#Jesus Film Project

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

For new Christians, prayer can be a bit mysterious. As you spend time around other Christians, it becomes clear pretty quickly that it’s an essential practice for believers. You may hear a lot about the power of prayer or its purpose...

[lohstandfound]

i think acting in a show again would fix me

[pankomako]

got my hands on boat's pax recap stream and clipped the signing story. and oh lord that's gonna be a lot to draw

[junsei-draws-rotasu]

When I finish watching Daredevil, I will totally a crack-treated serious fanfic of him having a religious crisis. Because every Catholic at least need one or multiple times in their life

[d4rkpluto]

ᴘɪꜱᴄᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀᴇᴀᴛ

DO NOT COPY OR STEAL MY WORK. IS A FAME POST.

PROPERTY OF D4RKPLUTO.

READ THE MAJESTIC VIRGO, well if you want.

PAID CHART READINGS, whoever is my 125 client gets everything cheaper than usual.

this knowledge has come from doing over 100+ chart readings, this is not pulled out of my ass..

♇ this post centres around pisces, neptune and the twelfth house, and how it is an underrated home of fame.

♇ neptune rules over cameras, glamour, paparazzi, stalking, projection and film, all strong themes of the realer side of fame, specifically paparazzi, stalking and projection.

♇ [in my opinion, i think the 12H, Neptune and Pisces are the most alike compared to the other signs and their rulers.]

♇ on the other hand, ten houses from the 3H is the 12H, 10 in astrology ruling over fame, career and publicity and the 3H governs over magazine and marketing, things celebrities have to be involved in to attain fame.

♇ to understand this post, we need to get into the symbolism of pisces, and hold on tight for this for you to understand! as pisces does represent neptune/poseidon, the sign pisces also represents is Jesus. the most known man, the most known person specifically.

♇ and even though social media does joke about it now and then, he is the most known "nepotism" kid. people with pisces placements especially in their big three or those who have jupiter in pisces are known for something specific, because Pisces gives it a boost because of the connection it has with Jupiter. [in traditional astrology, Jupiter ruled over Pisces], and Jupiter is supposed to symbolise God. and in shorter terms, it gives the nepotism boost to Pisces.

♇ before i go deeper, i am going to use examples of celebrities, their twelfth house and how fame was for them and how it impacted them.

CELEBRITIES WITH PISCES IN THEIR BIG THREE OR JUPITER. [can work with the rest of the big six, but im focusing on the big three].

⟶ examples

PISCES ASCENDANTS ⬎

MICHAEL JACKON.

WHITNEY HOUSTON

ELLEN.

PISCES SUNS ⬎

RIHANNA.

CINDY CRAWFORD.

GRIMES.

PISCES MOONS ⬎

MICHELLE OBAMA.

MARTIN LUTHER KING.

KIM KARDASHIAN.

PISCES JUPITER ⬎

MEGAN FOX.

AMBER HEARD.

LINDSAY LOHAN.

SHORT EXAMPLES OF THE 12H AND ITS IMPACT WITH SOMEONE'S FAME ⬎

MARILYN MONROE

had cancer in the 12H, cancer is moon ruled and the moon rules over audience, and its clear that marilyn monroe had a big audience, like the moon, she was worshiped, and due to hollywood, she represented what a woman, "should be".

marilyn also had pluto in the twelfth house, and this points to her being exploited, sexualised and abused in the industry.

her twelfth house ruler is in the seventh house which conjuncts the moon, and she had a known relationship, [jupiter conjunct moon], this insinuates her known relationship was with a man in power, the moon symbolises country and jupiter can symbolise politics and leader-ship, and she had a known affair with JF Kennedy.

BEYONCE

had virgo in her twelfth house, and people always have continuous critique with her, this can also imply she has much critique for herself, but with her twelfth house having the planet jupiter, it helps her having a giant and loyal fanbase.

beyonce also has saturn in the 12h, and this implies of longevity in fame, saturn doesnt always mean something is going to be cut short! on the other hand, her 12H ruler being in the 12H can point to the distant energy she has with her, she could have fun with her fans but there is still an out of reach essence she has to herself.

the 12H ruler being in the 12H can also indicate to why people might've picked up that she might be doing drugs. this could also insinuate another way of how people are nit-picky when it comes to beyonce.

on the other hand, her 12H ruler being in the 12H shows she only shows a part of herself she wants people to see.

MICHAEL JACKSON

aquarius in the twelfth house, and was known to be erratic and unique, he also used his platform to spread awareness.

his 12H ruler being in Leo points to his excessive amount of fame, the uranus being in leo implies on how he was known everyone where in the world. his uranus in the 13°, a degree which means the first to do something; which conjuncts venus the planet of dancing insinuates of his creation of the moonwalk.

his uranus is also in the sign of children, and had many controversies surrounding kids. [along with people thinking his children arent his].

with his 12H ruler being in Leo, the house of cameras and glamours, points to how he is one of the most photographed people on earth.

ARIANA GRANDE

sagittarius in the 12H, known for her adaptability in different cultures, the jupiter influence gives her a very big fanbase.

12H ruler in libra and is known for her romantic controversies, with her Jupiter having. the 5° which shows they're known in the industry they're specifically in. her jupiter also conj moon in the 6th degree, and people critique her love life and it is always in the public, the moon ruling audience.

12H sagittarius in the 2 degrees, and is known for her aesthetic.

RIHANNA

12H in pisces and is known for her glamour, beauty and fashion.

venus is in the 12H and she is a muse for many people.

juno in the 12H and she was paired with many people, so many people expecting who and what to be her husband, though everyone was aware with who her soulmate was. asap rocky.

12H ruler in capricorn and is known for being a capitalist, rich and business oriented.

another 12H ruler in aries, and has a known controversy with the abuse she had suffered through by chris brown.

12H ruler in aries conj uranus and was known for her fierceness and come backs.

MEGAN THEE STALLION

12H aries and is known for her "sexiness" and rapping. her 12H ruler is in Leo and is known for her sexual dancing, specifically twerking, and her body shape is usually spoken about

her 12H ruler is mars and went through a scandal that involved violence, and with the 12H ruler being in the 21st degree, it entails of her being known for being a stallion, along with her jupiter in sagittarius.

neptune in the 24th degree and a lot of people think she is a liar, and i noticed a lot of people who have their 12H ruler conjunct the moon do get famous.

KRISTINA PIMENOVA

taurus in her 12H and was known for her beauty, she also has mars in her 12H and was really pushed into the industry.

12H ruler in the 1st degree and was pushed as the most beautiful girl. her neptune is in the 10H and a a lot of people wanted to be her because of her status and looks.

12H in a young sign could imply getting into the industry at a young age. she also has mars in taurus in the 12H and is also known for dancing.

MADISON BEER

12H in aries and is known for her sexiness. and her 12H ruler is in scorpio and she had plenty of controversies.

saturn in the 12H it took time for people to appreciate her music. her saturn is also in taurus.

11H in pisces in aqua 3rd degree, and had much people make rumours about her.

12H ruler in mars the 11th degree and had revenge porn against her, or you can say just had people expose her nudes.

pisces in the 11H and many people on the internet project their insecurities onto her.

DRAKE

leo in 12H and he is known for his ego, his 12h ruler conj pluto and a lot of people talk about his sexuality.

neptune in capricorn got into more fame due to a popular company, yung money. he has a pisces jupiter and is known for his multiple times to have a wife, he has proposed many times he was able to make a necklace out of them.

12th degree on his moon and is known as an incel. he has his neptune in the 3rd degree and a lot of people make fun of him.

12H PLACEMENTS ⬎

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 12H - known for music, could get a lot of stalkers, people might have a perception of who you are supposed to be and could be known for taking a specific drug, like weed; ex, rihanna.

ARIES/MARS IN THE 12H - known for their sexuality, could be bullied on social media, might get access to fame easily, but could be objectified; ex, madison beer.

TAURUS/VENUS IN THE 12H - known for your beauty, might feel like people might not take you seriously, people could be shallow towards you, you could have a less intense celebrity life; ex, kristina pimenova.

GEMINI/MERCURY IN THE 12H - could be known for your adaptability, many people might want to mimic you, could be photographed a lot and known for your style; ex, cher.

CANCER/MOON IN THE 12H - could hide their true identity to the world, is the face for something, likes privacy but are never given it; ex, marilyn monroe.

LEO/SUN IN THE 12H - easily stand out, seen as a trendsetter, are known for their beauty, people might compare themselves to you all the time; ex, bella hadid.

VIRGO/CERES IN THE 12H - people will be critical of you, nosy about your life, though you would be a big muse and inspiration for the people, majority of 12H dont like attention or responsibility due to the gain of fame; ex, doja cat.

LIBRA/JUNO IN THE 12H - people will really copy your aesthetic, most likely to be posted on social medias like pinterests and tumblr. very photogenic people, untouchable energy, which could be linked to the hera influenced; ex, lily rose.

SCORPIO/PLUTO IN THE 12H - are usually the face for something, stalked by everyone, specifically the paparazzi, could sometimes be harassed by people for not acting how they were expected to behave. have a lot of influence, they do something other people start doing it; ex, jennie kim and princess diana.

SAGITTARIUS/JUPITER IN THE 12H - have very large fan bases, are expected to be role models, have to find a specific way to sustain their popularity, and other people might want to relate to them and get upset if they cant; ex, kylie jenner.

CAPRICORN/SATURN IN THE 12H - fame can either come really quick to people with capricorn or saturn in the 12H or it could take its time. how they handle fame is their karma, could be preyed on by authority, and when they pass, they become legends and known for something specific; ex, aaliyah.

AQUARIUS/URANUS IN THE 12H - known globally, get away with a lot of stuff, known for their visuals plus aesthetic since it is unique, they have a lot of controversies revolving around love, and might feel like they cannot get away from fame; ex, michael jackson.

YOUR FAME DUE TO WHERE PISCES AND NEPTUNE IS IN YOUR CHART ⬎

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 1H - fame for being beautiful, creative, and would feel distant and would have a lot of people project and fantasise about you; ex, michael jackson a pisces ascendant, and ariana grande who has neptune in the 1H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 2H - fame due to singing, fame for being beautiful of their aesthetic, have ways of always making money and has controversy with lovers; ex, megan fox has pisces in her 2H, and lana del rey who has neptune in her 2H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 3H - known for their creative ideas, good writers, could have a popular relative or is the popular relative, and another musician indicator. could also be known for their philosophy; ex, jeon jungkook has his pisces in his 3H, and beyonce who has her neptune in the 3H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 4H - famous family, controversy with family/marriage, do a project that can set them for life and could be in a famous group; ex, kim kardashian who has pisces in the 4H, and emma watson who has neptune in the 4H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 5H - get very popular because of their looks, usually have kids within their rise to fame, can tap into anything creative and succeed. brilliant actors and actresses have these placements; ex, nicolae kidman who has pisces in the 5H, and angelina jolie who has neptune in the 5H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 6H - amazing producers [music and film], are known for their interaction with drugs or people might have conspiracies with them taking drugs, health issues are put onto blast and usually stand out in a project that has many people and are usually the main character; ex, britney spears who has pisces in the 6H, and kanye west who has neptune in the 6H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 7H - like to please their fans, controversy with marriage, be careful with deals/contracts that you would sign, sometimes other people might think you are distant and you guys are likely to have iconic fashion moments; ex, bella hadid who has pisces in the 7H, and mariah carey who has neptune in the 7H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 8H - usually leave a big legacy, victim/subject to memes, or being made fun of by people in the industry, tough relationship with addiction and have a big fandom which can make them excused a lot; ex, marilyn monroe who has pisces in the 8H, and michael jackson who has neptune in the 8H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 9H - loved due to their charisma, loud and big personalities, partake in business all over the world and are wanted by foreign companies, and have a moment when they're under fire due to the public; ex, angelina jolie who has pisces in the 9H, and rihanna who has neptune in the 9H.

PISCES/NETPUNE IN THE 10H - likely to be models, have contracts with big brands, many people look up to them and have much expectations for them, could also be people who are in political power or are connected to them; ex, victoria beckham who has pisces in the 10H, and princess diana who has neptune in the 10H.

PISCES/NEPTUNE IN THE 11H - are usually easily excused, famous due to a private circle [political power on theories like illuminati], usually say things they are not meant to say, can either be easily liked or hated by the public and this can give online fame, or could get famous because of the internet; ex, miley cyrus who has pisces in the 11H, and billie eilish who has neptune in the 11H.

PISCES/NETPUNE IN THE 12H - people usually want to be them, long-term fame, another model indicator, and can be people who get into relationships with people who are known in the industry; ex, gigi hadid who has pisces in the 12H, and zendaya who has neptune in the 12H.

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pluto

[pinesource]

Chris Pine said this week the development and release of his directorial debut Poolman was “the best thing to ever happen to me” despite the movie’s nearly universal bad reviews.

“It’s forced me to double down on joy,” Pine told host Josh Horowitz on Thursday’s episode of the Happy Sad Confused podcast. “As an actor… fundamentally it’s about play, right? What we do is essentially become children for hours a day and make believe,” he said, adding: “There’s an impish quality to it that I don’t ever want to lose.”

Poolman, which debuted at Toronto film festival last fall, follows Pine as a down-on-his luck pool technician in Los Angeles who discovers a water heist in a spoof of 1974’s Chinatown. The film was panned by critics, with The Hollywood Reporter writing that the project “goes tonally off the rails from the start and proceeds to hit bottom with excruciating momentum.”

Pine said this week the bad reviews became “a real come to Jesus moment for me, in terms of seeing how resilient I am.”

He added that we wasn’t “totally surprised” by the critiques, saying he hadn’t set out to “make some sort of niche film,” but said it was hard to reconcile having made a project “with so much joy behind it, to then be met with this fuselage of not-so-joyous stuff.”

“The cognitive dissonance there was quite something,” he continued, going on to reference a favorite latin phrase that translates to, “Vigor grows from the wound.”

“I love that idea,” he said. “Yes, there’s the hurt of the cut, there’s the hurt of the moment, but as the scar tissue forms, as the healing process happens, you do benefit from the growth and resilience in sitting in your being of what you’re trying to say.”

Pine says this lesson helped remind him that his contentment with the project was ultimately up to only himself. “After the reviews in Toronto I was like, maybe I did just make a pile of shit,” he recalled. “So I went back and watched it, and I was like, I fucking love this film.”

[creature-wizard]

What's up with the Satanic Panic, in a nutshell.

Around the 1970's, conservative Evangelicals began weaponizing a number of conspiracy theories against anyone who wasn't a conservative Evangelical. These conspiracy theories were essentially repackaged witch hysteria (IE, the conspiracies pushed by early modern witch hunters) and antisemitism (especially blood libel).

The core conspiracy theory was that a global satanic cult was working behind the scenes to manipulate politics and lead people away from Jesus. The exact practices of the cult depended on who you asked, but common allegations were practicing human sacrifice (including plenty of child sacrifice), drinking human blood, engaging in sex slavery, producing CSE and snuff films, doing drugs, and having orgies.

Numerous people stepped forward claiming to have been either former cult members, or cult survivors. Pretty much all of their accounts are full of blatant absurdities, and anytime someone was actually investigated, pretty much all of their claims fell apart. For example, Mike Warnke, one of the earliest self-proclaimed ex-satanists, was found to have made up his entire story. One woman, Lauren Stratford, was not only revealed to be a fraud, but afterward claimed she was a Holocaust survivor to collect benefits.

Some examples of claims made by people who claimed to be ex-members/survivors include:

Neopaganism was created by the global satanic cult, and Aleister Crowley was their main agent in this.

All neopaganism and modern witchcraft is a slippery slope to human sacrifice and "hardcore satanism."

All media that depicts magic or the supernatural in any way is part of the satanic agenda. Yes, literally all of it. Yes, even that.

Homosexuality is part of the global satanic agenda.

Rock and heavy metal music are part of the global satanic agenda.

Fluoride, artificial sweeteners, and various food additives are actually mind control drugs.

Electromagnetic waves are used to control people's thoughts.

Marxism was created by the global satanic agenda.

If you know anything about QAnon conspiracy theories, you might notice that some of these look awfully familiar. This is because QAnon was another manifestation of Satanic Panic. They updated "electromagnetic waves" to 5G, and largely replaced homosexuality with transgender, but it's the same thing.

The conspiracy theory about cultists creating mind controlled slaves by inducing dissociative identity disorder through torture (all that Project Monarch stuff) is purely a product of the Satanic Panic. People's supposed "memories" of this abuse were generally produced via recovered memory therapy, which is now known to be more effective at implanting memories rather than recovering them. No serious investigations ever produced any evidence of the supposedly widespread and incredibly elaborate torture of tens of thousands of children.

Now, there have been actual isolated cases of what might be considered satanic ritual abuse. But they do not constitute evidence of a global satanic conspiracy. Rather, they constitute evidence that the perpetrators were inspired by the conspiracy theory.

Additionally, they had a very pseudoscientific view of DID, and the horrible practices allegedly used to induce it and create mind controlled alters were pure pseudoscience, as were the alleged symptoms that someone might be a victim of satanic ritual abuse and just didn't remember it. Everything from autism to having conflicted feelings about your abuser to liking BDSM could be construed as a sign that you had been ritually abused. With a bunch of therapists fully convinced that thousands of people had been ritually abused and armed with hypnotic techniques that allowed them to implant memories of abuse, you can see where things could turn messy in a hurry.

Those who claimed to be former satanists/SRA victims were extremely clear in their assertions that this global satanic conspiracy really did exist, and that the only way to escape and stay safe from it was to accept Jesus. Tales of demonic attacks that could only be stopped by the power of Jesus were common, as were other claims of grandiose supernatural power.

In short, the Satanic Panic was - and still is - a means of demonizing anyone who isn't a fundagelical Christofascist, and scaring anyone who already is, into remaining such. Many of the conspiracy theories have made their way into supposedly progressive circles, so you'll occasionally come across the Project Monarch stuff in DID communities, or see pro-LGBTQ people subscribing to conspiracy theories about the wealthy elite drinking blood or adrenochrome.

But make no mistake, there is no "grain of truth" to these allegations of a global satanic conspiracy. There was no "time before all of this was corrupted by evil agendas." It was all created by people with with hateful agendas, and continues to be perpetuated by people with hateful agendas. And that's all, folks.

[aloneandforsakenbyfateandbyman]

I know everyone remembers The Exorcist for Regan’s possession by the demon Pazuzu and the crazy head-spinning, projectile vomiting scenes, but for me it’s all about Father Damien Karras’ struggle with faith, belief in God, and being a Jesuit psychiatrist in a cold, modern, secular world full of evil and pain. Jason Miller’s performance is nothing short of epic, and he brings Karras to vivid life.

The character is basically just an autobiographical projection of author William Peter Blatty, who came from a similar ecclesiastical background and was also full of guilt irt to taking care of his Lebanese immigrant, poverty-stricken single mother who suffered from mental illness and as such, his childhood consisted of 28 apartment evictions and constant homelessness and deprivation.

Karras also deals with the pain of a dependent, difficult mother, as well as his ambiguous feelings towards humanity, as he constantly wonders how it is possible to love the most horrible, seemingly unredeemable, and downtrodden individuals, as the Catholic religion and the teachings of Jesus instruct one to do.

The question of human suffering also plagues him, as he wonders how God can allow it to exist. When he comes in contact with the demon-possessed Regan, he finally realizes that Good cannot exist without Evil, and that faith in God often requires an extreme amount of sacrifice and humility.

Through his philosophical and religious struggles, the audience sees their own reflected within. For example, Father Karras feels repelled when people constantly burden him with their own suffering. A homeless man begs him for money, a lonely young Jesuit seeks company in him, Regan’s mother confesses a murder on the part of her daughter, a police chief unloads his guilty conscience, and so on. Finally, Karras sacrifices himself in a Christ-like manner at the end.

Blatty acknowledges that it’s often easier for humanity to hate than love. That’s our real tragedy. Hatred comes so easily, but it’s unrequited love that’s the most painful thing, yet that’s the first tenet of the Christian faith and what most of us are stuck on. But Karras’ allegorical tale somehow shows that redemption and love for humanity are technically possible within everyone. And that’s why it’s such an amazing book/film that goes way beyond the surface label of being just an average cliched horror movie!

[toomuchracket]

i'll do anything that you wanna

(hi! sweet @brownduck and a lovely anon sent in prompts to inspire this loooooong pre-relationship flatmate!matty moment. references to 10 Things I Hate About You (if you haven't seen it, go! watch it!). enjoy!)

flatmate!matty watching girlie wistfully sigh at some cute romantic thing in a show/film she's watching and now he's determined to do that for her. This could either be right before or right after they get together

Being super normal abt the idea of movie nights with flatmate matty, maybe this instance like riiight before you two get together 💔 cuddling up together bc that’s like, a totally normal thing that friends do, him nodding off onto your shoulder or vice versa……….

matty knocks softly on your-half open bedroom door, nudging it fully open with his foot when he hears your soft "come in!". he tries to ignore the little pang of tenderness that appears in his heart when you smile at him standing in your doorway; instead, he focuses on addressing the laptop open on your knee, its artificial light illuminating your pretty face. "sorry, darlin', didn't realise you were still working. i'll leave you be."

he makes to exit, but is stopped by your sudden protests. "no, no, i'm finished for today," you say, closing the lid and lifting the computer from your shorts-clad lap. you stretch languidly, and matty's brain shuts down for a second as your cropped t-shirt rides up and exposes the bare underside of your boob. "what's up?"

once he's regained control of his brain, matty shrugs. he swears he sees your eyes flick down to quickly gaze at his bare chest, brought to prominence by the movement, but he's probably just projecting. "just wondered if you wanted to hang out, s'all. haven't really seen you much this week. missed you."

your face lights up as you beam at him. you pat the space beside you on your bed, signalling for matty to sit next to you. at first, he's quite grateful for the seat, because his knees went weak at the radiance of your smile, but then it hits him when he plonks down next to you; he's half naked in your bed, breathing in the scent of your perfume and shampoo, next to an almost as half-naked you, lying on your side and smiling at him through your eyelashes.

fuck. he's so fucked.

you shift up to a sitting position and - almost tentatively - reach across to boop matty on the nose. he wrinkles it in response, trying his best to deflect how adorable he found it, which makes you giggle and reposition his glasses for him. "you know, healy," you begin, teasingly. "for a supercool edgy rockstar, you're very cute sometimes, wanting to hang out with little old me late on a friday night."

matty can feel his cheeks go crimson, and bites his lip to stop from - what? smiling? groaning at how cute you are? kissing you there and then? he's not sure. "oi, less of the teasing. i'm trying to be nice."

"sorry. you're very sweet," you say, snuggling into his side so naturally that matty thinks he might pass out. "and i missed you too. was gonna put a film on, if you want to watch it with me."

matty experimentally leans his head to rest on your own; when you don't protest, he speaks. "that sounds nice. what film? don't say fucking twilight, i can't sit through that shite again."

"shut up, it's a masterpiece," you say indignantly, peeling yourself away from matty to rifle through the pile of dvds in the corner of your room. as much as your closeness fucks matty up, another pang in his heart appears as soon as you move from him; loss, longing, loneliness. jesus christ, he needs to get a grip. "oh! here, surely you like this one."

matty crawls forward to read the title, not noticing the way your thighs clench together at his lithe movement. "10 things i hate about you? i don't think i've ever seen it."

"WHAT?!" you press the dvd to your chest in what matty thinks might actually be genuine shock. "how have you never seen it? you've had girlfriends."

"what's that got to do with anything?"

you sigh, climbing back onto the bed and sitting on your knees in front of matty, who moves to sit on his hands so he physically cannot rest them on your almost-bare thighs as he so badly wants to. "it's a rite of passage for any girl to watch this with her boyfriend in the first few weeks of dating."

"wh-"

"don't ask me why, it just is," you begin, sighing. "but seeing as you've gotten to your big age without being shown it by the multitudes of girls who've tried and failed to cuff you..."

matty raises his eyebrows at that, but he can't exactly deny it.

"... i guess i'll have to do it." you roll your eyes dramatically, but smile that radiant smile again afterwards. "you cool with that, healy? pretending i'm your girlfriend for the 90 minutes it takes to watch this film?"

matty thinks about what he could say here. why pretend? let's make it official. i probably imagine you're my girlfriend for at least triple the amount of time it would take to watch the film every day of my life, anyway. but he doesn't. he won't. matty's so in love with you that he'd marry you tomorrow, but the thought of telling you that and you not feeling the same (which is bloody likely) terrifies him. it hurts like fuck repressing his feelings for you all the time, especially when there's reminders of you all over the flat you share - your trainers lying haphazardly by the door, your books on every flat surface available, your shampoo next to his in the shower caddy, your perfume wafting through every room and getting him higher than any drug he's ever been on - but he'd rather keep both quiet and you in his life than fuck up the dynamic and lose you forever.

so matty plays it cool. nonchalant. he shrugs, keeps his tone light, neutral facial expression. "sounds alright to me."

your smile dims a little. fuck, was he too cool with it? did he lapse into disdain? maybe - your tone is cooler when you reply with an "okay". thankfully, though, it brightens. "but that's not an excuse for you to do the old putting-the-arm-around-me-to-squeeze-my-tit move," you say, with a look so mischievous it borders on flirty.

the panging in matty's heart is replaced by fluttering - god, what he wouldn't give to have you look at him like that all the time. desperate to keep it going, he retorts with an equally mischievous phrase, pointedly ignoring the slight agony of how easily flirting with you comes to him. "fuck's sake, what's even the point of me agreeing to this then?"

your cheeks tint pink. fuck. scratch what he said about the flirty look - that's what matty wants to make you look like all the time, flustered by his affection. before he can make a cheesy joke about him really taking the boyfriend role seriously in making you blush, you respond with a statement that genuinely leaves him dumbstruck. "fine, we'll compromise: you can sit between my legs and use my tits as a headrest, okay?"

there's not even a hint of humour or sarcasm or irony in your voice. matty blinks a few times before he regains the power of speech. "you being serious?"

an earnest nod. "what kind of girlfriend would i be if i didn't let you snuggle up to me like that?"

jesus h. fucking christ alive. this might genuinely kill matty off, but why wouldn't he take such a golden opportunity? if he dies, he dies with his head on your tits - arguably a perfect way to go. "fair point, babe. alright. get the film on, then."

you hop up from the bed and run to your tv (matty tries not to focus on the way your bum jiggles in those illegally-tiny shorts you're wearing, and fails miserably). as you faff around with the dvd player, you call back to him. "there's wine under your side of the bed if you want any."

smiling to himself at the way you said "your side of the bed" so casually, matty reaches down and grabs a slightly dusty bottle of red. "fuck me, this is good shit! no wonder you've been stashing it in here, babe. are you sure you want to drink it now?"

"might as well, if we're on a date," you say with a wink, walking back to the bed and settling onto it. after wiggling around to find the best sitting angle against the headboard, you gesture to the space between your open legs. "get in, then."

"dirty," matty quips, but does as he's told, climbing between your legs and leaning back against you. a flush of contentment passes through him as he does; the two of you seem to fit together seamlessly, laser cut puzzle pieces made with the sole purpose of connecting together. "ooh, they really are comfy!"

that earns him a flick to the stomach, but you don't berate him (unbeknownst to him, because you like the feeling of him resting his head there). "ready to start watching?"

"sure, babe."

you tap the remote to start the film, matty opens the wine, and fake date night begins. you both manage to watch the film in comfortable silence - albeit interspersed with the odd chuckle, and a melancholy "oh, heath" from matty when patrick first appears onscreen - until kat is shown intently reading the bell jar, at which point matty cackles. "oh my god, she's you!"

"can't even argue with you," you giggle, taking the wine from him and taking a swig. "but shush, babe, keep watching."

how can matty be expected focus on the film, though, when you're there right next to him, all sparkling eyes and smiling lips and cheeks flushed from the booze? he makes an effort to watch it, though, because it clearly makes you happy - that, and he's actually quite enjoying it. but his eyes continue to flick to you, too, heart fluttering slightly faster every time he does.

more of the film passes, the two of you sharing wine and chatting quietly and laughing throughout. suddenly, though, you gasp and put your arms around matty, who puts his hand on your thigh comfortingly as an immediate response. he screams internally when he realises he's probably crossed the acceptable intimacy line by several hundred miles in doing that, but keeps his hand there when you don't respond, too hooked on the onscreen action to bother. "okay, we have to actually shut up now - this is the best scene in the film."

matty squints at the frankie valli song playing in the background, then at heath ledger holding a mic. "surely he isn't-"

"oh, he is." you readjust matty's head on your chest to lean forward as best you can, eyes unblinkingly focused on the screen. matty turns his gaze sideways onto your face, which settles into a dreamy expression as you wistfully sigh at patrick serenading kat. the previously-unseen longing in your eyes is crystal clear, even in the dim lamplight of your bedroom.

oh. oh.

matty fights to suppress the grin spreading itself on his face as the realisation hits him.

you find being sung to romantic.

this is good. great, even. some would say perfect, ideal, serendipitous. the very thing matty does for a living is the thing - well, at least something - that you want to be wooed by. what a fucking wonderful turn of events.

the rest of the film passes by in a blur. matty watches it, oohing and ahhing a beat after you do, but doesn't really take anything in. his brain is too preoccupied with going through the (extensive) list of love songs he knows and could sing for you - ones he's written (about you), ones he loves (because they remind him of you), ones he knows you love. so preoccupied is matty, in fact, that he doesn't realise he's now resorted to tracing patterns into your thigh with his index finger, nor that you're actively enjoying him doing so. it's only when the credits begin to roll that matty snaps out of his daydreams about singing to you, and even then it's largely due to you (reluctantly) manoeuvering his body off of your own so you can get up to turn the tv off.

once the dvd is back in its case, you turn to matty, hands on hips, adorably blinking the tiredness from your eyes. he notices, with a flush of something like satisfaction, that your t-shirt is all crinkled over your chest where his head has been. "so," you start. "how'd you find it?"

"good, yeah. interesting," matty replies, watching you as you climb back onto your bed and burrow under the duvet. he isn't lying. "that scene where heath was singing to her... that was definitely my favourite." again, not a lie.

"get under the covers, you're freezing- yeah, that's my favourite scene, too," you say, lifting the duvet up so matty can awkwardly slide under it with you. his heart flutters again as you yawn cutely, a fluttering which increases to a rave-level bass thumping when you wriggle close to him and lay your head on his chest, draping an arm across his stomach. the agreed 90 minutes of pretending to be boyfriend and girlfriend is definitely over, but there's no way matty's going to protest you cuddling him for longer, not when it feels so right. "s'romantic."

"d'you think you'd like it if someone sang to you, darlin?" matty asks - it's a bit of a loaded question, but your sleepiness means you'll give an honest answer that you probably won't remember giving at all.

"mhmm", you say, clutching matty tightly as you drift off to sleep. "maybe you could..."

you're fast asleep before you can finish the sentence. matty just looks at you tenderly, his love for you practically radiating off him, and gently sweeps a stray strand of hair from your cheek. emboldened by the wine and affection, he kisses your forehead - a feather-light brush of lips against skin - before settling down to sleep himself.

sharing a bed for a night crosses the acceptable intimacy line so far it's practically on another continent, but matty couldn't care less right now. "yeah, angel, i could. i can," he whispers into your hair. "and i will, soon. i promise."

[wynnyfryd]

Satanic Ritual: DO NOT WATCH!!

I lied, I’m posting it early. <3 based on this gorgeous art by @inklessletter. excerpt below, full fic on AO3 

“I have come, Sir Steven, to present you… with a very special film.”

He pulls his hands from behind his back with a flourish. It’s a VHS in a plain white case, the words Satanic Ritual: DO NOT WATCH!! scribbled in sharpie on the front cover in Eddie’s spiky script.

Holy shit. Steve can’t believe this thing survived.

“Jesus,” he snorts, tracing the title with his pointer finger. Eddie would name their sex tape something totally insane. “Satanic ritual. It’s like you were trying to provoke the pitchfork people.”

“I’m sorry, would you have preferred if I wrote, like, ‘super horny homosexual hour’ on the cover instead?”

“Yes.” Steve deadpans. “Yes, I would.”

-

tagging @steddieas-shegoes @notmindingthebuzzcocks @wormdebut and @gorgeousgreymatter-x so i can brag about posting before you lmao <3

[officialyourdailyinspiration]

Jesus told the disciples, “If you love me, keep my commands” (John 14:15). It’s safe to assume that He would say the same thing to His followers today. But what kind of things did Jesus ask of His followers? We pulled together 38 of Jesus’ commands, focusing on the ones with universal application for all of His followers. These Scriptures can be a great jumping off point for prayer, memorization and meditation...

[babybluebex]

how do you think baby anthony would react to seeing joe in character as eddie??? like his wife would obviously think it’s really hot but little baby anthony is in her arms just staring at him😂🥺

ok i got like several requests for this concept and i just HAD to write it bc it's so cute (also hella short whoops sorry :/)

You spotted him before he saw you. Of course, Joe was working and wasn’t really paying attention to who came and went from the outdoor set— if you knew anything about film sets, people were always coming and going. The only thing that made you special was the baby on your hip. Anthony was a “wee lad”, as his namesake called him, only 13 months old, small with thin blond hair and giant brown eyes. He had just started walking on his own, babbling away nonsense every day, and you loved having a baby around. The part that sucked was that Joe had been called from home to film Stranger Things. 

He hated leaving you two, but you had convinced him to do it. He had auditioned back in 2019, before you even knew you were pregnant, and, by the time Anthony came around, he had already been offered the role of Eddie. Joe wanted to pull out of the project when you found out you were pregnant, mere days after the Duffer brothers had offered him the role and he had accepted, but you told him absolutely not. “This is the biggest thing you’ve ever done,” you told him. “You can’t sacrifice your career for me.” 

And now, you had flown from London to Atlanta with a baby in order to visit Joe. You told him that you were coming, but you had fudged the truth a bit, and told him that you weren’t coming for another week. Just that morning, as you were about to leave for the airport, Joe Facetimed you and blew raspberries at Anthony. Joe had lost a lot of weight to play Eddie and the look of his thin cheeks was too different for you, and you had no idea what his costume entailed, so you had no idea what to expect when you got on set. 

You didn’t expect the long dark curls that ran down his back. You didn’t expect the ripped jeans and trainers and leather jacket and denim vest. You didn’t expect the shirt he wore, emblazoned with a logo for the Hellfire Club. He looked so different, yet exactly the same, and you bit your lip as the director yelled cut. 

You watched Joe fall out of character, and his eyes snapped to you in an instant. “Darling!” he called, and he started to make his way to you. You saw his scene partner (Joe Keery, whom you had never met, wearing a yellow sweater) give you a confused look, but you focused on Joe as he came to you, smiling wildly. He looked gorgeous, but you did take a step backwards as he approached you out of instinct. It was your Joe, but he wasn’t your Joe. It was Eddie. 

“Oh my God!” Joe grinned, throwing his arms around your middle and hugging you tightly. “B-But you said that you weren’t coming until next week!” 

“Surprise,” you told him, and Joe laughed. 

“Jesus Christ, he’s gotten so big,” Joe mumbled, looking at Anthony. Anthony was staring at his father, the way he did with strangers, and Joe added, “C’mere, Ant, come to Daddy.” 

The moment Joe put his hands on Anthony’s waist, the little boy whined and moved closer into your chest, and Joe withdrew his arms quickly, as if he had been burned. “Does he not recognize me?” he asked. 

“I mean, you do look pretty different,” you shrugged. “Really, really good, but also super different. The hair and the clothes and… God, Joe, why didn’t you tell me that Eddie was so hot?” 

Joe laughed lightly, his mind obviously still stewing on the fact that his son didn’t recognize him. “Anthony,” he said softly, smoothing his hand across his son’s downy hair. “It’s just me, it’s just Daddy… Can’t he, like, smell me and recognize me?” 

“He’s not a dog, Joe,” you laughed. “C’mon, baby, let’s let Daddy hold you or he might start crying.” 

“I definitely will,” Joe chuckled, and Anthony whined in protest as you gave him over to Joe. Instantly, he started to wiggle in Joe’s arms, trying to escape the grip of a stranger, and Joe frowned. “Aw, baby, you’re gonna make your old daddy cry here. It’s just me. I know I look pretty silly, but it’s me.” 

Before he could say more, Joe Keery approached the three of you. You had to admit that you were a little starstruck, and your mouth went dry as you smiled at him. “Well, well, Quinn,” Joe Keery said, and he extended a finger towards Anthony, tickling his little tummy. “Who’s this?” 

“Keery, this is my wife, Y/N,” your husband began, gesturing at you, and Anthony giggled as Keery tickled his belly. “And this is my son, Anthony.” 

“Nice to meet you,” you told Keery, reaching forward to shake his hand, and Keery’s eyes went wide in recognition. 

“Quinn’s shown us pictures of you guys,” he said. “I didn’t know that you’d be visiting!” 

“I told him we weren’t coming until next week,” you chuckled, and Anthony grabbed at Keery’s finger, sputtering his lips and laughing. “God, he seems like he’s having more fun with you than with his own dad.” 

“He doesn’t recognize me,” Joe said glumly, trying his hand at tickling Anthony’s belly. Anthony still laughed, but Joe still frowned. “I think it’s the wig.” 

“I mean, probably,” Keery laughed. “It does make you look pretty different.” 

“But I thought he’d at least recognize me,” Joe said. Anthony was looking around at everything, smiling his gummy smile at everyone who passed by, and he cooed when you took him out of Joe’s arms and back into yours. “I mean, I’m his dad, for God’s sake.” 

“Don’t take it personally, honey,” you told him. “He’s just a little thing, he’ll recognize you tonight when you get out of the costume.” 

“But I want it now,” Joe whined playfully. “I want him to do that thing where he plonks his head down on my chest and makes that cute little noise.” 

“Aw, yeah, that’s cute,” you mumbled, and Anthony kicked his little legs, obviously wanting to explore. “No, baby, you’ve gotta stay with either Mummy or Daddy, you can’t walk around here.”

“He’s walking?” Keery asked, and you nodded. “How old is he?” 

“Thirteen months,” you said, bouncing an increasingly-fussy Anthony in your arms. “But he’s really little, so people think he’s, like, ten or eleven months old. Joe was really tiny as a baby too, so it’s expected.” 

“Did my mother tell you that?” Joe asked.

“I mean, if it’s true,” you shrugged. Anthony finally made his tell-tale little whining cry, and you frowned. “Baby, can you get his binky from my bag? It’s in the front pocket.” 

Joe was quick to go to your back, where your backpack sat, and he passed you Anthony’s favorite blue binky. You carefully pushed it into your son’s mouth, and Anthony gratefully took it, his little fists curling in your shirt. “I think someone’s getting sleepy,” Joe said softly, pressing his hand to Anthony’s chubby cheek. “Did he nap at all on the plane?” 

“A little bit,” you said. “He was asleep when we took off, but he didn’t sleep for very long.” 

“Maybe that’s why he doesn’t recognize me,” Joe said. “He’s just sleepy and cranky.” 

“Maybe,” you offered. “Anthony, baby, let’s go to Daddy before he throws a wobbly.” 

You gave Anthony over to Joe one more time, and your son made a soft coo behind his binky before his head thumped onto Joe’s chest. Joe smiled widely, bouncing Anthony for a moment, and he said, “He did it! He plonked his head down!” 

“Maybe he’s recognizing you,” you said as Anthony started to tug at the ends of the wig, obviously curious about it. You could see him starting to warm up to your husband, and Joe pressed a kiss to his hair. 

“My good boy,” Joe said softly, his eyes soft and warm as he watched Anthony suck at his binkie and play with the ends of Eddie’s curls. “My smart boy, my sweetie… God, I missed you two so much.” 

“Well, we’re here now, baby,” you told him, and you leaned in to kiss Joe’s warm mouth. His lips were dry and chapped, but you didn’t care. You had missed him so much, and the incoming week would hopefully heal your heart. Anthony whined and nestled further into Joe’s chest, and you smiled at him and kissed his blond curls. “You’ve got us now.” 

[chronically-ghosted]

you got your claws in me honey, like a tiger in love

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

word count: 8K

pairing: dieter bravo x f!reader

summary: you arrive at your estranged uncle's door. what else is there to do but catch up over grilled cheese? well, if you have anything to say about it, you might end up doing a bit more.

warnings: dbf!dieter, grilled cheese as a way to guilt trip your dad's best friend/uncle into fucking you, drug use (weed), raising arizona that comes with its own warning, flirting with someone twice your age, no smut — that’s what part 2 is for, reminiscing, a cliffhanger? 👀

a/n: the original fic came out MONTHS before the mcu rumors, so either i have precognition, or the apocalypse is becoming predicable. happy valentine's day you filthy animals because nothing says romance like porking your dad's best friend

🤍AO3 Link

🤍Series Masterlist | Next

🤍Masterlist

From the voicemail of Mr. Paul Landeau, official Hollywood talent manager and agent to one Mr. Dieter Bravo . . .

Tuesday, 6:43PM

No, I’m not doing it. I’m not. 

There has to be something else out there. Look, I know Fire Monsters: A Cliff Beasts story didn’t do as well as we hoped, but Reddit says it could be a cult classic so why don’t you focus on making that happen, okay? Instead of giving me shit roles like this. I’m not doing it. 

– the sound of a door opening and the phone being shuffled – – a zipper rips –  – liquid pouring –

We fucking talked about this, man. I told you I needed something different, something new. Tiktok is just reels of me screaming and dying – it’s fucking bullshit – 

– more liquid –

I’m done playing the fucking bad guy. I’m not signing any more headless action figures for those little snot-nosed, little fuckers in line. I’m not asking to sign their moms’ tits, either – okay, maybe – but Jesus Christ, Paul, what you sent over is, like, the opposite of where I need to be. It’s for little teeny boppers with one or two B horror movies under their belt to finally break out into the mainstream – or where actors over forty go to cash in an easy paycheck. And yes, I fucking know we need something, but fuck – is this really all there is?

– liquid stops pouring – – zipper rips – – the sound of a toilet flushing –

Don’t fucking call me back, Paul, unless you’ve got something. Something real.

Tuesday, 8:23PM

OW! Motherf–

– a skillet clattering – 

Okay – fuck, that hurts – okay, Paul, what about this? It came to me in the bathroom. Remember Jack from the Christmas party at the studio’s place? So, he’s got those two Sundance films, right, but they’re in Spanish, so not appealing to an American audience. Nicki told me that he’s thinking about doing another project, one with a wider appeal, and I’m thinking I should totally give him a call. I think we could vibe. I really liked his stuff – reminded me of my old small town, fucking around with the neighbor kids, you know? Kinda hometown hero sort of thing. 

– sharp inhale then a cough – 

It’s not my usual thing, but I think we should give it a try. Gimme a call. 

Oh, do you know how to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Been craving one but I think I might burn down my house if I try again and UberEats doesn’t reach the good places further south. Oh, fuck, wait – 

Hey Google, how do you make a fucking excellent grilled cheese?

Tuesday, 9:21PM

No, fucking– 

Siri – how.do.you.treat.a.burn? 

Calling. . . Burger King . . .

No! Fuck!

Tuesday, 10:49PM

Paul-y! Baby! Paul-ito!

Don’t worry. I got an idea that’s going to make us a million dollars. 

A shop that makes only grilled cheese. But like – fancy grilled cheese. What do the kids fucking call it, ah – boogie – yeah, boogie grilled cheese. Like gouda and white cheddar, and butter churned by blind nuns or some shit. Tomato soups that have been blessed by the Dalai Lama. 

Big sign out front that says, Vegans Can Eat Shit. 

They’ll eat it up. 

Fuck yeah, they will. 

– silence for three minutes and sixteen seconds –

Fuck acting, man. Fuck this place. 

And fuck this fucking cheese that keeps burning – goddamn it!

Tuesday, 11:52PM

Paul, why don’t we hang out anymore?

When I got started, we hung out all the time, man. 

Hot dogs on the Santa Monica pier. Beer in the Pacific Ocean. 

You showed me all the cool spots that no one else in LA knew about. You got me my first bump and my first stripper. God, that was fucking wild, man, you remember? I was so nervous I thought I was going to throw up. Did I ever tell you that before? Coke probably didn’t help a kid from a small town in South Cali, but – fuck, it made me feel better. Like I could get my shit together if I really tried.  

What, are you too good for me now – is that it? Am I not good enough for you, huh? 

Look, I’ve got Raising Arizona on right now, so why don’t you come over with a six pack – 

Oh, shit, that’s right. You got a fucking family now. 

Not a good influence, ol’ Dee. 

Not a good –

 

Wednesday, 1:05AM

Fine, Paul. Fine. 

I’ll play Mr. Fantastic in the Fantastic Four reboot. 

Dieter’s thumb brushes the red End Call button and tosses his phone onto the kitchen island with a growl. He can feel himself coming down from the bump earlier – a thing he absolutely did not want to happen – and he shoves his palms into his eye sockets. 

There is more coke upstairs, but that would require him to walk through his very long hallways to get there. Very long, and dark, and empty hallways. 

He should have asked Maria to stay once she was done with the laundry. He would have done it right too – big bowl of popcorn, fully dressed, with a sign around his neck that said, I promise I’m not trying to sleep with you. 

He is becoming increasingly aware of how many erratic voicemails he just left for his agent, aware that behavior like that was libel to get him a sit down in Paul’s office with all the blinds and windows closed, Paul’s narrow face serious and using Concerned Emotion #5, as he asks, “do we need to go back to rehab, Dieter?”

We. 

There once was a “we”, now there was just “he” – in a house with seven bedrooms and a pool that could fit a sixteen wheeler in it. 

And TWO kitchens – why the fuck did he think he needed two kitchens – 

Well, he knew he didn’t need two, but it would have been cool to show them off to someone – If there was anyone to show them off to . . .

Fuck this downer mood.

Dieter snatches up his phone again, and the movement brings up his latest apps. UberEats is the second one. He taps in a few keywords, blatantly ignoring his latest call list. 

Goddamn Burger King . . . 

The front doorbell rings. 

Dieter frowns, pulling the screen closer under his big nose. Now, he knows he is high and he knows he should be wearing his glasses when reading but there’s no fucking way . . .

He goes out of the kitchen, the room still smelling of burnt cheese with the cast iron skillet in the sink and a black husk sticking to its bottom. He goes left, then right, his robe tightly wrapped around him as if he is some huffy housewife, then down a hall and across the marble entrance way – fuming – why is this house so goddamn huge – who thought this was a good idea?

And so he wrenches open the front door – to a girl, not holding a Burger King bag. No, she’s got a roller suitcase behind her, bright blue, and she and the case are dripping wet. Like, just sprayed with a hose kind of wet and her big bottom lip is trembling. Behind her, the sky pukes buckets of rain, groaning with thunder. 

Now, he likes his call girls (he always thought it was classier to call them that) a little more . . . vampy than this, but hell, he had been turned on by much less than this— than her with her big eyes, fat droplets rolling off her lashes, flushed cheeks – and oh, shit, her shirt is totally see-through – is that purple, he feels the back of his mouth flush with spit – wow, is this Paul’s way of apology because – 

“Uncle Dee?” 

And he’s mentally shoving himself back into his pants because no one in years has called him that and that was a very different time in place, when he was a completely different person and if this girl is the person he thinks it is, then – Jesus Christ, he’s bound and gagged straight for hell – 

He squeaks out your name and you smile, sort of grimace, at him and wave. 

“Yep, it’s me. Been awhile, right?” You finally give into the mortification of your stupid plan and you scrunch up your face, your hand wrapped around your elbow. “Look, I’m so sorry, this is too weird. I don’t have your number, but I panicked when my flight got canceled and my phone’s dead and you’re the only person I know in LA and –,” 

“No, no – you’re fine – sorry–,” Dieter blinks before stepping back and letting you through. You sigh in relief and yank your baby blue suitcase over the threshold as you walk in, dripping water everywhere. “Sorry, it’s been a weird night and for, like, two seconds, I thought . . . nevermind . . .”

I thought you were a fucking ghost.

You bite the corner of your lip, glancing at him, knowing it was probably unwise to piss off your one chance at not sleeping on the ground tonight — or if what you were about to say would piss him off in the first place. 

“Yeah, well, it’s been eleven years since we last saw you, Uncle Dee.” 

Early on in his career, he wanted to build up rep as not only an actor but a real tough guy, so he asked if he could do some stunts for an old cop show. For all his bravado, he ended up getting a real round-house kick to the face and it sent him reeling.

This feels a little bit like that.

“No way, it can’t have been that long. Besides, I know I left my number with your dad or your grandma before I left and —,” 

His throat closes up when very old guilt washes over him. It’s intensified when you give him an uncomfortable look.

“So your dad didn’t give you my number then.”

It’s not a question. You shake your head. You don’t tell him that your dad tried to call years ago and got a busy tone for the first few, and then a few years after that, was brusquely informed the line had been disconnected. 

He chews on his lip. 

You try to smile at him again but then another shiver takes hold of you and Dieter grimaces. “Shit, sorry, one second. I think this closet down here has towels.” 

He all but sprint-walks down one of the many halls branching off from the entrance, the ends of his robes flapping. You hear the creak of doors, several, as he digs around in the walls. 

“Why do I have so many fucking linens?” You hear him grumble and you smile to yourself. You feel like you need to wring your hair out but wouldn’t dare move from the spot where he left you.

After a thump and more grumbling, he comes back, rubbing the back of his head, but holding out a giant lime green towel. In the light, you can see the dark circles under his eyes when you take the towel and immediately go to stop your hair from dripping on the marble.

His brain is waffling, ping ponging, between his memories and what is standing right in front of him. This? This is the little girl, not his literal blood relative, but she’s Enrico’s kid – Enrico, a slugger and one hell of a outfielder since he was eight years old, whose mom made enchiladas like nobody else in the goddamn world – Enrico, whose house became like a second home, Ricky's family a better family than his own – this is the same girl who hoarded Skittles like a fiend, the same one who he took to the pool on the weekends in the summer, and the zoo during Thanksgiving break? This little girl – 

– is the same girl who is all legs under damp denim, eyes that could make Cleopatra fly into a jealous rage, and a fucking rockstar smile? 

And, holy shit, those tits –  

Dude, you cannot be checking her out. Dig deep and fight your fucking caveman brain. You’ve fucked up a lot in your life and you cannot do that right now. You cannot do that to Enrico. 

You cannot do that to her.

You notice him grimace as he squints into the light of the chandelier above you both. “So, uh, not that I mind, but, uh, what are you doing here? I mean –,” 

You laugh and it seems to echo in the empty house. “No, that’s a fair question. I was on a flight back from looking at colleges out east and my flight got grounded in LAX because of the storm. I absolutely don’t have enough money to stay in a hotel or rent a car and drive back home, so I needed a place to crash and call my sister to send me some money. And my stupid driver didn’t want to get flagged for harassing a celebrity, so he dropped me off at the corner, hence . . .”

You wave at yourself and inside his slippers, his toes curl, respectfully not looking at your damp legs and a definitely purple bra visible through your shirt. 

Your mouth suddenly capsizes. “Shit, is that okay, if I stay here for a night? I didn’t even think - I - I’m not . . . interrupting anything, am I?” 

Dieter chuckles, your expression undeniably cute, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his robe. 

“Nah. Not unless you call making the worst grilled cheese imaginable a party.” 

At that moment, your stomach chooses to make the most aggressive growl in your entire life and you flush deeper than the cold outside. 

“Apparently someone thinks that’s a good idea,” you chuckle weakly, horrified that your body is actively trying to sabotage a normal conversation. 

Did it matter that you had posters of him in your bedroom when you were thirteen? That you went to midnight releases of every one of his movies? 

No. Not at all. 

“I got some food, mostly leftovers.” He worries at his lip as he realizes the only thing by way of something green in his fridge is the jar of olives he got for martinis. Even then, he has a sneaking suspicion he replaced the olive juice with vodka, but the memory of that night is entirely butchered. “But, uh, I’m sure we can find something.”

You smile at him. “Actually, grilled cheese sounds great.” 

“Only if you do it.” He smiles, honestly, when you laugh. “What? Don’t laugh — I’m serious. I can’t make a sandwich to save my fucking life.” 

“Pretty sure I can manage two slices of bread and cheese.” 

His eyebrows jump as his lips press themselves together and you watch the thumb-sized bare spot on his beard twitch.

“Yeah, that’s what you think and then your goddamn kitchen is on fire.” 

“Lemme change, do some rocket surgery and brain science, and then I’ll attempt to crack this grilled cheese thing.” 

“Okay, but remember we do have Chinese leftovers and I can definitely crush a microwave. This way.” 

You follow him through the halls, his shoulders loosening underneath the off-green fuzz, and you try and not to stare at the immaculately beautiful walls and expansive, clean floors, so your eyes wander, and then you’re trying not to stare at the immaculately beautiful man in front of you. 

You push away the thought that this house looks nothing like you’d expect someone like Dieter to have, as he leads you to the kitchen — all black and chrome and steel, like what a Norwegian serial killer would have — and nods to a door towards the opposite wall. He’s digging around for the last slices of white bread when he says,

“Bathroom’s down there. I’ll get it all ready, but I’m leaving it up to you. Can’t afford to lose another pan.” 

Your eyes finally drift down from the bare walls, unsure if you should be offended that nothing of the family back home is here, or accept that there was just nothing personal anywhere. You smile gently at him and nod in thanks. 

He watches you go, that bright blue suitcase flashing as loud as a tornado siren, and he shakes his head. God, he needs a drink but drinking also makes him horny and he needs every mental facility available to him if he wis going to make it through this night with his sanity still intact. 

Had it really been eleven years? He always meant to call up Enrico and the old neighborhood gang. He probably forgot about that last fight anyway – even if Dieter hadn’t – even if it wasn’t more than a decade ago. Mama Gonzales always said there’d be a place for him, even after his own father said acting was for maricos and drag queens. It always hurt more when the postcards from the Gonzales family stopped coming than when Mom stopped calling. And he always meant to send back a proper return address when he moved out of that crappy loft after his first real movie premiere but that was the 90s, and much of the 90s was spent between working shit jobs and drooling on the floors of rave warehouses. It wasn’t them specifically he didn’t want to see him like that, but anyone. Anyone who knew him before Dieter Bravo. 

Certainly not anyone who called him Uncle Dee —

Something flashes in the corner of his eye and he realizes he’s always fucking hated the fact that the a) the back of his house is just one big window and b) he never bothered to put in curtains. Because, the thing with windows is they reflect things — things like his pseudo-niece taking her top off in his guest bathroom. Reflected and in full color right across his kitchen island like the sexiest hologram that will haunt his fucking wet dreams until the day hell freezes over. 

Yep, that’s definitely your hips, your ribs, and okay—

Nope. Absolutely not. 

Dieter’s knees give out and he crouches (more like slumps) to the floor behind the island, his palms so far in his eye sockets he can only see stars.

Yeah, only stars. Focus on the stars, not the image of the curve of your gorgeous tits that’s running around his brain like a child with scissors and a Thanatos instinct off the fucking charts. 

Fuck, and he just wanted to get high and watch Nicholas Cage in a mullet. 

“Hey, I’m done. Dee, you still here?”

He stifles a groan and stands up. You smile at him, the wet jeans and agonizing white tank top gone, only to be replaced by a black Fleetwood Mac tshirt and — fuck, where are your pants?

You lower the handle to your suitcase and go to stow by the bathroom door. And that’s when he realizes you are actually wearing pants, black shorts that are practically hidden by the oversized t-shirt and are comically, hilariously, painfully small. He can’t actually see the curve of your ass as you walk around the side of the island but he is absolutely not going to let his gaze linger long enough to confirm. 

He clears his throat as you come to stand beside him. He gestures to the four pieces of white bread and a stack of Crafts American cheese. 

“H-h-have —,” he clears his throat again and his forebearers groan collectively in embarrassment. “Have at it.” 

You smile and tuck your hair over your ear before picking up the knife. 

“D’you have mayonnaise? Butter?”  

No amount of irredeemable hotness can distract him from that. “What? What do you need mayonnaise for? It’s grilled cheese.”

You cluck your tongue, an eyebrow raised. “Brain science and rocket surgery, remember? Don’t question the master.”

He can’t help but chuckle as he goes to his steel monolith of a fridge. 

“Jeez, sorry, I asked,” he grumbles playfully.

He comes back with an (thankfully) unexpired jar and tub of butter and you get to work. Silence stretches a bit too long, something Dieter has never been good with, especially with beautiful women. He loves running his mouth and sometimes he's found that the women liked it too. He resigns himself to sit across from you at the island, watching you spread mayonnaise on both sides of the bread. 

“So, uh, how are the folks? How’s your, uh, dad?”

You nod slowly and even though he hasn’t been around in eleven years to pick up on all your tells, he swears your hackles go up.

“Fine. All good. Dad’s still at the car repair shop — owns it now, actually. Makes decent money, I guess.” 

“You guess?” He hadn’t made it his life’s work to mimic the human condition to not recognize cagey language. 

You glance at him briefly before flipping over the last piece of bread and dropping a dollop of mayonnaise on top. 

“Yeah. I — uh, we haven’t — I actually haven’t talked to them in a while. Though if I had, I probably wouldn’t be here right now.” You sneak another glance, this one ladened with a smile that had a secret curled up in its corners. “Serves me right, probably.”

“Yeah. Probably.” 

He can’t help but return the smile, one of a familiarity he hasn’t earned yet. You were smiling at him as if you two had years of secrets together, memories and inside jokes that were for the pair of you alone. For the life of him and all the water in his ridiculous pool, he couldn’t fathom why you were being so nice to him. Letting him off the hook. It had been eleven fucking years after all. There are a lot of things he takes guilt free from the world. Your fucking star-eyed smile is not one of them. 

So, he lets you off the hook. He doesn’t push it. If you don’t want to talk about your folks, he is happy to chatter aimlessly about something else. But, his brain winds up, what happened that caused you to fall out with your parents? Enrico, even back then, had been a hard ass, with you and your brothers. Always made sure to walk the straight and narrow. Detested drugs, always shined his shoes, thought tattoos were the devil, never kissed a girl on the first date — 

And here you are, making fucking mooneyes at his daughter. 

Well, one thing was for sure, he muses, something warm spreading in his gut, you are nothing like your daddy. 

The hiss of the bread hitting the hot butter in a pan (you didn’t even need to ask where another pan was, you just helped yourself to his cabinets and he couldn’t have been more proud) jerks him out of his daze and he realizes that annoying silence has set in again. 

“So, colleges, huh? Anything in particular spark interest?” 

You nod excitedly as he found a topic that made you glow. Clearly, no one had asked about your interests in a long time.

“Yeah, actually. Emerson in Boston was amazing. I loved the city, but not sure I’d survive the winter. Swarthmore sounds good, Amherst too, but again, cold.” You grin sheepishly and flip the sandwiches, pressing the spatula (he didn’t even know he owned one of those) into the bread, making the butter sizzle and the air fill with a smell that can only be described as mouth-watering. 

“It’ll be a nightmare, taking out loans for those places, but fuck, I think I’d be really happy there.” 

He leans against the counter, facing you with crossed arms. He smiles a smile that he knows doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What, your folks wouldn’t pay for it? Or at least help out?”

Something sharp flashes in your eyes, like a rabbit catching the scent of a predator, before you shrug your shoulders flippantly. A well-worn deflection, he notes, right next to the place where he’s got all the places you mentioned are about as far away from California as possible. If you had mentioned somewhere in Europe, he wouldn’t have been surprised. 

“Nah. I wouldn’t let them. Don’t want them thinking they get input into my life because they hold the purse strings over my head.” You turn off the stove and he moves to get the plates out from the cabinets – something to contribute as you made him a better meal than he’s had in ages. 

“So, uh, we eat in there?” You glance down the hall to the eerily clean dining room, a place he’s pretty sure he’s never once set foot in after three years of living in this goddamn mansion. 

He chuckles and shakes his head. “C’mon, I already have a movie picked out.” 

You follow him, plates hot, down carpeted stairs to clearly the only room in the house that Dieter actually lives in. The lights down here are low, much more bearable than the white spotlights of the kitchen. Against one wall, there’s a fully stocked bar, with most of the alcohol halfway empty and costing a fortune. Across from the stairs is a massive record collection, going up to the ceiling, next to a gorgeous old record player — all wood and black vinyl — with big, plushy earphones curled up on a black leather recliner. 

But the star of the show is the wall-to-ceiling television, with a brown, mouse-soft leather sofa that wraps like a giddy, up-turned grin in front of it. 

And of course, in between the superstar television and the cozy couch, is a low glass table where he had snorted lines of coke more times he could count and where a virgin joint sits, unsmoked and tempting. 

Dieter flushes as though he’d been caught by his parents with his pants down around his ankles. 

“Fuck, sorry–,” he rushes over, the plate clattering with the glass, and he reaches for the joint, ready to squish it into his pocket when– 

You laugh. “Relax, Dee, I know what a joint is. In fact, we are very well acquainted.”

You fold yourself into the couch, legs crossed, grinning at him as you bite into your sandwich. 

He swallows, unclenching slightly as he sits down next to you. He watches you eat for a moment, trying to think of something cool to say.

“Sounds like I’ve missed my calling as the fun uncle, getting you high for the first time and all that.” 

You snort and swallow your mouthful. “Yeah, by like two fucking years.” 

“Oh, what a fucking lifetime. You poor thing,” he says, pouting dramatically and you giggle again, bumping into his shoulder. It sends his sanity knocking around in his brain. 

You don’t notice, though, your eyes falling to the joint in the small ceramic bowl. The smile slides from your face. 

“Well, you might have missed my first joint, but I’d be more than happy to take this one as my next.”

His eyebrows practically bounce off his forehead. “You’re serious?” 

Your eyes slide away from the joint to his, something distractingly dark hiding there. “I mean, if the parties on your Instagram are anything to go by . . . And, well, when in Rome . . .”

You trail off, smirking, gesturing around you as if you had any idea the levels of debauchery that were obtained in this very room. Come to think of it, he halfway considers picking you up off the couch and putting a towel down underneath your perfect ass. 

This is how it went sometimes, with the slower hook ups. No wet clothes, or grilled cheese, or bringing up family trauma — but initial touches, curling smiles, and then drugs. Always drugs. As if there needed to be another hand that tore off the cap of the pressurized, fizzy soda bottle. He’d play music then, for them, to show off his vinyl collection and have a plausible reason to rub his dick between their ass cheeks while dancing slowly to something croon-y from the seventies. 

Not that any of that would be happening with you. 

He wasn’t a complete monster after all. 

With a playful grin that he had mastered over many press junkets, he snatches up the joint and lighter, and presents both to you in the flat of his hand. 

“First hit goes to you, since you were so kind to make dinner for an old fuck like me.” 

You snort and put your plate onto the table, wiping your hands free of crumbs on your black shirt. 

“Such a gentleman.” 

With deft and practiced hands, you take the joint between your index finger and your thumb, and sparking the lighter, brought the flame to your lips. 

Just for one second, one goddamn second, he swears he saw The Look reflected in your eyes. He glances away, his cock fluttering awake like goddamn Lassy hearing the calls of another well-begotten child. He picks up his own plate.

“Hardly. It was all a ploy to get you to admit you follow me on Instagram.”

You burst out coughing, smoke chugging from your nose and mouth. “Dieter!”

He cackles, his tongue between his teeth, as you shove him away from you — do not think about her fingers clenched around your bicep —  try to sit up and inhale again. You hang your head and groan. 

“Fuck, I can’t believe I said that.” 

“Yeah, and for that, I get two puffs,” he says out of the corner of his mouth, the rest of it full of the most perfectly cooked grilled cheese sandwich he’d ever had. He finishes chewing and swallows. “Hand it over, princess.” 

You hand over the lighter and the joint, the paper slightly greasy from your fingers, leaning back dramatically into one of the many plushy cup holder seats spread out along the very long couch. 

He chuckles devilishly again, far too satisfied, as he lights up and leans back into the cushions. 

“And, as gesture of goodwill, I’ll admit that’s a good fucking grilled cheese.” 

Your eyes snap open and a wide grin splits your face. “Hell yes! Mayonnaise on both sides, butter on the side with cheese. Best family recipe. Mwah!”

“Fuck, even I know that’s too much cholesterol for me,” he grunts and digs into the cushions, feeling around for the remote. 

“Well, that’s not enough cholesterol for me,” you wink as you take the joint from the hand on his thigh, eyes daring you to do something about it. Nowhere near high enough to take the bait, he just narrows his eyes at you as he clicks the button and the entertainment system comes to life with a primordial hum. 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, eyes wide, as the speakers roar and the lights dim further and the screen glows, “it’s like I’m in a fucking movie theater . . . in space.”

“It’s great, right?” Dieter moans like a loving father over his first child. This thing is his pride and joy, the only thing he could stomach in this goddamn house.

The DVD buffer for Raising Arizona begins and you squeal quietly, sliding onto your back, the joint dangling between your lips. 

“No fucking way, I love this movie.” 

Dieter stilled. “Really? You do?” 

The few times he felt nostalgic for his old life — his old, old life when he was still a kid from nowhere, a nobody, you couldn’t pick him out of a line up of his sweaty, grubby cousins when they were all cobbled together like crooked teeth in front of Abuela Josefina’s television that still had knobs and bunny ears to watch movie after movie of Nicholas Cage reruns. Even with knees in his back, elbows in his ears, Dieter could quote every single line, his heart swelling.

That’s gonna be me some day. 

“This movie is from, like, another century,” he mutters as he watches you settle in, something sickening like adoration clawing up in his chest. 

“Yeah and it’s great,” you say eagerly, ignoring the way he plucks the joint out of your fingers. “Put it on!” 

He resolutely ignores the pinch in his low stomach at your almost whine and presseS the play button with a little more force than necessary. Then, balancing the joint on the ceramic bowl, he sticks his fingers into his robe, pulls out his glasses, and puts them on without a second thought – just as he always did when watching movies. 

It is only when he realizes he doesn’t hear you breathing that he realizes what he has done. Slowly he pulls the square glasses off his face and looks at them, feeling as disgusted as the day his doctor put them in his hands. 

Near-sighted. Very common. Happens when people as they age.

“Got ‘em–,” his throat closes again, “got ‘em a few years ago. Only have to wear ‘em to see things up close and, uh . . . Well, I think they make me look old as shit.” 

He can’t quite look at you, unsure what he’ll see on your face and knowing for sure that he couldn’t stand it if it wasn’t the way you look at him before. If you just would tease him about it, then —

“No,” you say, your voice very soft and small. His heart nearly punches out his throat, his neck nearly snapping in half as his head whips up to look at you. You sit up on your elbows, the darkness of the room cushioning your soft cheeks and muting the glaze in your eyes as you watch him over the bend of your knees. 

“Nah,” you say, your nose scrunching, the weight of the high clearly settling into your skin, “they make you look . . . Uh, they’re cute.” 

Dieter sucks in the side of his cheek, nodding slowly and sliding the glasses back over his nose. Cute, he could work with that. 

“Jeez, would you start the movie already?” You poke his side with your toe. He doesn’t need to look at you to hear the faint blush in your voice. 

He turns the volume up and crosses his arms, smiling faintly. You’re warm next to him, he thinks vaguely, his own high finally starting to sink into his bones. 

Cute. Definitely not a word he’s going to obsess over. 

The movie goes on. 

Nicholas Cage is Nicholas Cage with a mullet.

Your laugh is the clattering of bells in his ears and he can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard his sides hurt. 

He’s coming up from bent over, knees almost to his chest, laughter nearly popping his ribs, when he realizes your feet are in his lap. The arches of your soles, the delicate bones of your ankles, the long smooth planes that run up to your gorgeous calves— 

They are there, in his lap, and you don’t seem to mind. Head turned towards the screen, face bright from laughing, your arm arched back over your head, pressing your chest up —  it’s like you meant for them to be there. 

It’s just one hand, right? Two at the most. Just putting his hands down where he had them a moment ago. Up and — down. 

You don't flinch. His palm is on the arched top of your foot, the other just above your other ankle. 

You do smile, but that might have been because of Nicholas Cage raging again. 

And then, during another bout of giggles, he clutches your shin bone, wraps his fingers around your heel, and laughs and laughs and laughs. 

You wipe the tears away from your eyes, the end credits rolling.

“Fuck, that’s a such a good movie.” 

He swallows, swiping quickly under his glasses before taking them off and chucking them onto the table in front. 

“You’re fucking right it is,” he says hoarsely, leaning forward and plucking up the last of the joint. He inhales, letting the smoke ease stifle the tears in the corner of his eyes, gulping down a breath before offering it to you.

You take it, distracted, eyes on the credits, the light from the screen glowing on your cheeks. 

He presses up under your ankle with his middle finger. “What? You knew what was gonna happen, you’d said you’d seen it before.”  

You nodded, still not looking at him. 

He goes for a more direct approach. He pinches your calf, and you scowl, the light back in your eyes.

“What are you thinking about?” He asks, a bit sharply. He’s not nearly done having fun with you, not nearly. You take another sip of smoke before setting the joint back on the table. 

You huff, settling onto your back, pinching at your nails. 

“Just . . . Nothing, it’s stupid.”

Dieter hums. He knows when to let him come to you. He taps the arch of your foot.

“How are you feeling?” His gaze nudges the joint on the table. 

You grin. “Really good. Tingly. Warm. Like everything else is a million miles away.” 

Just the two of us. 

“Enough to tell ol’ Uncle Dee what’s on your mind?”

You roll your eyes and sit up a bit, yanking a pillow behind you. 

“Just thinkin’ about the old days, I guess.” You glance up at him from under your eyes. “Not in a bad way. At all. I just . . .”

“What?” If you gave him hell for the last eleven years, then fuck it, he deserved it. He pulls at your ankle. “What?” 

With a big sigh, you lean back, something finally breaking and, with it, comes a great big smile. 

“Okay, remember when you’d put on those plays with the rest of us kids during those super lame family reunions o-o-or Christmas? Marissa would have everything written out, all the cousins cast and you’d beg her to let you play – fucking – Bear Number 5 or something ridiculous – and she’d fight you on it but she’d relent, always putting on a show of her own – as if a ten year old could be put out like that.” You giggled, biting on your thumb, a sparkling in your eyes that made something in his chest burn. 

Yes, he remembers the incredibly stupid fuzzy ears and the bear claw mittens. The fake roaring. TMZ would have a fucking stroke if those pictures of him, baby-faced, were to ever surface online. He smiles at you and basks in the warmth of those memories, his high making them brighter. 

“I think it would have crushed her little heart if you didn’t ask,” you said, heavy-lidded eyes on you again. “I know it broke her when you stopped showing up at all.” 

His heart actually pinches at that. He knows you’re not scolding him but fuck, maybe he’d feel better if you did. What a fucking idiot he was, for leaving all of that for empty mansions and meals from UberEats and all this fucking gunked up shit in his veins that made him feel older and older every year. Like he was chasing something that was never real in the first place. 

“Look, honey,” the pet name is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He’s twisting towards you, both hands under your calves now. “I should have called. Should have made sure that at least you knew where to find me, even if things between your dad and I were fucked.”

“Oh, God, Dee, no. I don’t blame you. I don’t even blame my dad, sometimes. You just were very different people. He’s fine living his life in the same small ass town in the middle of nowhere. But you weren’t. And, fuck . . . I’m not either.”

He frowns. You bite your lip and continue.

“You know, I thought about following you out to Hollywood. Because of those plays. I had the best fucking time doing them and Hollywood didn’t seem so scary . . . with Uncle Dee out here. But, uh, I dunno. I grew up, I guess. Figured I was better at telling stories than performing them. I just knew I didn’t want to end up like my dad. Dying where I lived. Unremembered.” 

His gut doubles in on itself. Please don’t say you gave up your dreams because I stopped calling. 

“Do you still think about acting?” He asks quietly, trying to fight the faint ringing in his ears. 

“Oh God, no,” you wave your hands, dusting away his near-panic that he’d somehow ruined your life. “I really do prefer writing stories, even if they exist only within the pages of a book. Or a really bad pamphlet, once or twice. I tried to continue the plays at home for a few years, after you left and Marissa took up cheerleading and thought she was too old to play with her little cousins anymore. But it just wasn’t the same without her. Or you.” 

He realizes all too late that he can feel your pulse under your ankle. Strong. Pounding. Pounding, hard. Like you’re nervous. So struck by the notion that he can feel something so personal of yours, the smoke trapped in his brain lifts only slightly when he catches your eyes looking somewhere you absolutely should not be. 

Oh, fuck.

Oh, fuck, he knows that look. You blink at him, then your gaze slowly slides down, down to his crotch, as smoothly you can beneath the weight of the smoke in your brain and he battles between the desire to throw your legs off him or pull you underneath him.

It’s The Look. 

Men, women, it didn’t matter. The look was the same.

When the possibility of sex first enters their mind, when that first bloom of lust rushes down their spine and the memory of the physical exertion of fucking – all the panting and the heavy breathing, aching muscles and sweat – comes back, as real as a song stuck in your head. When that spark of imagination threatens to sway from the hypothetical to the actual, it’s a look he knows so fucking well, he might as well be able to carve it from clay, blind-folded. 

And you’re giving it to him, right now. 

You haven’t really thought about seducing him yet, no, that part hasn’t crossed your mind yet. But you definitely are imagining what his cock would feel like inside you, and you and your imagination and your wide-eyed gaze at his lap all whole-heartedly agreed: that would be a great fucking thing. 

You, on your elbows, your heel dangerously close to his half-hard cock, the glaze in your eyes having something to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing, and your short breath having everything to do with what you were so shamelessly picturing.

He was quite sure you were completely unaware of the expression your face was making. Eyes hooded, mouth parted, breath short. Masking your emotions and filthy thoughts is a skill set mastered later in life and perhaps the last time you looked at someone like that, they simply bent you over the nearest surface and railed you till your knees buckled. 

What a fucking excellent idea, his libido trilled. Now get off the couch and do something about it. I’m foaming at the fucking mouth here, man. 

Dieter silences his inner horny monster, unintentionally squeezing his hand, the one that happens to be wrapped around your calf. 

The movement seems to break you out of your dizzying spiral and you blink up at him.

He swallows. With a half smirk on the edge of your lips that you try to not let him see, you take your feet out of his lap, then reach forward, your palm alarmingly high on his thigh as you take the joint from his fingers. Your eyes flash like warning signs.

DANGER. DANGER, WILL ROBINSON. DANGER.

“So, you gonna give me a tour of this place or what?”

End of Part 1 | Next

[moongreenlight]

U already KNOW what time it is baybee!!!! WIP WEDNESDAY!

Been riding the Gaz high and this has been in the works recently (I wrote 2k words yesterday) so here's this!

Director!Gaz x Actress!Reader

Summary: It’s the mid-1970’s and you’ve recently made the unshocking discovery that it’s difficult to find good work acting. Lucky you stumble on the wrong opportunity at the right time!

You’re not dumb enough to fall for the advertisements in the papers looking for actors in ‘up and coming independent films.’ Not anymore.

After being burned so many times by ‘pay to audition’ schemes and sleazy directors only looking to collect videotapes of girls doing porno auditions, you gave up on that front.

But what’s the stipulation on extenuating circumstances? Like when you’re working at a bar a few blocks away from the community theater and a man comes up and sits at the counter all by himself.

He’s gorgeous and a sweet talker. Seems intent on chatting with you even though you really should be polishing glassware. And once he’s finally caught you in his snare, he drops a bomb that up until this point you’d only ever heard stories about.

He says he’s a small-time director and he saw you in the last production the theatre put on. He laughs and makes a lighthearted self-deprecating joke about being “one of those wankers in the paper” to which you wrinkle your nose and give him a weary smile.

But, Jesus, if he can’t make a bad thing good. He’s got all the makings of a politician the way he’s able to talk circles around you until you agree to show up to an audition for his latest project. ‘Trouble in paradise’ or something to that tune.

He tips you twenty pounds and his business card on a coke he barely touches. Uses your pen to write your audition time on the back of the card.

Wednesday at 11a. x

He doesn’t give back the pen.

Your roommates do no good talking you out of it. Hushing your half-arsed arguments about scams and serial killers and all kinds of things. It ends with the four of you in a pile on the couch, wine-drunk and giggling yourselves into hysterics.

So two days later you go. Forcing your roommates to promise no less than five times that if you’re not heard from in an hour that they’ll send in the authorities.

You find your way to the address on the card that now looks tired in comparison to when you first got it. The edges are fussy and dog-eared from your worrying with it and passing it around to prove its legitimacy.

It doesn’t look like any studio or office you’ve seen. Far from. And that should have been the final nail in the coffin. Should have been the reason you turned tail and went back home. But something pulled you up the worn steps of the house. That same something, now cowering a bit at the looming possibility, brought you to rap your knuckles sharply on the part of the door with a few different layers of paint chipped away to expose the cheap metal underneath.

You’re left standing on the stoop for a few moments too long with no answer. And just as you were about to come to your senses and return home with some sliver of your dignity still intact; the door swung inward and exposed the same man from the bar - Kyle - with his horrible, beautiful, toothy smile.

“Thought you were going to stand me up. Wouldn’t have known what to do with myself.”

You catch yourself thinking it’s a shame that he’s directing and not starring in movies. His devastating good-looks and all. Must be a terrible read.

There’s a card table set up in the living room. Two folding chairs behind it that look flimsy at best. Three thick packets that have been three-hole punched on the side, but held together by a binder clip in the top center.

The rest of the furniture is pushed up against the wall. A hodge-podge of mismatched chairs and a sofa that very well could have been your grandmothers and a few banged-up side tables.

He offers water. Offers to take your purse. You decline both. Opt to stand a bit stiffly on the faded rug in the center of the room with your bag tucked snugly under your arm.

Maybe you should make a run for it. Maybe you were stupid to come at all. He’s a total stranger for Christ sake.

Before you can will your feet to move, there’s s bang from behind you. A screen door slamming shut and rattling on its hinges. It startles you almost a foot into the air.

“Nervous?”

Kyle is cool as ever, sliding into one of the chairs, waggling his eyebrows at you. It whines under his weight and you’re suddenly very aware of just how bulky he is. Doesn’t look it on passing glance, but when all you’ve got to look at is the way his shirt fits it becomes glaringly obvious.

“Easily startled.”

You correct, trying to decide whether or not it’s passé to turn over your shoulder to find the source of the heavy footsteps behind you.

He hums and grabs one of the packets, taking off the clip and leafing through it. Pulling out a few odd pages and setting them on the table.

The footsteps reveal their maker when he rounds the corner into the room and shuffles behind the table. If you thought Kyle was big, this man is properly a behemoth. A bit taller, broader in the shoulders, a layer of fat packed on over his muscles. He looks to be older by a few years. He gets crows feet when he nods and smiles at you before taking his seat.

The chair looks as though it would be happier pulling its own legs out from underneath itself.

“Cap’.”

Kyle doesn’t look up from his papers when he addresses the man.

You get no formal introduction to ‘Cap’ though he doesn’t seem to be truly involved in the audition process. He barely glances up from his packet. Content to nurse a fresh cigar and lean further back in the chair than you think should be plausible.

You read from the stack of pulled-out papers with sloppily highlighted lines and try not to shy away from meeting Kyle’s watchful eye.

The audition goes normally, all things considered. You’re instructed to read three different scenes. Without the time to read the blurb on the project, you draw the conclusion that “Trouble in Paradise” is some sort of short suspense film centered around a woman living, shockingly, in paradise.

The writing isn’t first-rate, but you suppose that’s to be expected. You have a hard time piecing together how the scenes flow, but that’s not your largest concern.

“Lovely. Really, darl’.”

Kyle stands when he talks. Commands the attention even of such a small audience. Takes up space in the room like he’s owed it.

You smile, feeling a bit more at-ease now that things seem to be wrapping up.

“N’ how do you look in a bathing suit?”

The question takes you entirely off-guard. It makes your jaw fall far enough open that you’re left looking like a fish out of water.

“I- sorry?”

Kyle’s face doesn’t change. Fantastic at keeping up appearances. He’s still casting that warm smile over you. The focus of it makes you feel like you’re sunbathing.

“Bathing suit, love. How d’you look?”

Disappointment drops like a stone in your belly. Heavy and fast. It’s another scam. Of course it is.

“Oh. I don’t- I don’t do dirty movies.”

It must be palpable on your face even more than it is in your voice.

‘Cap’ glances up at Kyle when he ashes his cigar. The smell is nauseating. He seems to be chewing on a smile. Kyle meets his eye for only a moment, amusement painfully evident on his face.

“You’ve just read the pool scene. Hardly anything dirty about costuming.”

[robsheridan]

BATTLE SANTAS trading cards were all the rage of Christmas 1988, hyping kids up for a toy line and film franchise that never came to be after Christian protesters halted production.

The cards, produced before the first film was finished, tell the story of a multiverse of cosmic Santas who arrive from across time on an array of Battle Sleighs to help Earth’s Santa save Christmas future from the forces of Hell. On Santa’s lunar battlestation workshop (where he relocated after the North Pole was ravaged in The Santa Wars), his elves built armed vehicles from old toy parts and the re-animated corpses of reindemons, the hellbeasts of the demon army unleashed on Earth after a portal to hell was opened in the North Pole when oil companies drilled near Santa's Earth Workshop (thanks to Reagan’s deregulation of protected lands).

The early release of the trading cards was meant to generate buzz for the film’s funding and toy licensing, but the plan backfired, as the cards revealed a controversial plot point: Mecha-Jesus, the Cybersavior, a towering robotic kaiju Jesus built by the Battle Santas as their last stand against Satan. Mecha-Jesus is piloted by the real Jesus, who the Battle Santas summon back to mortal form. When Christian groups heard about children trading cards that depicted Jesus eviscerating enemies with Nazareth Napalm missiles and shooting Light of the Lord laser beams from his robo-eyes while shouting “The Power of Christ compels you to DIE!” over heavy metal music, a firestorm of protests made the entire BATTLE SANTAS property toxic to investors, leaving the trading cards the only glimpse of a Christmas epic that never came to be.

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NOTE: This alternate reality story is part of my NightmAIres narrative art series (visit that link for a lot more). NightmAIres are windows into other worlds and interconnected alternate histories, conceived/written by me and visualized with synthography and Photoshop.

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