you with needy nuzzling. Amidst heated and passionate arguments had all in good fun while out with friends, where he knew you were right but the closest he’d come to admitting it would simply be ‘whatever you say, Sugar!’. He’d even once weaponized it against you during sacred moments, where his lips worshiped you as they trailed leisurely down the skin of your torso until he’d settled between your thighs, humming as he wrapped ringed fingers around your hips and whispered nothing more than the nickname. ‘Sugar’. He had sighed as if he were a starving man, and you were the plate of sweetness that would bring him back to life.

Sugar. A prayer, a promise, a reminder.

You couldn’t remember the last time he’d called you that. Until now.

When you’d tried to reset, rebuild, remake yourself, it had been hard to figure out a new email address. Amongst all the changes and all the decisions to be made, choosing a new email just felt overwhelming. And you’d been foolish, clung to one last relic of your past like an estranged child fisting a blanket to sleep.

The seven minutes suddenly makes crystal clear sense.

Whether it had really been Eddie’s rockstar connections from his fame, or simply recalling a far away memory, you hadn’t made yourself a very hard person to find. And you never considered that your laziness would have a consequence like this.

You don’t know what else to say. Your mind keeps reading over that silly five letter word, the bold lettering jumping off the page at you. All recollections of every time he’d ever called you that slip into the forefront of your brain, slapping away any concentrated thought.

You’d had dreams of him calling you that again. A mixture of memories and fantasies that would wake you up in the months following your departure. Compared to the other dreams you’d had amongst those, they had been a sweet reprieve. Not a nightmare of Eddie with his lips pressed to another, or mournful dreams where you reached out to him only for him to become intangible smoke where your hand should have connected with his torso. They were one of your only dreams you had awoken from without immediate tears.

They were the type of dreams where you’d awake, and for just a moment, you’d forgotten all that had happened. They’d twist you up in a blissful blanket of delusion that he was still yours, that you were still laying in a shared bed in that small apartment, that there was still a calendar on the wall with the date of his return marked with a scarlet heart.

The tears would come later. Once the dreamy fog cleared, and your eyes opened up to see the unfamiliar space you had taken to calling home instead.

The two of you should be discussing the release party. He should be handing over a list of requests and you should be adding them to the same page that you’d copied down Gareth’s.

You shouldn’t be doing this.

Talking, like nothing happened. Having a playful conversation over email that reeked of the same make-believe that had clung to your dreams of Sugar.

He won’t break the illusion, so you do.

Messaging him from this contact only reminds you of all that could have been. All the joking conversations back in Hawkins of your involvement with the band once they inevitably blew up, all the late nights where you’d been privy to a private show as he hunched over his guitar and hummed out melodies to new songs, all the bruises those once familiar hands had left and then caressed in the afterglow.

For just a moment, you miss it all.

For only a second, you wish he wore the same cologne and you wish you still signed your name as you had when you first met him. You wish for days of instability and the solid touch of his shoulders beneath your palms as you convince him to take a leap of faith on himself and the band. Dancing in a small apartment, falling asleep on the phone while he was a world away, quiet confessions of love to soothe the wound that distance made grow larger — for just a moment, you want it all back. Even the pain. Even the hurt you’d been burying alive for years.

Silence. Once again, he’s left you with static lines as the minutes pass and no new message is received.

You think you liked it better when he was being inappropriately playful.

At least then, he was saying something. Now, as he says nothing, you have to resort back to doing your job. You bring up a knee to rest your chin on as you adjust in your home office chair, clicking over to tabs of information on a physically small but well-known venue that had several different capacity options. Ranging from a small room that could hardly fit twenty five people to a rooftop set up with the ability to entertain several hundred people. Something about it had felt very Eddie to you; reclusive, with opportunity for an afterparty. Some odd mixture of who you once knew and who you’d seen flashes of through headlines and brief encounters. You hadn’t been given many guidelines from Matt to go off of, and when you’d questioned capacity size, he’d only brushed it off.

Just something smaller than the venues they play on tour.

Would Eddie even want this small of a venue? Looking over the venue’s website, you catch sight of the approximate occupancy limit for the “largest” stage room — 750 standing. What was Corroded Coffin’s new normal? Once upon a time, you were amongst a crowd that couldn’t even break double digits. But now, a show like this might sell out for them in five minutes flat. Hell, they could probably even sell out a thousand person capacity room.

A ding sounds to signify a new email.

For a second, you’re nonsensically relieved when you see it’s from Eddie. You find yourself blindly hopeful for a continuation of banter, another message solely trying to get on your nerves – something to satiate that stubborn need to slip back into old habits, even if for only just today.

It’s not. It’s a stale list of requests. Sent to your work email, this time.

No sight of his playfulness between the words. No beckoning of him taunting you, teasing you, whispering for you to just give in and play pretend with him one last time.

It’s probably for the best.

—

Have Mondays always been this hectic?

Week two of working on Corroded Coffin’s album release was starting off very differently from the first week. It seemed every corner you turned, you were faced with a new challenge that only made the headache behind your temples pound more relentlessly. Denial from venues, cold calls being forwarded to voicemail when you’d reach out to vendors, and Matt being impossibly busy with the band to get back to any of your emails in a timely manner.

If you had to hear one more venue representative turn down your business proposition with a “Sorry, but we’ve heard about Eddie’s reputation…”, you might make a detour to go jump off the Empire State Building.

Had he really been that awful to venue properties?

“You look stressed,” Romina notes when you hang up on your third unsuccessful call of the day, slamming the phone down more violently than you should.

“Who, me?” you bitterly reply, looking over your shoulder to where she leans in her chair, turned entirely from her desk to watch you with gentle amusement, “Never. I have never been stressed a day in my life.”

She quirks an eyebrow, “And before this new secret project of yours, I would have agreed.”

“Every venue is shooting me down.”

“It happens,” you yearn to feel the nonchalance that flows through the shrug of her shoulders, as if she’s now the one without a worry in the world, “Are they giving reasons?”

You open your mouth, but your tongue stops short. Because yes, they were each giving the same resounding, completely valid reason. But to admit this is to inform Romina what your secret project really is – something that a certain NDA strictly prohibits for the time being.

“Conflict of schedules,” you tightly lie as your glare diverts to your computer screen, still open on a mostly empty inbox.

Eddie hadn’t emailed you since last week.

Somewhere amongst your frustration, there was a sore disappointment lying in patient wait. You have not a single doubt that once the storm of the task at hand passes, once you finally secure a venue, that you’ll be forced to deal with it. But for now, a boy not emailing you after being so insistent for your personal contact was the least of your worries.

Romina’s voice draws you back in, “Really? How far out are you trying to book for?”

“Three months.”

The squeak of her chair pauses abruptly. Your eyes shift and you catch the way all her mindless swaying has ceased, mouth flat with eyes widened in disbelief.

“Three months?”

“What?” you finally spin your chair to face her, playing off nonchalance. You know why she’s reacting so dramatically, “Should I not be booking that far in advan-”

“I- No, no. You absolutely should be. It should actually be making it easier to book,” she leans forward in her seat, squinting at you, “Is that really the only reason they’re giving?”

You get it. Because she’s right; giving such fair notice should be making your job easier. But you can’t defend yourself and explain how the client you’re representing is the real issue.

“Yeah,” you force a forlorn sigh.

“Jesus,” she whistles out, “Well, that’s just… Fuck. I’m sorry, babe. That’s rough. What types of venues are you even trying for? Wait - didn’t you say you were arranging for a grand opening of a bakery? Wouldn’t they already have their shop set up-”

“Hello ladies.”

Thank fucking God for Lydia.

“Lydia!” you sit up just a little bit straighter, nearly leaping out of your seat with relief as your boss approaches. You knew exactly where Romina’s train of thought was heading, and you wouldn’t have been able to come up with a single pitiful excuse to keep up with your little white lie, “How are you today?”

Romina is still perched in her chair with a confused look, but Lydia doesn’t even glance her way, looking just as concerned as she looks down at you, “I’m… fine. There’s a client for you in the conference room.”

Straight to the point. Except, you didn’t have a meeting scheduled today.

“A client?” you echo, shrinking down a bit. You only have one client, technically, at this moment, “I didn’t have anything on my calendar.”

“Apparently, they were just on this side of town. Said you’d left a few voicemails and he thought it’d be easier to just pop in to discuss things.”

It had to be Matt. He must have gotten one of your frantic voicemails you’d left over the weekend, the ones you’d instantly regretted and worried had lacked in professionalism.

It has to be Matt.

“Oh,” Romina’s eyes are burning holes in the back of your chair as you fumble to lock your computer screen, scrambling to gather anything you might need. The notebook you’d been using to keep track of the entire ordeal crinkles slightly in your grip, “Yeah, of course, that- I’ll go straight there. Are they in one of the smaller conference rooms or the-”

“The main one,” Lydia interrupts you, and her tone makes you pause.

She sounds as if Matt’s arrival is the largest inconvenience she had experienced in the last month.

Why would Matt popping in to talk to me be such a big deal?

She’s clearly not in the mood for questions, so you only nod as you stand up, “Got it.”

And then she’s gone. No interest in joining you, or to question what could be going wrong. No sign of involvement like the day you’d originally met with the band and Matt to sign all documentation.

Your gut twists in knots that not even boy scout’s have discovered yet.

And they only worsen when Romina calls after your retreating figure, “Good luck with your baker!”

You’re kind of fucked. It’s clear she’s no longer buying into your lie of your client, and the thought of facing her after Matt is nausea-inducing. What if you just came clean? Would they sue you for telling Romina? Would Romina tell anyone else if you confided in her? Your thoughts race with question after question as you quickly make your way through the maze of cubicles, taking lefts and rights far too fast as you worry about making Matt wait much longer.

It was just stupid. Because amongst the questions, one rings out that’s insane enough to make the rest of them actually sound reasonable.

If you did manage to fuck this up in any way, would Eddie protect you?

Whether it be because you couldn’t complete the task at hand that was beginning to look impossible, or if it was because you couldn’t keep your mouth shut, would he defend you?

You’d figured you’d lost his servitude and protection long ago, back when you’d first left that apartment and ignored every attempt at contact. But if it came down to it, would he offer you one last privilege of his defense? Probably not. Which — fair enough. You hadn’t done anything in the last week to have already earned that back. You hadn’t wanted to earn that privilege back, either. No matter how badly you found yourself wanting a new email from him in your inbox, there was a clear line in the sand drawn by your own stick, and you had to stay to your side of it.

You were a big girl. You could handle it.

Just as you finally approach the conference room, eyes trained to the ground and brows tightly furrowed in careful consideration (definitely not frustration, because the thought of Eddie surely couldn’t frustrate you), you make a fatal mistake. It’s a small detail you’d never paid much mind to prior — a stain on the carpet just outside the doorway, subtle yet large once the shadowy shifting of the carpet’s color caught your eyes. You’re so busy letting your eyes trail the perimeter of it, trying to focus on the threaded shades rather than the shade of Eddie’s dark eyes in the hallway the week before, that you aren’t prepared when the toe of your shoe catches against the said carpet.

You should have ate shit, to put it plainly.

One quick fumble, and you’re flying forward, hardly thinking as you throw out your hands to brace for impact. Foolish, considering the fall would have left you with severely aching wrists, or a bruised face. But it never arrives.

Large hands suddenly appear to grab you, catching you halfway through the sudden fall, and the unfamiliar cologne that’s plagued your waking thoughts for a week now overtakes your senses.

You thought it was Matt waiting for you.

“Woah!” his voice echoes easily in the empty hallway, “Shit, are you okay?”

You swore it was Matt waiting for you.

“Fine,” you strangle out, pulling away from that touch as quickly as possible. Like he’s burned you. Like those hands that once knew you all too well held your entire demise in their palms.

And they might.

It wasn’t Matt waiting for you.

Eddie doesn’t seem shocked by your retreat, only watching with a blank face as you regain your balance on your own and avoid eye contact. He looks nice – a leather jacket too shiny to be the one he wore when you wore together, a faded band t-shirt beneath you can’t fully see the logo of but know was bought that distressed just for looks due to the familiar unfamiliarity that has begun to cloud around the man you once knew, heavy boots planted right on the stain in the carpet that had distracted you.

“What did you even trip on?” he finally questions, looking curiously behind you as he retraces your path, “Was it-”

“Air,” you cut him off, “Save me the embarrassment, but I tripped on air.”

If you had half a mind, you would have interrupted with something more useful. Maybe demanded to know why he was here in your office. Questioned his intentions of showing up unannounced. Asked why he never emailed again.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

He lets out a short chuckle, more a breath than anything else as his face finally cracks and he almost grins, “I see. To be fair, it’s an easy thing to trip on. Very hard to see. Almost as if it’s invisible.”

He gauges your reaction, but you don’t let yourself so much as smile at his awkward attempt at a joke.

You can’t. You can’t casually joke with him, you can’t laugh and pretend like there isn’t an elephant sitting on your chest every time you occupy the same space as him. There’s no magic eraser to everything between you two; no amount of emails, no amount of bad jokes that can vanish all that has transpired. Your past and the carpet, it seems, have something in common.

Never thought you’d say that about the ugly threads you only look at to disassociate during particularly long days.

“What are you doing here?” you finally whisper out the right question, and internally cringe as your mouth keeps moving only to tack on a completely unnecessary addition of, “I didn’t receive any emails about a meeting-”

“Matt sent me,” Eddie shrugs. You watch the way the leather creases and fits his wide shoulders, catch yourself studying to see if there’s any new muscle beneath the layers to further estrange you further from him, “He’s been stuck in meetings for the album and single, and said you’d left him a few voice mails so… I’m the rescue team, I guess.”

You finally look him in his eyes, jaw dropping ever so slightly, “You?”

“What about me?”

“You’re my ‘rescue team’?” the words are bitter on your tongue, his presence anything but a relief of rescue, “No offense, but how can you possibly help me?”

And then he smiles. And, oh Lord, you’ve forgotten how nice of a smile he has. It’s painful – a sharp reminder of the past that you just can’t shake. He’s an old photograph that never quite burns, a stain on your favorite article of clothing you’ll never wear again. For a moment, it doesn’t matter how many parts of him he’s replaced, how many pieces of him have been turned over brand new and unfamiliar, because he looks just like the boy you left behind. A relic you can mourn for once you return to your apartment all alone. A whisper you’ll exchange with your children about someday, as you tell them all about the boy who changed you for the worse.

“You’d be surprised,” he muses, reaching a hand up to drag over a chin shadowed over in faint facial hair, “Apparently, once you make it big, you have to learn about more things than just how to play an A chord on a guitar or sing in tune. Business, for example. That’s what you’ve been struggling with, yeah? The business aspect of it all?”

You kind of want to walk away from him. To go and eat shit in a different hallway, on your way to tell Lydia you can’t do this anymore.

“I’m not struggling,” you snap.

He’s quick to lift his hands in surrender, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Those were Matt’s words, not mine.”

“Yeah, well, tell Matt I’m fine,” you huff indignantly, “I’m a professional who can handle myself. I can figure this out on my own.”

You’re turning your back to him, ready to storm off dramatically for your own sanity, when he clears his throat.

You pause. You don’t turn to look, but you halt mid-step.

“Humor me, for a second,” he begins, “What exactly are you fully capable of figuring out on your own?”

“The planning,” you state the obvious, staring at an odd piece of art on the office wall to your left. Not quite turning your head to him, but angling so your voice carries.

“Yeah, no shit,” his words spark a little more anger, a little more rage, “I mean what part of the planning? You’ve left Matt at least two voicemails. Probably more, if he’s resorted to sending me.”

More like five. Possibly seven, but you’d indulged in more wine than would be wise to admitting this weekend after receiving your third venue rejection.

“Maybe he just got tired of babysitting you. Decided to make you someone else’s problem.”

“Maybe,” Eddie hums, and you can hear his slow footsteps as he slowly walks to block your vision of the abstract artwork. Your gaze is cut off from the silvery lines splattered across a black background and forced upon brown eyes that are more lively than you remember from the previous week, “But I already made the trip all the way down here. Might as well make myself useful to you.”

He’s still wearing that smile. The one that belongs captured in a polaroid at the back of your closet. The one frozen in a time that was so much simpler than this.

The kind that leaves a mark – a stain.

“You want to make yourself useful to me?” you narrow your eyes, straighten your shoulders, prepare for battle, “Then leave. That is the most useful thing you can do for me right now – walk out of this building, and leave me to figure this out without being a pest.”

Your words should hurt him, but they only seem to fuel him. It’s the exact same reaction you’d imagined on the other side of all the emails. A pep to his step and a perk in his posture that elicits unhinged annoyance from deep within you.

“No can do,” he smirks, “Sorry, I’m on Matt’s orders to not leave until we figure this out. Together.”

You don’t care how nice Matt is – you decidedly hate him at this moment.

“Eddie,” you don’t notice the way his chest catches when you say his name, even in your defiant tone, “I am telling you right now, there is nothing you can do to help.”

And then he takes you off guard, breathing still not quite steady as he breathes out, “Let’s go get coffee.”

“I already told you, I have no interest in getting coffee or lunch with yo-”

“Not like that,” he waves off, finally slipping back into his casual demeanor, “Just- throw me a bone here, Sugar. We don’t even have to talk. You can bring your laptop and phone, focus on work and pretend I don’t exist the entire time. But I have to stick around long enough to get Matt off my ass, and you clearly have been stuck in this stuffy ass building for too long.”

Sugar.

Your breath catches at the nickname, just as his had when you said his name.

Shakily, you exhale, “No, I-”

“Funny thing,” he shoves both hands in the pockets of his jeans. Well-fitted, fairly new. No signs of distress like he preferred in his youth. Just starch black that clings to skin you once knew, “I’m not asking. Technically, I’m your boss. And as your boss, I’m instructing you to join me for nothing more than a free coffee and change of scenery. Like I said, it’ll be as if I’m not even there. I’ll keep my mouth shut the entire time – strictly business.”

You nearly slip up and inform him that it doesn’t matter if he doesn’t talk – if he’s near you, your body always seems to know. Your body, your senses, your soul. Any time he occupies the same room as you, his vicinity lights something in you impossible to ignore. It had been that way since the first day you met him. And would probably continue to be that way until the day you were buried six feet under.

Even in death, his soul would probably haunt yours. You would never know another day of peace since meeting Eddie Munson.

“You’re not my boss,” you argue, crossing your arms, “You’re my client. Lydia is my boss.”

“And would Lydia appreciate you arguing with a client like this?”

“What do you want from me?”

The question falls from your lips with unexpected weight and exasperation.

Your arms fall down from your chest just as quickly as they’d risen, the two of you encased in silence as you both realize the implication behind the question. It’s about more than just the coffee, more than just his impromptu visit to your work. It’s the heaviest question you could have asked at this moment; and one that neither of you were ready to hear the answer to quite yet.

There’s a million unsaid words swirling behind whiskey irises. A hundred and one conversations never had, a thousand and one battles never witnessed on both ends of this war. Something in them whispers you might not be the only one haunted.

Maybe, just maybe, his soul will only haunt yours for as long as yours haunts his. A haunted house, a ghastly gallery. Two ghosts always meant to hang up parallel to each other in crooked frames, in an empty hallway.

“Just a coffee,” he whispers, and something in you cracks quietly, “Just one cup of coffee, for now.”

With all things considered, it’s not asking that much of you.

You don’t have any fight left in you. Whether he’s here, whether he’s a world away, you’re still destined to be stuck across from him in the damn hallway. Always staring, always drawn. There might not be a single corner of this world far enough away to break whatever thread ties you to the man before you, whether you still know him or not.

After a pregnant pause, you sigh, “Let me grab my purse.”

With all things considered, he probably should be asking more of you.

But you’re grateful he isn’t as you retreat and do exactly as promised, not looking Romina in her eyes before you begin your doomsday march for just one cup of coffee.

eddie's taglist: @capricornrisingsstuff @thisisktrying @hideoutside @vol2eddie @corrcdedcoffin @ches-86 @alovesongtheywrote @its-not-rain @feralchaospixie @cheesypuffkins87 @thebook-hobbit @babez-a-licious @eddies-acousticguitar @gagasbee @d64d-n0t-sl66p1ng @aysheashea @kellsck @cosmorant @billyhvrgrove-main @micheledawn1975 @eddiesxangel @siriuslysmoking @witchwolflea @tlclick73 @magicalchocolatecheesecake @mizzfizz @nanaminswhore @mikiepeach @ali-r3n

join my taglist!

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #rockstar!eddie munson #maroon #ghost's writing #ghost's stories #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson angst #i don't know how i feel about the email things i did but #i put too much effort into them to give up now waaah #was originally going to include the coffee date but that would have made it like 12k words lol

294 notes · View notes

lavenderbexlatte · 7 months

Text

day 3: mirror sex

stray kids 1.5k words gender neutral reader insert Reader x Bang Chan NSFW

🖤 warnings: undernegotiated kink, implied consent, themes of negative body image🖤

🎂 happy bang chan day~

kinktober masterlist

connect with me! / masterlist

Truly, these are the dangers of not pre-booking a place to stay.

Last-minute travel isn't usually your thing, but an unexpectedly long weekend means that there's finally time in your favorite guy's backbreaking schedule for a little getaway.

But last-minute travel, with no hotel booked, means love motels.

They're not as creepy as they sound, not usually dirty or weird. Inexpensive, yes, and usually a little older than the resorts and boutiques that most people prefer. They get a bad rap just because of the connotations, but like, people have sex in all kinds of hotels.

You think it's kind of cool, honestly. Homey, in a weird way.

The person at the front desk is a nice older lady, and she doesn't even blink as she asks if the two of you have any plans this weekend.

"Plans outside the room, I mean."

She winks. She's not subtle, but it's sweet.

And now, in the elevator, Chan is looking around in unmasked horror. Taking in the garish burgundy interior, the thinly-veiled adverts for sex workers taped to the walls.

"It's not that bad," you say.

"It'll be fine for two nights," Chan replies, sounding as if he doesn't believe that at all. "Anyway, we're only sleeping here. We'll have stuff to do."

"Oh, come on. We might as well put the place to its intended use."

Chan scoffs, as if the idea of using the sex motel for sex is ridiculous.

"As long as the room's clean, that's all I care about," you continue. "It's a hotel. Whatever."

"Whatever," Chan agrees tentatively.

He's still lying to himself, but he does relax a little.

When you get to your floor, things are extremely normal. Nondescript hotel decor, the faint smell of carpet cleaning solution and lemon furniture polish. Cleaner than other places you've stayed for far more money, honestly.

The room itself is at the end of the hall, which you like, for the privacy, even though there are only five or six rooms on the floor.

You let yourself into the room, and it's as clean and fresh as the rest of the hall. Again, about as good as it gets in terms of a cheap hotel.

"See?" you say.

Chan looks at you, clearly unimpressed.

"What? It's clean. I'll check for bedbugs, but other than that..."

He points upward.

There is a giant mirror stuck to the ceiling above the bed, but nowhere is perfect.

"Even that's clean," you joke.

The surface of the glass is spotless, no fingerprints and not even any dust that you can see from down here. Chan still looks unhappy. Cleanliness is obviously not his concern.

"Don't be a downer," you say.

"Why do people like that?" he grumbles.

You've set your bag down on the armchair in the corner of the room, rifling through it for your toiletries to set out in the bathroom, but you humor him without looking. "Like what?"

"The mirrors."

"In the room?" you glance at him. "Isn't that, like, the sex motel cliche? The heart shaped bed, the red lights, the mirrors?"

This room only has one of the above. Pretty tame.

"It just means you have to - I mean, you can already see your partner, why would you need-"

"You're really thinking about this," you interrupt.

He is. He really is, standing beside the bed and staring up at his own reflection pensively.

"It's so you can see yourself," you add, walking past with your armload of cosmetics.

From in the bathroom, you hear his answer, still pouty.

"Why would I wanna do that?"

Oh, here we go.

"Some people get off on it," you say.

He scoffs a laugh, humorless. You're being generous by not calling him out, here, because he's being self-deprecating. You hate that.

"I'm gonna terrify myself in the middle of the night," he says.

That might be true. He's a little bit of a scaredy-cat. But that's beside the point.

"That's not your actual problem, though," you reply, as you come back into the room proper.

He shrugs.

"Haven't you ever been curious?" you ask.

"About what I look like?" he shoots back, glancing back up at the mirror. "Done. Wow."

"I mean during."

Immediately, like flipping a switch, his ears flame pink. "Not really."

"No? Never?"

He looks at you pointedly. He knows what you're doing. You're not subtle, so that's fine.

"We should find out," you say, grinning.

It's a challenge, now.

Your gorgeous, gorgeous boy hates how he looks. That's common knowledge for anyone who's tried to get him to take a photo together, or shop for clothes, or compliment him on a new haircut. Most of your mutual friends just ignore it. But sometimes you just can't stand it.

He would never be the type to want to see himself in the mirror in the throes of passion, uninhibited. Which is exactly why he needs to give it a try.

"How easy do you think I am?" he accuses, correctly.

"I dunno." Instead of bothering him more, you flop down onto the bed yourself, feet still on the floor, staring up at your reflection. "You tell me."

The bait is laid, and like always, his insatiable ass can't help it. You two haven't had proper alone time in what feels like forever. He nudges between your knees, standing over you as you lay there on your back. You already like the look of the scene in the mirror, the way that his reflected form looms, the way it makes you look small.

"You know," Chan says, "We could put this place to its intended use."

You grin at your own words recycled. Great minds and all that.

"What an idea."

"Just an idea," he assures you.

He drops onto his knees, nudging you up the mattress to make room for himself.

You almost lose track of your own plan, once he kisses you. Hands roam, clothes are lost, the ease and comfort of something you've done so many times. For a while, it's just an encounter like all the others. His hands that know you, his warmth and presence and attention.

And then you remember, suddenly, once you're nude and he is too, and he's asking you how you want it.

"You on your back," you say, trying not to smile at your own ingeniousness and reveal the plan.

"You got it, baby."

He flips over, and he's settled fully into the pillows with you halfway onto his lap before he looks up. He looks up at the ceiling, and he realizes.

"Wait-"

"Gotcha," you smirk, settling fully on top of him.

He could very easily just knock you over and change things up, or he could ask you to stop, and of course, you would. But he doesn't. He just flushes, red again down his ears, his neck, and he covers his face with his hands.

"That's not gonna work," you say, peeling his fingers away from his eyes.

"I can't believe you tricked me," he says pitifully.

"I did no such thing," you reply. "But now that we're here, why don't we play a game?"

"Something tells me I won't like this game."

"Here's the rules," you say.

You pause long enough to rise onto your knees, to seek out his length - desperately hard, revealing that you haven't freaked him out too badly - and line him up.

"I'm gonna make us feel good. And you...have to look."

Chan pouts, putting his full lips to good use. "I'd rather look at you. Don't you want me to look at you?"

He punctuates it by running his hands up your back, hips to shoulder blades, soothing attention from gentle fingertips.

"I think you should look at yourself," you tell him.

"But-"

"Actually, no. I think you have to look at yourself," you decide.

He peeks upward. His flush deepens.

You're not sure why he doesn't like what he sees. From where you are, it's stunning. His slim body lines, the sharp cut of his face and his dark eyes against the bleached-white hotel sheets. Distractibly, biteably pink and embarrassed.

"If you don't look at yourself," you add, dropping your hips just enough so that he can feel you, "I'll stop."

He looks overdramatically betrayed, like a dog when you take their toy away to throw it. It's cute enough that you reach down to squeeze his face in your hand.

"That's the game," you say.

"Fine."

His voice is an embarrassed squeak, but that's consent, baby. You trust him enough to know that although he hates losing, he's not going to yes you to death if things are actually feeling uncool.

Permission granted, and his eyes dutifully trained on the ceiling, you ease yourself down onto his waiting length.

Curiously, once you're seated and he's swearing through his teeth, you tilt your head up to look at yourself, too. The angle isn't as good to see you, but you've got the gist of it. Your spread thighs, your arched back, the little bit of motion as you grind on top of him.

Nice.

"Don't we look good?" you ask, sweet as can be.

He nods against the pillow. "You look-"

"Not me," you tut. "You're not supposed to be looking at me."

Chan swears. You wait.

"I...I look..."

After a second, he swallows, and squeezes his eyes shut.

Pity.

You pull back up onto your knees. His wet cock slips free.

"I told you the rules. Keep looking at you."

#kinktober 2023 #kpop kinktober #stray kids fanfic #bang chan fanfic #bang chan fanfiction #bang chan smut #stray kids smut #kpop fanfic #kpop fanfiction #skz smut #skz fanfic

174 notes · View notes

lurkingshan · 6 months

Text

Breaking Down the I Feel You Linger in the Air Finale

Okay pals, I got some sleep and I'm ready to dig into this finale and all its beautiful messiness. I love this show and I'm frankly a little frustrated that we got such an incomplete resolution to the (hopefully) first season when there was ample time to do it right. As ever, pacing and time and information management continue to be major weaknesses for Tee Bundit. As I said last week, the writing for this show has been undeniably messy but it's still holding together on the strength of the production and the performances and the success of some of its big themes and character arcs; that take held firm through the finale and some of the baffling choices made about where to spend our time in this final installment. So, let's dig into it!

The Long Goodbye

I'll say upfront that this is my biggest beef with the pacing of the finale. We spent all of last week on a long and painful goodbye for Yai and Jom, perfectly executed, but for some reason we did another 45 minutes of it this week, not so perfectly executed. While I loved the covering of the mirrors, the saddest sex scene ever (complete with sex moans running as the audio over a memory montage how dare you show!), and the pain of Yai realizing he drew the final picture and watching Jom disappear, we didn't need to retread them saying goodbye to each other over and over again for two entire hours of story time, and we didn't need a long, sappy, on the nose speech from Jom saying things we already knew. As I told @neuroticbookworm, this might be my aro showing but I found the series of repetitive emotional goodbye conversations and memory montages exhausting and not in a good way. If I were the script doctor, I would have kept the mirrors, sad sex, and Yai drawing as the start of the episode and cut the rest, moving much more quickly into the next phase of the story.

Back to the Future

Jom returning to his present day life, trying to cope with his anguish and loneliness and adjust back into things, and further investigating the time travel mystery to figure out a way to reconnect with Yai should have been the main narrative of this episode. Instead, we got a truncated version of it that didn't have time to breath because we'd used up so much time on the above mentioned retread. For my money, Jom's devastation upon finding Yai's letter to him was the most emotionally resonant moment of the finale and the first part of the episode where I almost cried. But we had barely sunk into that feeling before it was abruptly cut short because we were out of time and Tee needed to wrap this baby up.

Eyebrow Scar Yai

Here’s where I get actually kind of peeved, because this final (pre-credits) scene was so poorly set up and executed that to even call it a resolution is a stretch. A modern version of Yai walks into the room, asks Jom why he's crying, tells him he's been waiting for him, kisses him, and then the credits roll!

Now I've been in the tags so I know this caused confusion for anyone who has not read the novel (me too, fam!). And that's because the show had not bothered to establish:

That Yai does in fact have a modern doppelgänger

Who the heck that doppelgänger is and how he’s connected to 1928 Yai

How that doppelgänger would be able to remember Jom when no other doppelgängers in the story can remember their past lives

Based on what we know, could we piece together a reasonable theory about who this man is, how he got there, and the final pieces of the mythology that make sense of it? Sure. In fact, bookworm and I pretty much guessed exactly what the explanation for this was after watching the show, and many of the elements at play here were theorized in conversations we had last week. Book readers like @tipsyjaehyun have now confirmed the full explanation for anyone who cares to go read it.

But the show did not tell us any of this information. If you have to read the novel or have novel readers spoil you on aspects of the story that the show didn't bother to cover in order to understand the ending of the story, the execution has failed. And given the pacing notes above, there is really no reason we couldn't have gotten a better set up for this ending with Eyebrow Scar Yai (yes I know his name but no I'm not using it because the show didn't bother telling me; I am petty like that). Jom could have found this descendant during his time of processing and the ending could have hinged on us realizing this modern Yai is a reincarnation who has his past life memories intact; had we gone into a final kiss between them feeling grounded in all of that knowledge, it would have landed so much better.

Hello Commander

And now on to the post-credits scene, where Tee puts a plea into the universe to give him a second season so he can play around in another time period and explore what is evidently the origin of this soul tie between Jom and Yai. I chose to read this episode tag as separate from the actual season 1 narrative, and I think that was the intention given its placement. If they secure funding for a second season, this tag scene becomes the beginning of that next story, with Eyebrow Scar Yai's kiss sending Jom into another time travel adventure. If they don't we can just ignore it and pretend the pre-credits scene was the end (which is why I'm not happy it was so poorly done). I, for one, would love to see a second season to explore another time period and give Tee a chance to clean up some of this mess he has made of the mythology and season 1 resolution. Shouts to @clairedaring for reporting back from the live showing of the finale on what the possibilities are looking like there. Fingers crossed we get a continuation of this story some day!

Tagging in @waitmyturtles and @twig-tea who also have linked posts above. And shouts to @blmpff @cankersoregirl @pharawee @wanderlust-in-my-soul @italianpersonwithashippersheart @bengiyo @dragonsareawesome123 @wen-kexing-apologist @junghaesin @stuffnonsenseandotherthings @slayerkitty @respectthepetty @chickenstrangers @sunshinechay @btwinlines for posting about this show every week and making it such a fun watch despite having a small audience on here. It was a pleasure watching this with you all!

#i feel you linger in the air #thai bl #shan shouts into the void

111 notes · View notes

flanaganfilm · 11 months

Note

Hi Mike!

I am loving the LONG posts you’ve been making about your career and films. I wonder if there is any such one for ‘Ouija: Origin of Evil’?

‘Doctor Sleep’ was the first film of yours I had seen where I went “What else has this guy made?” And I was so surprised to learn Ouija was yours as well, it took me back to that college date! When I bought it on blu-ray and showed it to my friend, she saw Alice and Doris and went “It’s Shirley!”

Id love to know what your thoughts and feelings are on the film, 7 years later. Cheers!

Sure thing! This will be a fun one... I had such a great time making that movie.

Back in the spring of 2015, we were shooting Hush. Blumhouse was coproducing the movie with Intrepid Pictures. This was my second outing with Blumhouse after they came aboard Oculus at tiff in 2013, and they'd even hired me do a little uncredited consulting on another movie they'd made - a teen horror flick called Ouija. The first Ouija movie was... well... not great, but it made a lot of money. And I mean a LOT of money. A sequel was inevitable.

Jason Blum started calling me about the project while we were working on Hush. Initially I passed on it, I wasn't interested - I wasn't sure how to make a movie about a Ouija board interesting, and I didn't see myself as a sequel filmmaker. It just wasn't a movie for me.

If you know Jason at all, you know he is one of the most persistent and persuasive people in the business.

He wouldn't take "no" for an answer, and the phone kept ringing. The bar was low, he argued. The first movie performed very well, and because the franchise was just hung on a board game, there was kind of a blank canvas. "What movie do you want to make, buddy? Because I promise you'll wait your whole career for someone to make you this kind of offer again. You are a fool if you don't say yes."

He finally made me an offer that I couldn't refuse: I could approach the film from any viable creative direction I wanted, just as long as it connected somehow to the first movie and involved a Ouija board, and if I did that (and brought in the scares the kids wanted), I'd have a guaranteed worldwide theatrical release through Universal Pictures.

It's hard to understate how appealing that prospect was at the time. Oculus had been released theatrically but only performed moderately well. Before I Wake had been caught up in Relativity's bankruptcy, so the promised theatrical release never occurred (at this time, the movie was tied up in bankruptcy court without any release on the horizon), and Hush had been scooped up by Netflix, which meant it would never see the inside of a movie theater.

This offered me substantial creative freedom and a guaranteed wide theatrical release with the full weight of Universal Pictures behind it... I finally agreed.

How could I not?

The first film was a contemporary elimination horror film about a group of teenagers who awaken a scary little girl ghost with a stitched-up mouth. She kills them one by one. I wasn't really drawn to that, and I pitched Jason instead on a prequel that focused on a single mother in the late 1960s. To my astonishment, he agreed.

They had their conditions - it had to be PG-13, it had to directly connect to the first film, and I had to deliver the movie on their budget. And I had my conditions - I wanted my crew (including my producer Trevor Macy and my DP Michael Fimognari), I wanted my period setting, and I wanted the movie to look like it was made in the late sixties, down to the zooms, the film grain, and all the other aesthetic bells and whistles. This wouldn't look like a contemporary movie.

Again, to my astonishment, they agreed.

They had one more stipulation, this one from Universal Pictures - no one could smoke cigarettes. And not just that, there couldn't be evidence of smoking in the movie; not even ash trays.

"But this takes place in the sixties," I argued. The NO that came in was emphatic and resounding. There was to be no evidence of cigarettes in our 1960's, and this was non-negotiable. This was a priority for Universal Pictures, and they were far more interested in eliminating cigarettes from the eyes of their young viewers than they were interested in historical accuracy.

Frankly, they were right.

We all agreed on the terms, and to my own admitted surprise, I went off to write and direct Ouija 2.

There was an immediate skepticism in the press when the project was announced, and a fair amount of mocking online. I was determined to ignore it. I really thought this could be fun. I felt like I had been given a gift; I had a huge canvas and precious few rules, and a guaranteed theatrical audience.

I wasn't just going to make Ouija 2; I was going to make Ouija 2 as well as it could possibly be made.

Sitting to write the script was a unique process. The only thing I knew for certain was the very, very end. Our connection to the first movie was that we were telling the origin story of Doris Zander, the ghost from the first film.

She came with some backstory that we were married to: the first movie told us her mother Alice was a professional medium. When Doris had been possessed after using an Ouija board, her mother had sewn her mouth shut and killed her. And we knew her older sister, Lina, had spent the rest of her life in a mental institution (where she grew up to be Lin Shaye), and was absolutely not to be trusted.

So no matter what I did, we had to land there. Everything else was fair game.

I was very interested in the idea of a family who worked as mediums, but most interested in them if they were not authentic psychics. I'd researched a lot about fake mediumship, and the tricks that were used in those performative seances to separate willing marks from their money. What if that was the family's business? What if her mother was something of a con artist, and her kids were part of the act? And what if they ran afoul of a real haunting?

And further, what if it wasn't that they were con artists - what if they were good people, behind it all? What if they had experienced loss themselves, and had rationalized their behavior by saying they were offering people comfort? This was interesting to me. It was cool, it was fun, and I hadn't seen that movie before.

The story was a lot of fun to write. I really enjoyed the characters, I really enjoyed the world, and I kept thinking about the kinds of movies that I loved growing up. Yeah, this was a movie for a younger audience, but maybe they'd sit in that theater and have an experience that would stay with them, the way the movies of my youth had stayed with me.

I thought about those movies: Poltergeist, The Omen, The Changeling, Watcher in the Woods... and I thought about the theatrical experience of them. Their music (I particularly honed in on Jerry Goldsmith's score from Poltergeist), their aesthetics, even the little markers in the upper corner that signal the reel changes - "cigarette burns", as they're called in the business.

All of those things were ornaments of my earliest theatrical experiences, and I wanted to recreate that for the young viewers who might seek out Ouija 2.

One thing that set Ouija 2 apart right away was that we were going to shoot in Los Angeles. I'd lived in LA since 2003, but I had never actually filmed a movie here (and haven't ever again, sadly). This was a really exciting factor - I could spend the day in prep at Blumhouse, and then go home and sleep in my bed.

This was also great for my home life. Kate and I were engaged by then, and Blum was very happy with Hush, so she ended up playing a small role at the top of the movie. Having just spent the Spring living in a hotel in Fairhope Alabama and only working nights, it felt very novel that I'd get up in the morning and go to the office, and be home for dinner. We absolutely loved it.

Casting was also fun. Terry Taylor at Blumhouse did the casting, and for the first time in a long time I could be in the room when actors came in to audition. This was all in-person, because we were in LA. For Before I Wake, we'd had to run the whole thing through the lens of foreign sales value and over choppy, pixelated FaceTime meetings that did not give us much understanding of who we were casting. Compared to that, this process was a real delight.

For Lina, I really wanted to bring back Annalise Basso, the young actress from Oculus. She'd done a terrific job on that movie, and this was a great chance to work together again.

Henry Thomas signed on as Father Tom, and we hit it off immediately. I had been a fan of his since... well, forever I suppose, but I was really excited that he'd be in our movie.

The big revelation, though, was Lulu Wilson. We auditioned a lot of girls for Doris, and we used a particularly upsetting monologue as the audition piece - a 60 second speech about what happens when someone is strangled to death. Lulu's audition knocked me over, and we cast her immediately.

(Fun note: in the film itself, Lulu performs the monologue almost exactly as she did in her audition. And she did it so well, we never cut away. Don't know many 10 year-olds who can hold an entire monologue like that... in fact, I know a lot of 40 year-olds who can't. Lulu Wilson kicks ass.)

Production began in September 2015.

From the jump, this movie was FUN to make.

We were using an antique zoom lens package to achieve the look, and after spending much of prep obsessively watching The Changeling and The Exorcist for inspiration, we were really excited to do something fun. Every day was like a trip to an amusement park.

Michael Fimognari and I enjoy one of the vintage cars

One set, it was a family reunion. I had a lot of my crew from Oculus, Before I Wake and Hush, and a few familiar faces in the cast as well. It even reunited me with Dougie Jones, who had worked for one day in my debut feature Absentia, and agreed to let us bury him in gross demon makeup.

I really can't overstate how fun this was. The movie had more genre set pieces than most of my other work combined, which meant every day we were dealign with ghosts, ghouls, and some wild stunt work. Annalise and Lulu were just delightful, and spent their days pulling escalating pranks on the crew. I would find myself tagged with dozens of C47's (clothespins) whenever Basso was on set, and Lulu was doing all of her own stunts and making us laugh like hyenas.

I was also really enjoying Henry. Toward the end of the shoot, I told him I wanted to put him in everything I did. He laughed and said "whatever, sure man, sign me up." He's been in everything I've made since.

We didn't have a lot of money, but had a lot more money than I'd ever had before, and because Universal was committed to a theatrical release, they wanted the movie to work. I felt supported at every turn. Trevor handled the production the way we'd always done, and this was now our fourth collaboration - I knew I had a producer for life.

Blum was also a delightful collaborator, popping up frequently to check in but always just to see if there was something we needed. I felt an enormous amount of trust from Blumhouse, Hasbro, Platinum Dunes and Universal. That's a lot of cooks for one kitchen, and believe when I tell you it can easily go south... but it didn't. In this case, it just clicked.

We got to do a lot of fun things that had nothing to do with horror, too. There's a lovely little scene in the movie where Lina has her first kiss. We modeled the entire shot sequence after the best kiss in the history of movies: Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly's smooch in Rear Window.

We were even able to perfectly mimic a slower frame rate just as their lips meet, exactly as Hitchcock had done in that movie. If you look in the background, the Rear Window poster is hanging on her wall. We were always careful to cite our sources (and there were a lot of them).

My favorite scene of the whole movie was a dinner date between Elizabeth Reaser and Henry that we filmed at the Cicada Club in downtown LA. This was a restaurant that I loved, as once a month it transformed into a full-blown time machine, putting a brass band on the stage and functioning like a 20's-era speakeasy.

The scene where Alice and Father Tom spend an evening out together was among my favorites in the script. It was two adults who were clearly attracted to each other, and who acknowledge it, but recognize the reality of their situation. As we were filming, I remarked to Fimognari that - for a movie about a haunted Ouija board - we were really getting away with murder. This was lovely, sweet, subtle character development, and no one was stopping me. After what we'd gone through on Before I Wake, I had to pinch myself.

My favorite scene of the film

It was set in a restaurant in the late 1960s - almost everyone in that room would realistically be smoking. Universal had been clear that there was to be absolutely no suggestion that cigarettes even existed in this world. But for the restaurant, I had to haze up the air. It was the only time I was questioned creatively, as there was immediate pushback.

"It's a restaurant," I said. "What if there's a fire in the kitchen, an entree got burned and that's why it's smokey?"

No one bought that for even a second. But they let me go ahead anyway. Man, I love that scene. And later, when it was all said and done, Jason Blum shocked me by telling me it was his favorite as well.

We wrapped the movie just before Halloween, and off we went into post. The holidays came and went, and Kate and I got married in February 2016. There was gentle pressure in the cutting room to make the film as tight as possible, and keep things short, but as with everything else, the pressure was decidedly gentle.

The movie's test screenings were very positive. People were very engaged by the story of the family, and the only issue people took seemed to be with the ending. It was a real downer to get so attached to everyone, only to have to kill Doris so brutally. The ending was, to put it mildly, very depressing - Father Tom was dead, Alice was dead, Doris was dead (and her mouth stitched up to stop the demonic voices), and Lina was condemned to the asylum. It was exactly what was required of us, and what was dictated by the first movie. But it hurt people's feelings.

My original ending had Lina in the asylum, crafting a handmade Ouija board out of her own blood, and trying to contact her dead sister. She tries and tries, but there is no answer. It is just silence. And we leave her saying "are you there? Are you there?" over and over again, as tears fall down her face. Doris wouldn't answer - in fact, Doris wouldn't answer for decades, when the first movie finally caught up to us. It was a haunting and sad ending, and I kind of loved it.

But test audiences are a fickle thing, and so we came back to tweak the ending, as the studio wanted one last scare to send us out on - not an unreasonable position, though it was a cliched one. We shot the film's current ending, with Doris' ghost on the ceiling of the asylum. It's as rote and impersonal a horror movie ending as I can imagine, but... well, it was Ouija 2, for crying out loud.

The movie we'd made up until that point had no business being as much fun as it was.

I remember the phone call I got from Blum after the movie was done. Universal had decided that they wouldn't call the movie Ouija 2 after all, they were worried about the number 2 making it feel less interesting.

Instead, they'd taken a big swing: the movie would be called Ouija: Origin of Evil.

I laughed out loud. I thought he was kidding. When it became obvious that he wasn't, I filed a protest. "It's not very good," I said. "It's cheesy. And not to put too fine a point on it, but the movie depicts neither the origin of the Ouija board, or of - um - Evil."

"Buddy, the title tested well. That's the way the cookie crumbles. Trust us, if the studio says it's Origin of Evil, it's Origin of Evil."

With a big theatrical release comes a lot of pomp and circumstance. There was a huge premiere for Ouija: Origin of Evil that October, and whatever nerves I had about the critical reception to the movie proved to be short-lived. People really enjoyed it. The overwhelming sentiment was that a sequel to a movie like Ouija frankly had no business being this interesting.

For all the pomp and circumstance, I missed it all. I didn't get to go to a premiere or walk the red carpet, as I was already in Alabama shooting Gerald's Game. On opening weekend, I took the cast and crew to a local theater in Daphne Alabama to see Ouija: Origin of Evil on the big screen.

The projection in this little backwoods theater was NOT good. The lamp was too dim (a common cost-saving strategy in some theater chains), and it was out of focus. I ran up to complain to the manager.

"The movie's soft focus on purpose," he said. "That's what the filmmakers wanted."

"No, it really isn't," I said.

The movie ultimately was not the runaway hit that the first Ouija was. Not even close, in fact.

To everyone's surprise, the teenagers just... didn't really show up. The first movie had grossed 103 MILLION dollars worldwide, but our little prequel only managed to do about 80. It was considered a modest success, not a hit by any means, but no failure. In the end, Universal decided maybe there wasn't a franchise to be had here after all.

So in the end, I had single-handedly revitalized and destroyed the Ouija franchise.

But man, believe when I tell you I've got no regrets whatsoever. I had the time of my life making that movie. Sure, some people groan about the ending, but that was kind of our only job - those were the cards we knew we had to turn over. Did you see everything that led up to that, though??? Did you see what we got away with?!

Since this movie, I've worked with a lot of people again. True to my word, I've put Henry Thomas in every single thing I've made since. Elizabeth Reaser came back to play Shirley in The Haunting of Hill House, and little Lulu Wilson - who was so wonderful as Reaser's daughter Doris - played the younger version of Shirley on that show. Lulu is also in The Fall of the House of Usher (and if you look closely, her original Ouija board and planchette are in frame with her.)

Kate sported a fun blonde hairdo for her small role in Ouija: Origin of Evil, and it was a really fun stepping stone between Hush and Hill House for her as an actor. There's a fun deleted scene where she goes home and murders her father, played by the great Sam Anderson. I really dug that scene, and I wish it was in there. You can see it on the blu-ray and DVD though, because even in a world where Netflix is trying to erase such things, Universal Pictures actually takes care of their movies with proper physical media releases.

I haven't yet found the next project to do with my friends at Blumhouse, but it's not for lack of trying, and my dance card has been booked solid since we wrapped this movie. It was an important step for my career, and their support was amazing. I know that we'll work together again, as soon as the timing is right.

Also, get this...

Ouija: Origin of Evil is my most successful movie.

Ever. Of all of them.

It did 82 million worldwide. That's better than Doctor Sleep, which did 72 million. It's better than Oculus, which did 44 million. The rest were all dumped to Netflix.

So yeah, Ouija: Origin of Evil is my most successful movie. Ain't that a trip?

We weren't trying to change the world, or reinvent the genre. I was making the second entry in a PG-13 franchise about an evil board game, and dammit if I didn't get to do everything I set out to do. There's an exuberance to the camera movement, the staging, the set design, and the lighting. There's an unbridled joy in this movie, and I smile whenever I think about it.

Up until this point in my career, every movie I had was hard-fought. Oculus was a trial by fire whose distribution deal was detonated days before it premiered. Before I Wake was a brutal experience both creatively and logistically. Hush was a labor of love and determination against all odds. But this one... man, this one reminded me why I wanted to make movies in the first place.

Because it can be really, really fucking fun.

#ouija board #ouija #ouija origin of evil #blumhouse #behind the scenes

334 notes · View notes

exilethegame · 1 year

Note

i've been having an itch to write an if game, do you have any tips? i feel like its a very bad idea to jump straight in head first yk?

So much of it is a "figure it out as you go" kind of thing, but here's what I've learned, personally, and how I usually go about things!

1.) Figure out the kind of story you're trying to tell. That goes with any form of media. Is it a comedy? A tragedy? Is it meant to read like an old fairytale or a YA novel? What makes writing good is incredibly subjective, so it's important to find your genre + voice as a writer and play into your strengths. You can't satisfy everyone, so aim to satisfy yourself.

2.) Figure out who the player character is. What is their history? What's their role in the story? Why are they the player character? Figure out how much variation you want for them-- what's solidified about their past, and what's open for headcanons, and what's open for choices in-game?

3.) Treat MC with as much dedication as your main characters-- don't separate them from everyone else. People want MC to feel like an active part of the story. This is a generalization, of course, but I know myself and others enjoy an MC who has agency and feels just as fleshed out as the other characters in the story. I don't want MC to feel like a "observer" but rather an active character in the narrative.

4.) Plan out your game mechanics + the affinity system ahead of time. This is something I didn't fully do, and while it wasn't earth destroying, it has made coding unnecessarily messy at times on my end. Is it a stat heavy game or choice heavy game? What are the important stats, and how often will the player be able to influence them? I find the second part of that to be the most important, as you want to pace stat increases/decreases with the length + pace of the game. For example, in The Exile, MC's personality can only change in the first three chapters. Once MC is brought to Plaithus, their personality is locked in. This goes for other variables too-- sometimes there are only "windows" when they're able to be influenced. This helps me keep track of what's what and not be overwhelmed by the amount of stats I have.

5.) Plan out your cast, and make sure everyone has a purpose to the story. If you can't defend the presence of a character in your story, you might need to rethink their presence, or otherwise change the character. This doesn't mean they need to have a giant, crazy character arc connected to the main story, but rather that they bring something to the table that other characters don't. That being said, it probably is a good idea to make sure every main character in the story has some sort of personal story arc. It can be small, but it's nice to see how characters change over the course of a narrative, otherwise they might feel "static."

6.) Know why you're making your story. Is it for yourself? Is it for fun? Is it to make money? Is it to make art? Will it be public or private? If you're making the game public, prepare yourself mentally and emotionally for critique and external opinions. I think we, as creators, sometimes underestimate (especially in IF and on Tumblr) just how crazy things can get with reader/author interactions.

And, my final piece of advice...

7.) Learn to set boundaries and say no with a full chest. Your game is your game at the end of the day, no one else's. Do what makes you feel happy and fulfilled and write the kind of story you want to read. And, of course, be easy on yourself. Writing takes time and effort, and sometimes you'll hit hurdles. The most important thing is to be patient with yourself and learn to keep on going forward, even when the going gets tough. As I always like to say, writing slowly is better than not writing at all!

Best of luck if you decide to make the jump and write a game!

#answered #writing advice #of course this is just my two cents!

204 notes · View notes

kteezy997 · 5 months

Text

6 Months- Part Twelve, Epilogue//t.c.

Warnings: okay this one just gets filthy, like tit sucking, female receiving oral sex, missionary, doggy, very possessive Timmy, light breeding kink, breast milk kink? Idk what you’d call it really, oh yeah and there’s cursing, and a cumshot

A/N: This is mostly sex I hope no one is disappointed.

18+ readers only, please

Two Months Later…

Hayden called Cameron to apologize for his behavior when they met for lunch. He sounded sincere, and genuinely embarrassed by the way he acted. He even told her that he was monitoring his drinking and that he was happy for her in her new relationship. To her, he seemed to be doing a lot better.

Cam responded by inviting Hayden for dinner one night, after getting Timmy’s approval. She didn’t need Timmy’s permission for anything, of course, but she didn’t want to make her boyfriend uncomfortable in any way, especially in his own home.

She was thrilled that Timmy welcomed the idea, because she had a new idea in mind.

Hayden, like Timmy, was a good guy with some emotional issues that he was working on. He had the potential to be a great partner for someone. And Cam had someone in mind for Hayden: her agent, Darcy.

Darcy had met Hayden a few times through working with Cameron. She agreed with Cam that Hayden was more like a good friend to her, rather than a lover. Cam had no qualms about setting them up. She would have bet money that they would be compatible.

Cam decided to invite Nova over for dinner too, so it didn’t seem too much like a set-up. But that didn’t really matter because when Hayden came in, he saw Darcy and they locked eyes, it was like instant chemistry. They smiled at each other, exchanging kind hellos. Everyone in the room could feel it, their connection. Cam was satisified.

Even Timmy was impressed by Cam’s matchmaking skills, “I gotta admit it babe, you’re kind of a genius.”

She shrugged and added a little smirk, “I just knew that they would hit it off tonight. I’m so glad that Hayden is doing better and doesn’t hate us anymore.”

“Yeah, I’m glad he came around too. He’s not a bad guy. I'm sure he was just hurt, but that's in the past now."

A little while later, Timmy got settled in bed, and waited for Cam. As she was coming over to the bed, he said, "So, you promised that you'd tell me what the book is about tonight. Spill it, Reese." he smirked.

Cam sighed with a blush, "Okay, here goes: it's inspired by us."

Timmy was taken aback. "How?"

"Very loosely, it's based on our story. Me and you. But he is a mafia boss and she is an aspiring fashion designer. He kidnaps her and gives her six months to fall in love with him."

"Oh, shit." Timmy didn't know what to say. He felt kind of guilty. The bad feelings that he wished away came crawling in, but Cam brought him back.

"You know, it's kind of funny to think of how scared I was in the beginning, and how much I hated you. That was only four months ago, but now I feel like I've known you all my life."

"I only hoped that we would be like this, I feel like you're my soulmate, Cam. I want to do everything in life with you. But I'm sorry for how our story started."

"Don't apologize for it anymore." she leaned over the bed, cupping his face in her hands, "I'm here with you, there is nowhere that I would rather be." She then kissed his lips. When she pulled away from the kiss, she said, "I have the first draft on my phone, want me to read something to you?"

"Yes, please." he implored her.

......

Cam read a bit of her smut from her unpublished book, Six Months, to Timmy. "'Don't provoke me', warned Nicholas." she read, "'I'm not used to being gentle'."

As she continued to read to him, Timmy got turned on. He started to undress himself and his girlfriend as she kept her eyes on the screen and stimulated him with her words and her voice. "I can't believe you write this stuff. You're just as perverted as me."

Cam grinned and then bit her lip as Timmy started to leave kisses on her thigh. She cleared her throat, reading on, "Sienna looked down, his cock was growing hard, but she paid his desperation no mind." Cam let out a soft moan when she felt Timmy's hands on her breasts, "She turned away from him, but he caught her aggressively by the throat." She did her best to stay focused on her words.

Timmy piped up, "So it seems that Sienna doesn't mind provoking him." he smirked up at Cam. "What happens next?" Without any warning, he latched onto her breast with his mouth.

"Fuck!" Cam whimpered, not expecting it. But she kept up the conversation, knowing that it was fueling her man's libido. "Well, he fucks her in the shower."

Timmy hummed on her tit, letting her know that he was listening. He wanted her to keep reading, all while he sucked her tits.

"Ooh, mm." she moaned as he squeezed the breast that was not occupied by his lips. He pinched the free nipple as he suckled the other. "'What are you gonna do?' Now Sienna was the one daring him. Nicholas was astonished at her disobedience, and he answered, 'I'm gonna wait until you want me, and then I'm gonna fuck you so hard, they will hear you moaning in Nevada." Timmy then bit down on her nipple. "Ahh!"

Timmy chuckled as he popped off of her tit, "You fucking whore. Stealing my line so blatantly for your book, huh?" he nestled between her legs, touching her wet pussy with his deft fingers.

Cam laughed, laying back to let him have his way with her.

"Fuck, just listening to you, I get hard. But that fact that you wrote those words makes me want to fucking impregnate you."

Cam moaned, and he slipped his fingers into her pussy, “Oh? You want me to have your babies, Timmy?”

“Fuck yes, you’re having my kids.” He pumped his fingers in and out, and rubbed her clit with his other hand.

“Mm, yes, of course as many as you want.” she rolled her hips, meeting the thrusts of his fingers.

“I’ll fill you with my cum, my love, and you’ll swell with our baby inside you. I’ll make you a mommy. I want my children to be as smart and beautiful as their mother.”

Wow, he is so into this, Cam thought. “Yes, I want that so much, baby. You know my tits will be huge when you get me pregnant, right?”

“Oh, god yes.” Timmy stopped what he was doing and leaned down, grabbing her breasts, “I want them full of milk for the baby, and for me to try, if you’ll let me?”

Cam giggled, “Okay, only if you’re such a good daddy, I’ll let you suck them for milk.” She was surprised how delighted she was at thought of her man drinking from her. “But the baby would come first.”

“Yes, I know.” He then kissed her, then he caressed her face. “I want to ask you something and you can definitely say no because it’s so fucking weird and possessive of me, but I’d like to be the only one to drink your milk from your boobs. You’d pump milk for the baby, and we’d bottle feed him or her. I just want your tits for myself.” He bit his lip, anxious for her response.

“Hmm, you are oddly possessive. But I kind of love that about you, babe.” Cam touched his cheek. “We can do that. No one has to know, it’s just for you and me. I love how much you love my boobs. It’s a way for you and I to bond too.”

“I don’t want to overstep. It’s your body. You decide what to do with it, not me. It’s just an idea.”

“No, no. It’s okay. I’m not even pregnant yet, so we don’t have to think about it right now.”

“Okay. I want you, now, Cameron.” he said plainly with a grin before he climbed over top of her to kiss her. He then backed down, burrowing between her thighs to lick her pussy.

“Mm.” Cam cried, shoving her hand in his messy hair.

Timmy lapped steadily on her clit for a moment before taking the sensitive bundle gently in his mouth and moaning, making her body vibrate.

She gasped, accidentally squeezing his head with her thighs in response.

He didn’t mind. In fact, he grabbed her thighs, locking himself between them and assaulted her clit some more, holding it in his mouth and rubbing it with his tongue.

“Yes, I’m gonna come, Timmy, don’t stop!” she shrieked, tugging on his curls with one hand and gripping the sheets with the other.

Just another minute more of his tongue fidgeting over her clit, and her knees were knocked together as she came for the first time.

Timmy came up for some air, finally. He panted as he grinned at her, pushing his curls back out of his face. He slid his cock into her before she really had the time to come down from her orgasm.

Cam writhed and arched her back as he pounded into her. His balls slapped her wetness with each thrust.

He put his hand on her, his thumb resting on her pussy and he rubbed her clit that way. His other hand snaked up her body and he squeezed her throat.

She put her hand on his wrist and they locked eyes as he choked her, all while he bucked his hips against her.

He moved his hand from her neck to her jaw, and she sucked on his thumb suggestively, moaning around his digit. Timmy pulled his cock out of her, and picked her up, turning her over with her ass up.

Cam gasped, then bit her lip as he grabbed her by the hips and stuck his cock back in her pussy. She snuggled into the pillow as he took her from behind.

Timmy thrusted hard and began to sweat. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer with his view of Cam’s ass bouncing on his waist. He kneaded the softness of her butt as he stopped moving and he smacked her cheek.

She moaned and steadied herself to back her lower half onto Timmy’s cock.

“Yes, baby. Fuck me. Fuck your future baby daddy’s cock.” He kept his hands on her, running them over her ass and hips as she gained some strength and fucked him back harder.

Cam threw her hips back hard, leaving loud smacks on Timmy.

Timmy shook his head, loving what she was doing to him.

She moaned, growing tired after a moment.

He took ahold of her hips, knowing that she was almost through. He gave her a round of steady thrusts. Gently, he tugged on her hair to raise her head up and she obliged him. He leaned forward and kissed her on the head.

Cam cooed lovingly at his sweet kiss. She whimpered as she felt his fingers on her clit, slow at first, then a little faster. He made her come just a minute later.

Timmy rolled her over, stroking his cock over her stomach.

She panted as she watched him, eager for his cum on her skin.

He groaned softly as his cock spurted out several drops of his cum onto her belly. Once he was finished, he captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

A/N: I may or may not have an idea for a sequel to this, if anyone would be interested?? Or should I move on to something else?

@gatoenlaciudad @thebetawolfgirl @musicandbooksaremyhappyplace @tchalamss @softhecreator @chalametbich

#timothée chalamet #timmy chalamet #timothée imagine #timothee chalamet smut #timothée chalamet smut #lil timmy tim

99 notes · View notes

hermajestyimher · 2 years

Text

The Trap of Materialism: Why the Endless Rat-Race to the Top Will Only Make You Miserable:

Follow on Twitter

Part of the reason why I'm so vocal against the wave of New Money extravagance and excessive material boasting stems from how much it is ruining our perception of what a truly successful person looks like, and how success is actually measured. Social media is inundated with content that encourages us and makes us believe that the only path to true success, happiness, and a levelled-up life is through the constant, never-ending pursuit of material wealth, oftentimes at the cost of our own integrity, morals, and well-being. Material wealth that is not based on quality and tasteful inclinations, but on the excessive consumerism and tacky, insecure-driven flexing of expensive items for the sake of the brand and price tag solely.

We are being told by the algorithm that our lives are insufficient if they do not measure up to the curated standards that influencers portray on their social media accounts. We are constantly being bombarded with an onslaught of stimuli from flex-culture that makes us feel inadequate if we happen to not compare in our real lives, creating a need in us to want to achieve that same level of material wealth in an attempt to gain a sense of validation we would otherwise not be able to receive from the masses.

This rat race to the top of the consumerism and materialistic pyramid is killing us. It's making us feel anxious, depressed, and unappreciative of the things we have in life, making us lose sight of the things that are actually important, making us fall for online scams, skewing our live perspectives and goal settings, and making us worship people based on their perceived status and online persona. This is not a healthy way to live, and most people in our society are trapped in this cycle without even realizing it.

We are being told that pursuing a meaningful career and building wealth the correct way through secure long-term investments and education is not worthy, instead, we are being sold a fantasy of instant gratification and get-rich-quick schemes that appeal to the most immature and easily impressionable of our society: the youth. Chasing after things like fame, money by any means necessary, and hedonism will only leave you depressed. Living a life that has no real, tangible fulfillment or peace, where the opinions and perceptions of others towards you keep you in a constant state of worry is not a life worth living.

As a society and generation, we need to learn to break free from this insidious and toxic cycle of worshipping material wealth, online personas, and fast pleasures that don't deliver any lasting fulfillment. What truly matters in this world are our connections to people, how much good we can impart to others, and our accomplishments through hard work and dedication (e.g. achieving an education, building long-term financial stability, creating a name for yourself).

Take some time to reassess your life and ask yourself if the goals that you have set forward are truly yours, or if you have been influenced by the society around you to want to achieve something just to be perceived in a certain kind of way. Ask yourself, are the activities I engage in truly satisfying me as a person, or am I simply complying with the world around me to fit in, despite making me unhappy? The quicker you are able to assess the things that are and aren't helping you live a good life, the less time you will waste chasing after things that will only keep you from it.

#blog piece #things ive learned #materialism #consumerism #capitalism

736 notes · View notes

iheartyouyou · 2 years

Text

This Weekend? | Steve Harrington

Requested by anonymous: hey! i was wondering if you could write something for steve harrington? (if u have not seen stranger things just ignore this) maybe something where it’s set in season 3 and steve still worked at scoops ahoy trying to pick up girls and he hits on you and you give him a chance sorry if that doesn’t make sense, feel free to ignore

Authors Note: I so loved this idea! This is my first time writing for Steve, so it may not be the best but thank you so so so much for requesting! This is a repost from my old blog.

Summary: Steve hits on you while you order for ice cream, you give him a chance, leaving him and his co-worker in shock. (set in stranger things 3 when he worked at scoops ahoy)

“What about ice cream? You guys up for ice cream?” You ask, your eyes glued on the neon ‘Scoops Ahoy’ sign. You watched as many people walk in, and out with delicious looking banana splits or cones. You were really in a mood for a banana split.

Your friends invited you to hang out with them at the mall. You guys shopped for hours, leaving the three of you bored as you guys didn’t have much money left.

“You want to spend the rest of the money on ice cream?” Your friend, Diane, asks.

“Not all of it. We can share a banana split or something.” You offered.

“A banana split sounds good.” Your other friend, Jessica says, Diane agreeing. “But you’re getting it… we’re staying here.”

“What?” You ask.

“Our legs hurt! We’ve been walking around for hours.” Diane complains.

You rolled your eyes. “Whatever.” You mumbled before grabbing the money from Diane and making your way to the ice cream place.

You walk in. There was no line, perfect. Everybody was already sitting down, eating their ice cream.

You make your way to the front counter, watching as a unfamiliar guy was talking to a girl, his co-worker you assumed since they were wearing the same outfit, through the small window that connected to the back room.

You rung the bell that was sitting on the counter. The guy swings around. “Ahoy! What can I get you? A taste of Cherries Jubilee? What about U.S.S. Butterscotch?” He grinned at you.

You laughed nervously. You scanned over the menu quickly before answering. “What about a banana split? With uh… vanilla ice cream.”

“Coming right up!” He exclaims, grabbing a plastic dish. He grabbed a banana before peeling it and cutting it in half. “What’s your name?” He asked, whipping out his ice cream scooper and doing a trick with it.

You quirked your eyebrow up. “Y/N.”

“You don’t have a last name?” He scooped three scoops of vanilla ice cream, placing them in between the bananas on the dish.

“It’s Y/L/N. Y/N Y/L/N.” You say, watching as he grabbed the whipped cream. “You want whipped cream, right? Steve Harrington by the way.”

You nod. That name sounded oddly familiar…

“Sprinkles? Cherries? Any sauces?”

“Chocolate and Caramel sauce, please.” You respond.

He drizzles some chocolate and caramel sauce on the dessert. “Alright! One banana split, that’s four bucks.” He says, handing you the split as you handed him the change. “You like Run-D.M.C?” He asks, noticing your shirt.

You look down at your shirt. “Oh yeah.”

“I was actually gonna buy that exact same shirt!” He says, smiling.

“Yeah? Why didn’t you?”

“Too expensive. Why buy a shirt of theirs when I could just listen to their music?”

“I thought the same thing! My friend insisted on buying me it anyways.”

“This was fun. You know.. we should kind of like, you know, hang out this weekend or something.” He blurts.

Your eyes widen. Was he asking you out?

“Or like the weekend after, doesn’t really matter.” He adds.

Smooth.

You think about it for a moment, blushing. This, incredibly, hot guy was asking you out. There was no way.

“When does your shift end?” You ask him.

Now it was his turn for his eyes to widen. His co-worker does too, popping her head out the window. He quickly turns around, mouthing something to his co-worker as her jaw drops.

He turns back around. “It— It ends at nine.”

“I’ll come find you then, Steve.”

He doesn’t say anything except nod.

You spin around, making your way back to your friends.

“What took you so long— you didn’t even grab spoons!” Diane says.

You ignore her, placing the almost-melted banana split in front of her. “Some really cute guy just asked me out.”

#st4 #stranger things #steve harrington x you #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington x reader

935 notes · View notes

unicornjoking1111 · 10 months

Text

Success stories in Neville goddard's book (the power of awareness)

*this is not my work as it is a copy paste of neville goddard's book*

This is the story of a very unexpected result of an interview with a lady who came to consult me.

One afternoon a young grandmother, a business woman in New York, came to see me. She brought along her nine-year-old grandson, who was visiting her from his home in Pennsylvania. In response to her questions, I explained the law of assumption, describing in detail the procedure to be followed in attaining an objective. The boy sat quietly, apparently absorbed in a small toy truck while I explained to the grandmother the method of assuming the state of consciousness that would be hers were her desire already fulfilled. I told her the story of the soldier in camp who each night fell asleep, imagining himself to be in his own bed in his own home. When the boy and his grandmother were leaving, he looked up at me with great excitement and said, "I know what I want and now, I know how to get it." Surprised, I asked him what it was he wanted; he told me he had his heart set on a puppy. To this the grandmother vigorously protested, telling the boy that it had been made clear repeatedly that he could not have a dog under any circumstances . . . that his father and mother would not allow it, that the boy was too young to care for it properly, and furthermore the father had a deep dislike for dogs — he actually hated to have one around. All these were arguments the boy, passionately desirous of having a dog, refused to understand. "Now I know what to do," he said. "Every night just as I am going off to sleep, I am going to pretend that I have a dog and we are going for a walk." "No," said the grandmother, "that is not what Mr. Neville means. This was not meant for you. You cannot have a dog." Approximately six weeks later, the grandmother told me what was to her an astonishing story. The boy's desire to own a dog was so intense that he had absorbed all that I had told his grandmother of how to attain one's desire — and he believed implicitly that at last he knew how to get a dog. Putting this belief into practice, for many nights the boy imagined a dog was lying in his bed beside him. In imagination he petted the dog actually feeling its fur. Things like playing with the dog and taking it for a walk filled his mind. Within a few weeks it happened. A newspaper in the city in which the boy lived organized a special program in connection with Kindness to Animals Week. All schoolchildren were requested to write an essay on "Why I Would Like to Own a Dog." After entries from all the schools were submitted and judged, the winner of the contest was announced. The very same boy who weeks before in my apartment in New York had told me "Now I know how to get a dog" was the winner. In an elaborate ceremony, which was publicized with stories and pictures in the newspaper, the boy was awarded a beautiful collie puppy. In relating this story, the grandmother told me that if the boy had been given the money with which to buy a dog, the parents would have refused to do so and would have used it to buy a bond for the boy or put it in the savings bank for him. Furthermore, if someone had made the boy a gift of a dog, they would have refused it or given it away. But the dramatic manner in which they boy got the dog, the way he won the city-wide contest, the stories and pictures in the newspaper, the pride of achievement and joy of the boy himself all combined to bring about a change of heart in the parents, and they found themselves doing that which they never conceived possible — they allowed him to keep the dog. All this the grandmother explained to me, and she concluded by saying that there was one particular kind of dog on which the boy had set his heart. It was a collie.

#loa success #loa #manifestation #neville goddard #vaunts & affirmations #the void state #void success #void state #law of assumption

83 notes · View notes

ms-m-astrologer · 3 months

Text

Transiting Venus enters Capricorn

Tuesday, January 23 - Friday, February 16, 2024

Venus transits are back to being on the “brisk” side, lasting about 25 days in total length, for the rest of 2024. She’s a trigger now, not an instigator. Transiting Venus will mean a little bit more if you happen to be Venusian (Sun, Moon, &/or an angle in Taurus or Libra; Sun &/or Moon in the 2nd or 7th Houses; natal Venus in close aspect to the Sun, Moon, &/or an angle). But for the rest of us, Venus will need to set off something the slower-moving planets are trying to instigate.

After the adventures of the “Wild Wild West” Venus/Sagittarius, we’re looking for a little control and discipline. Less flailing around, more planning and strategizing. This can be a very snobbish time, especially if our natal Venuses (Veni?) tend to operate on the shallower side.

Bear in mind that the transiting South Node - where we’re getting something wrong - is in Libra, which is ruled by Venus. We need to be a little critical of Venus themes and processes right now, and use Venus’ transits as opportunities to clean up our act.

Art - We can get very snobbish and turn art into a way to enforce “class” divisions. Or, going the “Capricorn miser” route, we disdain all artistic expression as a waste of time, money, and effort. In more positive use of the energy, we put a lot of planning into our artistic expression, and we’re patient and careful about the execution. This is good for launching longer-term projects. (Like the next blanket I plan to crochet.)

Beauty - Sometimes we’ll go out of our way to get ugly; we can’t resist showing our contempt for “appearances.” Other times we twist that Capricorn key phrase “I use” and wield our beauty as a weapon of manipulation. We can try to move beyond a definition of “beauty” as what’s on the surface - &/or make every effort to find the beauty in nature.

Love - This can get transactional: “What’s in it for me?” Sometimes we play games: “If I behave horribly, will they still love me?” This can be an opportunity to prove that love is responsible, patient, and in it for the long haul.

Money - The stereotypes are the miser with all the cash stuffed in the mattress, and the CFO intent on eternally-increasing profits. Dragonish, really, petty little Smaugs all of them. Better to invest with the longer-term in view: we can make improvements to the home, the wardrobe, etc.

Give about a day or so on either side of the following aspects - maybe longer if any of them connect with something in your birth chart.

Saturday, January 27 - Sunday, January 28:

Venus/Capricorn sextile Saturn/Pisces, 6°00’

Venus/Capricorm trine Jupiter/Taurus, 6°59’

Really, really nice; if this dings something in your birth chart I am extremely jealous! The three planets are in a three-way mutual reception - Venus/Cap is disposited by Saturn/Pisces, which is disposited by Jupiter/Taurus, which is disposited by Venus/Cap. This strengthens the aspects considerably. Hard work and good luck join hands.

Monday, February 5 - Venus/Capricorn square Chiron/Eris, 16°10’. Hurt feelings. We may be too cold, emotionally; we may bargain and negotiate in bad faith. If we’ve hurt someone, we should swallow our pride and make amends.

Wednesday, February 7:

Venus/Capricorn square North Node/Aries and South Node/Libra, 18°53’

Venus/Capricorn trine Uranus/Taurus, 19°08’

Venus/Capricorn trine Juno Rx/Virgo, 19°23’

We have an Earth sign grand trine but Venus is square the Nodes. And remember that Venus rules Libra, which is the South Node’s sign. Some of us are going to realize how we get in our own way every time we “go along to get along,” while others will double down on that. Flowing aspects (like trines) aren’t necessarily good aspects - with this one, any social-climbing is going to come back and bite us in the butt. Instead of trying to scheme and manipulate our way into some kind of high-status relationship, let’s try to find ways to improve everyone’s status quo.

Sunday, February 11 - Venus/Capricorn square Eris/Aries, 24°14’. We’re frustrated - perhaps because we didn’t get our own way; perhaps we tried to manipulate matters and got caught; perhaps because “nobody appreciates all the sacrifices I’ve made for them.” Maybe we could learn to do someone a favor without ulterior motives?

Tuesday, February 13 - Venus/Capricorn sextile Neptune/Pisces, 26°09’. Really beautiful. We’re able to put those Neptunian daydreams and fantasies into concrete form. A very romantic Valentine’s Day Eve, with a traditional flavoring.

Note that Venus will enter Aquarius with the proverbial bang: a conjunction to Pluto.

#Astrology #Transiting Venus enters Capricorn #Ms M astrologer

23 notes · View notes

all-the-things-2020 · 3 months

Text

Late Night Talking - Chapter Three

Summary: Dieter and Emily go on date number two at Venice Beach.

Rating: PG

Notes: I’m writing exclusively from Emily’s POV but will include little transcripts here and there to show Dieter’s perspective. I gave Dieter a brother named Friedrich. They call each other Freddy and Deet.

[Telephone call between Dieter Bravo and his brother Friedrich]

Friedrich: What happened now?

Dieter: Why do you assume something happened? Maybe I’m just calling to hear your amazing voice.

F: Because it’s one o’clock in the fucking morning, Deet.

D: Shit, sorry. It’s only ten here. But Freddy, I have to talk to you. This is big, bro.

F: Work big or personal big?

D: Personal. I think I just met the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.

F: [sighs] Is this going to be like Jonathan?

D: No. Nothing like Jonathan. That was just … I was stupid then. And horny. But Emily — her name is Emily — she’s amazing, Freddy.

F: I’m sure she is, but don’t get ahead of yourself. You always leap without looking.

D: I know but there’s something … we just clicked, you know? Met her in a bookstore and we went to another one for our first date. Couple of drinks, dinner at a tapas place. Nothing fancy but … I haven’t felt this alive since I stopped using.

F: I’m happy for you, Deet, but be careful. Don’t jump into anything. Promise me.

D: I’m gonna marry her.

F: Give it a year. If you still feel the same way, then go for it.

D: A whole year?

F: A whole year. Promise me, Deet.

D: [sighs] I promise. But mark your calendar. I’ll be calling you a year from now to tell you we’re engaged.

F: If you say so. Look, man, I need to get some sleep.

D: Okay, sorry. I just … I had to tell you.

F: I know. Make good choices. Night.

[Call ends]

****************************************************************************

I texted Dieter as soon as I got home and he replied instantly.

Me: Home safe

Dieter: Same here. Had a great time tonight.

Me: So did I

The typing indicator showed up, then disappeared, then showed up again. When it disappeared for a second time, it stayed off. I was puzzled until my phone rang.

”Hello.”

”Hey, I hope you don’t mind but I figured it’s easier to do this talking than texting. I hate texting, anyway.” He chuckled softly.

”It’s fine,” I said. “So, you had a good time?”

”A great time,” he corrected me. “I … look I’m not really that good at this kind of thing. In my line of business you get people fawning all over you and they always want something … it’s hard to trust, you know? But I didn’t get that from you.”

”I know you’re famous and all that, but you’re still just a guy,” I said. “I had that bubble burst a long time ago when one of my friends introduced me to one of the members of a band their Dad knew. I thought it was going to be magical and he turned out to be boring. Literally spent most of the time talking to her Dad about some kind of woodworking tool he’d bought and how he was trying get his son to make a bird house.”

Dieter laughed. “I’m not that boring, I hope.”

”Not at all. But you’re still just a guy. Who happens to make his living pretending to be other people and gets paid obscene amounts of money to do it.”

”Not that obscene,” he said. “At least, not for a while.” He cleared his throat. “Look, before we go any further, I’ve got to be honest with you. I’m kind of fucked up. I mean, more than the usual ‘everybody’s messed up one way or the other’.

“I’ve been in rehab. I was using a lot of shit to escape reality and … I almost died on the set of Cliff Beasts 6. Like literally OD’d and they had to restart my heart. I swore off the hard stuff after that and checked myself in. No more coke, no more acid, no more mystery pills.

”And I connected with my therapist there. She’s amazing and she gets me. So I have rules now. Alcohol if I’m with other people, never when I’m alone. Nothing stronger except this one brand of edibles that mellow me out when I’m super anxious. And I’m on meds to straighten out my brain chemistry. And I have a session with her every week. So, that’s me …”

“I knew about rehab,” I said carefully. “It was on the Internet and gossip magazines. But I didn’t know you almost died. That must have been really scary.”

“Scared the shit out of me,” he said. “There was this girl who worked at the hotel. She’s the one who found me and helped revive me. She professed her love for me in the ambulance and … it lasted about three weeks. I woke up one day and realized ‘Shit, I’m in my forties, and this girl’s in her twenties. What am I doing with my life?’ And I checked into rehab the next day.

“I had to drop out of a couple of projects, and my career was already heading down the crapper anyway — I mean, Cliff Beasts? — so I’m kind of starting over.”

”That’s okay,” I said. “Like I said, you’re just a guy who happens to be an actor. Your job doesn’t have anything to do with why I enjoyed the evening with you. We would have had fun if you were a CPA or a garbage man or whatever.”

“Yeah, and that’s why … I’d really, really like to see you again. Soon.”

”So would I,” I said. “I’m off work for the summer so my schedule is wide open.”

“How about Sunday? I have some shit to take care of tomorrow for a charity. Wait, that didn’t come out right, it’s a charity, it’s not shit …” He sounded a bit flustered. “Sunday. We can go to the beach. Unless that’s too long a drive for you?”

”Traffic shouldn’t be too bad on a weekend. And I haven’t been to the beach for a while. I’d love to.”

”It’s a date then. I’ll … I’ll text you tomorrow what time to meet and where, if that’s okay?”

”That’s perfect,” I said.

”Well, I should let you get to bed. I’m sure you’re tired after listening to me all night and driving and everything.”

”Yeah, you should get some sleep, too. Got to be fresh for the charity shit, right?”

He laughed. “Yeah. Good night.”

”Good night.”

The call ended and I sat on the couch staring at my phone for a few minutes. Then I texted Sam.

*****************************************

We were on the boardwalk at Venice Beach. It was a hot day, so the place was crowded, perfect for people watching.

“Oh, my God, your dog is so cute!” Dieter fairly ran across the boardwalk to a young couple with a Corgi on a leash. It was wearing a bow tie. “Can I take a picture?”

I followed more slowly, ready to apologize to them for my date’s ridiculous behavior, but they were already making the dog pose and look even more adorable, if that was even possible. Dieter snapped a picture of the dog, then shoved his phone at me before getting down on the ground. “Get a picture of me with the dog,” he said. His goofy grin was irresistible. I snapped a couple of pictures of him and the dog, then we chatted a bit with the couple. The dog was a boy, named Kirby, and while he seemed to enjoy the attention, he was a bit aloof, as Corgis often are, until he very solemnly and daintily licked my hand. His owners gushed over how he doesn’t normally like strangers and I should feel special.

“She is special,” Dieter said, giving me a squeeze.

They awkwardly asked for an autograph and a selfie. Dieter obliged, with me taking the photo for them. We said goodbye, and Dieter wistfully watched them walk away. “Now that made my day,” he said.

I arched an eyebrow at him. “You’re on a date with me and meeting a dog is the highlight of your day?” I teased.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that,” he blustered.”Like, the dog is the icing on the cake. You’re the cake.”

“Come again?”

He scrunched up his face. “It’s like … okay, icing is nice, icing is great, but by itself it’s kind of gross. Too sweet. You need the cake to give it meaning. The cake is the foundation. The icing is optional but the cake is essential.” He shook his head. “I’m not explaining this right.”

I grabbed his hand. “I think I can see the sentiment behind this rather tortured metaphor,” I said. “Cake is good even by itself; icing enhances it but you don’t really need it.”

“Exactly,” he said, raising our joined hands to his mouth. He kissed the back of my hand. “This would have been a great day even without the dog, but the dog made it even better.”

“I’m only letting this go because it was a Corgi,” I told him. “Any other breed and I’d be insulted, but damn, Corgis are adorable.”

He laughed and put his arms around me, pulling me in for a kiss. A skateboarder zipped past. “Get a room, boomers,” he yelled.

“Hey, we’re Gen X,” Dieter yelled back. “We don’t give a shit!”

“You are such a dork,” I said, laughing into his chest as he flipped the kid off.

“Ah, you love it,” he said.

“I do,” I admitted. “You’re ... adorkable.”

“Now who’s making shit up?”

“Shut up and kiss me again.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

****************************

“Let’s go in the water,” Dieter said, tugging at my hand and leading me off the boardwalk and into the sand.

“We don’t have bathing suits,” I protested. I stopped to take off my flip-flops; it was nearly impossible to walk in sand with them on without tripping over my own feet. Dieter pulled his own shoes off as well, and we continued across the beach, shoes in one hand, holding hands with the other.

“We’ll just get our feet wet,” he promised. “Come on.” He whined like a little kid who wanted candy. “Pleeeease.”

I laughed. How could I resist him when he was such a goofball? “Okay, but not too deep,” I said, realizing I sounded like a mom. “I’m not getting all wet and then having to sit around in soggy shorts the rest of the day.”

“I’ll be careful, I promise,” he said, but there was a wicked gleam in his eye that I didn’t quite trust.

We waded out into the water, letting it lap against our ankles, the occasional wave breaking harder and splashing us up to our knees. “Next time, we’ll wear our swimsuits,” he said. “Bring a boogie board or something.”

“I can’t swim,” I admitted. He stopped dead, staring at me.

“What?!,” he said incredulously. “You grew up in SoCal and never learned to swim? How is this possible?”

I was embarrassed, but decided to tell him the truth. “I have a phobia about water,” I said. “If my face gets in the water, I panic. I failed swimming in high school, the only F I ever got on my report card.”

“Well,” he said, “we’ll have to fix that. Lucky for you, I have a pool at my place, and I’m a very good teacher.” He slid his arms around my waist. “Do you need to get out of the water right now?”

“No,” I said. “This is fine. This is fun. It’s just when the water gets on or around my face.”

“Okay, then,” he grinned. “Let’s play some more.” He darted off down the beach, splashing water behind him as he ran through the surf. I gave chase, laughing as I tried to catch up. He was a total goofball, but he was my goofball.

*****************************

I was pretty sure I had a sunburn. We’d been good and applied sunblock before we got out of the cars, and reapplied later, but I could still feel the heat on my skin. “Ooh, shave ice!” I cried as we came around a corner. It was a very hot day and nothing is better on a hot day than a shave ice.

We bought two large shave ices, cherry for me, and a multi-hued mixture of flavors for Dieter. “You’re boring,” he said, pointing at my solid red treat with his plastic spoon.

“Not boring,” I said. “Classic.” I took a big bite and savored the sweet, cold ice as it melted on my tongue.

He shook his head and dug into his own ice, as we sat on a bench facing the ocean. The on shore breeze kept the heat from being overwhelming and the shave ice cooled me off quickly.

“Ah, shit, brain freeze!” Dieter said, holding a hand against his forehead.

“Don’t eat it so fast, doofus,” I said, poking him in the side with my elbow.

He stuck his tongue out at me. It was dyed a dark purplish color from the combination of flavors. “Gross,” I said. “See, that’s why I go with the cherry.” I stuck my own tongue out, knowing it would be a bright red.

“Well, you certainly don’t need lipstick,” he said, pulling out his phone and taking a quick photo, which he showed me. My lips were cherry red.

“Ah, you’ve discovered my cunning plot to replace makeup with shave ice syrup,” I said. He leaned in for a kiss.

“Mmm,” he said. “It tastes better than lipstick, I’ll give you that.”

I shoved him away. “You’re so weird,” I said. “Eat your shave ice before it melts.”

“You’re so bossy,” he grumbled, as he shoveled another spoonful of ice into his mouth.

“I work with teenagers,” I reminded him. “I think I can handle your sorry ass.” I took a big bite of my own shave ice, but instantly regretted it. “Ow, ow, brain freeze!”

Dieter nearly fell off the bench laughing, and I joined him, as soon as my head stopped pounding.

***********************************

The sun was low in the sky as we made our way toward the parking lot. “Next time we’ll get here later, rent bikes, and stay to watch the sunset,” Dieter said. His arm was around my waist, his sunglasses sliding down his nose as he gazed down at me.

“That sounds wonderful,” I replied. “But how about our next date, you drive out my way?”

He scratched his chin with his free hand. “I guess I could,” he said. “Is there anything out there to do?”

”I hope you’re being facetious,” I told him. “Because only I can diss where I live.��

He chuckled. “Totally facetious. Besides, as long as I’m with you, who cares where we go?”

”Smooth, Bravo, real smooth.” I tugged his arm, pulling him to a stop. I went on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek, in one of those delectable little bare patches in his beard.

”It worked,didn’t it?” he said smugly.

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x ofc #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo fic

25 notes · View notes

bts-hyperfixation · 1 year

Text

Outside of the fox

Chapter 12 of? 4058 words

Y/N longs for a new life when the one she'd been living comes to an abrupt stop. Without much thought to those she is leaving behind, the little fox packs a backpack and disappears. She stumbles across the shelter and makes an interim home for herself while she works out exactly what she wants from her second chance.

Last

"Good morning beautiful, how was your weekend?" Taehyung says too loudly as he walks into the office.

You glance around but none of your co-workers even acknowledge his entrance. He practically glides across the foyer to stand with you behind the front desk.

"Any messages for me today?" He asks grabbing your lunch bag, not waiting for you.

"My weekend was... interesting. Mostly lazy I guess. We can talk about it more at lunch." You answer his first question knowing he isn't really listening as he reads Jimin's note to him.

"He wants to meet me?" Taehyung asks, eyes wide.

"Well, the pack wants to invite my only friend outside the house to spend winter solstice with us... but yeah you can interpret that as him specifically wanting to meet you if you like." You shrug.

He sticks his tongue out at your response, deciding you were just jealous of the connection he and Jimin were clearly forming through their two post-it interactions. Then he steals your lunch away and continues into the office. You hope he is putting it in the fridge, but you don't remain optimistic.

It's a long day, Taehyung has a meeting at lunch, although you aren't overly sure what kind of meeting an office mail guy would need to be privy to. You eat your lunch quietly by yourself and return to the desk 20 minutes early to try and keep yourself busy. The torturous day drags to an end, and you finally head home.

You are the first to arrive.

As usual Jungkook is in the living room on his switch, although no one had had chance to reset the furniture, so he still lay on the blow-up mattress. His ears perk up as you walk through, but he makes no move to look away from his game, so you continue into the kitchen. The fridge is empty save a few bottles of juice, the cupboards have only a few cans of soup, and the bread in the container is going mouldy.

Apparently no one had had a chance to go grocery shopping this weekend.

You pull out your phone and create a new order in the supermarket app, setting the delivery time for the next evening. You try to remember everybody’s preferences, including Hobi's seeing as he was practically living at the cottage now. He claimed it was all to do with his creative process, but the whole house could hear what he and Yoongi were talking about in hushed voices in the early hours of the morning. The walls were reasonably thin.

"Kookie, anything you want on the food shop?" You call.

"Can't do the food shop until Joonie is paid on Wednesday." He calls back.

"Don't be silly, we have no food. I'm doing one now. What do you want?"

The bunny finally pauses his game and shuffles into the kitchen. He glances around at all the open cupboard doors and thinks for a few moments.

"I guess I'd like some carrot gummies... If they aren't too much." He says sheepishly.

"Of course they aren't too much, they're only sweets."

"Yeah but sweets aren't necessities, sometimes we have to go without extras." He shrugs.

"Jungkook? Are you guys struggling with money?" You ask.

It hadn't occurred to you before. You knew they weren't exactly living like kings, but they never seemed to want for anything... And they took you in without a second thought to themselves. They kept everybody fed and Yoongi and Namjoon were always working. You knew how stressed Namjoon was, but you thought it was because of deadlines not financials.

"Um... I guess so. I didn't know they hadn't mentioned it... Please don't tell them I told you. Namjoon is so proud, and all he wants is to take care of us. He is doing such a great job I can't believe I've made you think he can't look after us." Jungkook starts to hyperventilate. "He is going to be mad at me."

"Namjoon won't be mad at you Kookie." You try to re-assure him, moving to him carefully. "I won't mention it to him if it makes you feel better. Just help me with the food shop and we won't mention this conversation again okay?"

He nods and sniffles. You put a hand on his shoulder, and he lent into the warmth. He then plucks your phone from your hand a starts adding all the things you've forgotten to the shop. Each item being the cheapest option available, no name brand items anywhere to be seen. After he is finished he presses order and hands the phone back to you.

"What about dinner tonight?" You ask.

"I think Yoongi is using the last of his advance to bring home Chinese food." He answers.

You send a message to the group chat to tell them you put an order in so they could add anything they wanted. You were met with some resistance by Namjoon who insisted he would give you the money back as soon as he got home but you refused. Making up something about doing the food shop as long as you weren't paying rent, refusing to back down until he gave in.

He tried again briefly when he got home but eventually accepted his fate when Yoongi told him to shut as he lay the dinner out on the table.

It was a rare night when Hoseok hadn't joined you for the evening, instead having plans with his parents. It was oddly quiet when he wasn't there to fill in the silences. His cheerful laugh usually echoes off the walls. The house felt a little bit like it did that night Jungkook spent in the hospital, but nobody addressed it, instead blitzing through little anecdotes about their days to try and fill the space.

"Oh! Taehuyng said he would love to come for winter solstice, if that's still okay?" You look across at Jungkook and he shakes his to make sure your earlier conversation doesn't resurface.

"Of course it's okay, we love having company." Namjoon says the smile on his face genuine.

You study his face closer than you ever had before. His dark circles were getting worse by the day, fighting his need to hibernate in order to keep the pack afloat. His hair is frazzled and desperate need of a cut. And his beard is patchy and rough. Your heartaches that you didn't realise how badly the stress was getting to him sooner.

"Hobi is joining us too." Yoongi says through his spoonful of noodles.

He is met with a chorus of 'duh' that has him questioning why he bothered speaking in the first place. The rest of the evening they walk you through all of their traditions for the solstice. They start with a huge meal at sundown, filled with meats, pastries, and dessert. It sounded delicious and had your mouth watering at the thought. Then they would go up on the hill in the back garden and watch the stars if it were a clear night.

They'd light a bonfire and let go of all the things that had happened over the past year, lighting symbols of their previous misfortunes. Bonfires were common on solstice, but your husband had never liked the smell, and your parents deemed them too dangerous.

After the bonfire they would then make origami stars with their wish for their next year and keep them all in a jar together. It sounded so romantic.

As Namjoon spoke you watched Jungkook's face light up, knowing this would be his first solstice with them too. It seemed odd to picture just Namjoon and Yoongi starting these traditions together. You didn’t know the story of how they became a couple, but neither seemed to be so romantically inclined. Their love for each other was evident in their little touches and hushed moments. But wishes in jars seemed too much.

Still, you were more than excited to spend this holiday with them. It was less than a week away and you only had three more days of work until you would be given time off to spend at home. The winter solstice allowed for two weeks off to spend the time with family.

Your husband had never bothered taking the time away, owning his own company meant he never had any spare time. you'd always have a nice meal, just the two of you, but then he would be straight back to work.

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach all week at the thought of actually having a big celebration.

The rest of the week work continued to drag by but Taehuyng made sure he was around for every subsequent lunch to cheer you up just a little.

Every day when you went home something about the house was different. Instead of playing on his switch all day, Jungkook had taken to watching DIY videos and making little ornaments out of scrap paper. He had strung paper stars to the sealing on Tuesday, using Namjoon's old unedited manuscripts. On Wednesday he had made hundreds of little snowflakes out of his comic books that he had finished with. Thursday you came home after a half day to Jungkook covered in papercuts trying to make paper swans.

He had frustrated tears in his eyes as he throw another crumpled ball onto the floor, landing in a pile of about twenty failed attempts. On the table sat two completed swans that looked perfect. You shuffle noisily over to him, making sure he can hear you coming before you sit on the floor next to him. Namjoon had finally moved the blow-up mattress back to the loft yesterday, but no one had replaced the sofas yet.

"Having trouble?" You ask.

You pick up one of the crumpled pieces of paper and smooth it back out until it's useable again.

"It looked so easy in the tutorial..." He grumbled. Falling back onto the floor dramatically.

"Well you managed it twice, so you are getting somewhere." You shrug, absentmindedly folding the paper in your hands.

"They took me an hour each." He sniffles.

You finish twisting the neck on the bird in your hands and place it on his forehead. His eyes open and he looks inward and up, crossing his eyes to see what you had given him. When he realises what you've done he springs up and grabs the two swans from the table to make sure you didn't cheat.

"How did you do that?" He asks in awe.

"I had a lot of spare time at school... let’s just say I had no friends. Did you want me to teach you?"

He nods enthusiastically, pushing his stack of fresh paper towards you. Today’s choice seems to be homemade recycled paper. Likely old, shredded documents. It was tougher than regular card stock to fold and explained at least half of his issues, but you decided against pointing it out. Instead walking him steadily though each fold for a couple of birds until he felt confident doing it himself.

The two of you had an army of swans surrounding you when Hoseok let himself in.

"Am I interrupting something?" He asks looking around at the colourful array coating the table.

"No, but can you start putting these up around the house? Maybe hang them with the stars?" You ask, handing him a bunch.

"Yes mam." He salutes and takes them from you.

He tries to make them even with the stars. The whole room looked like a grade school class room when the three of you had finished but it also had a touch of magic to it. When Namjoon came home he brought a little shrub with him to act as a ceremonial offering for the holiday and each member of the house placed their gifts underneath.

It was easy to tell who brought each pile of gifts. Jungkook's were evidently handmade. Jimin's were tied with parcel string and had hand drawn hearts on the tags. Namjoon's wrapping skills were awful, with the tape peeling away at the edges. Yoongi's on the other hand were meticulously wrapped. Hobi's were mostly just made of tape, they were going to require scissors to cut.

You had tried to make each of yours match the men. You were nervous about the presents suddenly worried you had perhaps spent too much. You had bought them before your conversation with Jungkook and had used some of the money left by your husband so you could thank them properly. Really they had meant to be goodbye presents until Yoongi had talked you into staying through the holidays.

You were still considering new apartments you could move to in the new year, but with each new day you spent at the cottage you found your will to leave slipping away. You spent much more time thinking about Jimin and what Yoongi had said and how that made you feel. You also thought about the others and what you really wanted. You had been so sure you were ready to be alone. But maybe that was never the problem with your previous life.

On Friday everyone had a lazy morning. No one surfaced from their rooms until 11am. Namjoon didn't make an appearance until Yoongi opened the door to Jungkook's room and blew the smell of freshly made pancakes in, luring the bear slowly to the table. You all ate your brunch happily, munching quietly as you enjoyed the sweet treat. In the afternoon Namjoon finally got dressed and declared he would be going to brave the supermarkets in order to pick up the remainder of the supplies they would need for the feast on Sunday.

You offer to go with him, and he accepts. Although you hadn't realised quite how vicious this experience was going to be. The store had a line halfway around the building and Namjoon just laughed your shock off as if this was normal.

"I hope you're wearing enough layers." He says glancing at your puffy coat.

"How are you so okay with this. It's one day, are all these people insane?" You ask.

"This is normal for this time of year... Have you never been shopping at solstice?"

"No, I guess I've never had to."

Your family had people to do this. And your husband would've never let you go grocery shopping with him or whomever he had sent. You weren't supposed to do anything so menial.

The line shuffles forward every so often when somebody leaves. Shopping trollies filled to the brim with online orders and last-minute presents. You're freezing after half an hour on the outside, the building doing very little to shelter you from the chilly wind. It would be at least another half an hour before you reached the safety of the foyer.

You glance up at Namjoon, but he seems unphased by the harsh weather. As a bear it probably came with the genes. He notices you staring and turns back to look at you.

"Shit, Y/N your cheeks are really pink... Are you that cold?" He looks around as if a solution might appear out of thin air.

"It's okay, it's not too much longer." You put on a brave face and smile at him.

"I'd say go sit in the car, but I forgot to fill it up..."

His eyes flicker like he is lying but you don't call him on it, you assume he just didn't want to waste extra money.

"Honestly I'll be fine." But your teeth chatter and betray you.

"This might help... If it's okay." He unzips the front of both coats and pulls you into his chest.

He is like a radiator; the heat fills your bones instantly. You melt into his embrace, allowing him to warm every inch of you.

"I'm not going to make you cold am I?" You ask looking up at him.

You hadn't realised how close his face would be to yours until he looks down to speak and his lips are barely a centimetre away. Quickly you look down and bury your face into his cable knit jumper. Missing the blush on his face as you rush to hide yours.

"It's.. um it's hard to make me cold." He coughs awkwardly as his arms encircle you to keep you close. Every so often he takes one arm back to push the cart forward as he shuffles the two of you in the queue.

You chat absently as you move, careful to only turn your face up to look at him when you know he isn't looking at you. The second half of the wait definitely goes a lot quicker now that you are warm and as soon as you are inside he lets you go. The heat drains from you and you shiver as you reacclimatise to your regular temperature.

"I can definitely see why you are Jungkook's favourite cuddle partner." You say as you rezip your coat.

He shuffles awkwardly and redirects your attention to the task at hand. He runs the shopping trip like a military plan of attack. He starts with the ordered food knowing it will take the longest. He leaves you there with strict instructions to text him when it arrives. You salute him jokingly, but he just nods and continues with his mission.

By the time the order arrives he is already halfway through the remainder of the shop. He has a space in the trolley carved out specifically for the order making sure not to crush any of the food. You then follow him around the remainder of the shop watching as he inspected veg and date checked fresh sauces. Having only seen the forgetful and clumsy Namjoon at home, watching this version of him was like he'd been body snatched.

One hour later you were stood at the till as he pulled out all his coupons and finished backing his bags. You were careful as you watched him pack, waiting for your opportunity to strike. As his back turns to check the list one final time, you slide your card into the chip and pin and pay before he can stop you. He starts to argue with you, but you look around and remind him not to make a scene.

He huffs aggressively but takes a hold of the cart and pushes it back to the car. He doesn't speak to you as he opens the door for you to jump into the driver's side. He refuses your help when it comes to packing the bags into the car. You can hear the clang of the cart as he puts it back where it came from, and you start to wonder if you'd pushed it too far this time.

"Namjoon?" You ask tentatively as he slides in next to you.

"Why did you do that? Do you think I can't take care of everybody?" He asks, voice filled with disappointment.

"Of course I think you can take care of everyone." You answer calmly.

"Then why do you keep insisting on paying when that should be my job, to provide for my pack."

"Because someone should provide for you sometimes too." You reach out to touch his hand.

He doesn't pull it back but he doesn't meet your eyes either. He stares dejectedly out of the front window.

"Namjoon, I live in your house rent free, and everyone is so kind, I just want to do something for you guys too. I didn't realise it made you feel bad."

"Everyone lives in our house rent free Y/N not just you. Jimin's job certainly doesn't pay enough for housekeeping and it's not Jungkook has a job."

"But they're your partners, I'm a freeloader." You chuckle trying to lighten the mood.

"You are so much more than a freeloader. Do you not see how happy you make everyone just because we come home to you? Even Jungkook gets sad when you aren't around. He actually whined when I came home first on Wednesday not you."

"Yeah, he really has come around in the last couple days."

"I don't think you quite realise the ability you have to light up a room when you walk into it." He says it to be nice, poetic even, but it just reminds you of things your husband would say.

He and his friends would always talk about how your appearance would change the dynamic in a room, as if that was the best gift you could offer the world. Your presence was enough, no one needed to hear you too. You know it's what Namjoon meant but it still makes you hesitate. He finally meets your eyes when you pause for a little too long.

"Namjoon... that's lovely. But it doesn't appease my guilt of taking what’s not mine and giving nothing back."

"I think we might have to agree to disagree on what you owe us." He says putting the discussion on hold. "We have frozen stuff we should get home."

You make a note to revisit the conversation late, but the opportunity doesn't arise again. The remainder of the afternoon is spent marinating meats and cutting veggies ready for the next couple days.

Taehyung calls around 7pm claiming to be bored at home alone, but you suspect he may just be overeager to meet your friends. You give him the address and immediately he is on his way to the house.

He knocks the door rhythmically, leaving the last two knocks to be completed by someone on the other side. Jimin is practically giddy as he answers the knocks, enjoying this impromptu game that's been created.

The red panda opens the door coming face to face with the great panda for the first time and it feels like electricity sweeps through the room.

"Pretty." Taehyung says.

For the first time since you've meet him it seems like he might've been knocked speechless. Jimin also doesn't speak, he stutters and moves aside so Tae can walk through the door. His cheeks are as red as his hair as he takes a bag from the newcomers hands to help him into the house.

"I've never seen him so flustered." You whisper to Yoongi.

"I know... it's odd. When he met you he wouldn't shut up." He whispers back.

Taehyung seems to snap out of his trance quicker than Jimin when his eyes meet yours.

"Beautiful!" He exclaims sweeping across the room to hug you.

"Put me down Tae." You struggle in his arms as he twirls you around.

"But I missed you today." He pouts but does as he is told.

You introduce him to the room, reaching Jimin just as his voice seems to make a reappearance. He manages to actually ask Taehyung about his job, a question that Taehyung suspiciously dodges the specifics of. They disappear together as Jimin offers him the grand tour.

"Hey, I never got a full tour." Hoseok comments looking at Yoongi.

"You were never supposed to make it outside of the studio." He shrugs.

"Well that's rude. Maybe I'll leave if I'm so unwanted."

Hobi places the knife he'd been using on to the chopping board and swoops dramatically past Yoongi.

"No one said you were unwanted Angel." Yoongi grabs his arm and pulls the human back into his lap.

Yoongi kisses Hobi gently and holds him there, trapped in his embrace, not that Hobi makes any effort to escape.

They were so cute like this. Neither of them was particularly affectionate in public but they were slowly getting more comfortable with showing this side of themselves around the cottage. It was nice to watch their relationship developing past late-night talks and stolen glances.

Namjoon looks at Yoongi with all the love in the world and it doesn't escape your notice when Jungkook looks at them longingly, but it seems more like he is looking at Hoseok than he is at Yoongi.

Dinner is served by 8pm. The table is getting extremely cramped as Taehyung pulls up another chair next to you. Your elbows brush together as you eat, and it's almost too loud as three conversations carry on at once. And you couldn't be happier as you glance around finally able to say you have your own group of friends.

Outside of the fox masterlist

The next few days should be amazing.

Master list

I currently have a request form running for if you want to request one shots and drabbles. Please follow this link to the Google form If you have one you would like to submit. I will be writing these alongside outside of the fox. You can submit for completely new fics or for sequels for fics I've already done

#bts fic #bts smut #kpop smut #kpop fic #bts imagines #jungkook smut #namjoon smut #yoongi smut #bts hybrids #hybrid bts #hoseok smut #jimin smut #taehyung smut #jin smut

94 notes · View notes