#salary talk script

[mentorshelly]

Scripts to Use for Salary Negotiations (Even If You're Nervous)

Let’s be real for a second: the idea of talking about money in an interview can make you feel like your brain just unplugged itself and walked away.But guess what? If you don’t negotiate your salary, you’re basically telling your future paycheck, “Eh, surprise me.” We don’t do surprises when rent is due, student loans are real, and your iced coffee habit isn’t going anywhere. So if you’re a Gen…

[joshujin]

adore u

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request 🚨 minors and blank blogs will be blocked

after a career drought full of dead end positions, you finally land a job you can be proud to include on your resume—prestigious company, room for growth, and most importantly, a salary that will allow you and your boyfriend, soonyoung, to breathe a little easier. what you don’t expect is the discrimination and vitriol you’re met with on the job. as office life gets harder and harder for you, soonyoung finds it increasingly impossible to sit back and watch you repeatedly get hurt like this. so he dusts off a mask he never thought he’d use again, and when your colleagues start dropping dead one by one… well, that’s none of his business.

♫ i did something bad taylor swift

pairing: ghostface!soonyoung x fem!reader wc: 23k 🤨 tags: horror fic (kinda not really), scream fic, established relationship, alternating povs, normal (used loosely lol) lovers to crazy psycho lovers, screenwriter!soonyoung, corporate slave!reader, “he hates everyone but her” trope except make it “he hates and brutally murders everyone but her” ┐(￣ヘ￣;)┌ a/n: the platinum blonde spiky hair ghostface soonyoung brain rot had me in a chokehold. this all started just bc i saw a gifset of him looking soooo early 00s fuck boy pop star and immediately my brain was like “ghostface hoshi.” so here we are. i do watch horror but like. i’m here for a good time not a critical time LOL. i am no expert on horror movies! i just like watching the more digestible ones, and if there are inconsistencies with the reasoning for becoming a killer or the relationship between killer and lover of killer or how realistically easy it would be to catch the killer… well, just pretend there aren’t :) i’m just trying to eradicate this ghostface hoshi brainworm :) so enjoy it :) or don’t :) this is more for me than anyone else :)

warnings READ ALL OF THEM!

content: murder… obviously (it won’t be overly gory, but it is described, so be careful. it won’t be anyone in svt), he’s a psychopath (again… obviously), blood, knives/stabbing, torture, domestic violence (not between mcs), traumatic brain injury, misogyny, daddy issues, eh mommy issues too why not, male use of the word “whore” and “bitch” against a woman, workplace harassment (bullying, hazing, finance tech red pill bro culture), sexual harassment in the workplace (inappropriate comments, sexualization of reader by male coworkers, etc. but no physical sexual assault takes place), no physical description of reader but she’s called a diversity hire by her harassers (whatever makes her diverse can be up to you), murdered people could possibly share names with idols idk but if they do, that’s a coincidence bc these are just random names, protectiveness to insane levels, possessiveness, codependency, jealousy, toxic and unhealthy relationship, reader is also crazy smut: marked at beginning and end if you’d like to avoid, unprotected piv, creampie, roleplaying (kinda? like, is it roleplaying if they’re roleplaying as themselves but one of them doesn’t realize it’s themselves?), squirting, kink exploration, mentions of bondage, mentions of blindfolding, mentions of choking, mentions of degradation, mentions of knife play, light breeding kink, shower sex, oral (both receiving), face fucking, fingering, spitting, uh horniness supercharged by murder so… whatever tag that is, dirty talk except make it about murder, honestly don’t look at me

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

IN AN APARTMENT

a man (jake) dressed in a disheveled suit returns home late at night presumably from work, though from his mannerisms, he seems drunk.

he takes his jacket off and lets it fall to the floor. he is grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge when his phone rings. the number is private. he declines it. when it rings again, he fumbles to hit the right button for several seconds but eventually answers, swaying drunkenly as he does.

JAKE hello? (he hears loud breathing) hello? (no answer) who is this? (hangs up and mutters to himself) fucking weirdos.

his phone rings again, and he watches his cell vibrate on the counter. he closes the fridge door and answers the phone, obviously ready to yell at whoever it is, but he is cut off by a raspy male voice.

PHONE STRANGER hi, jake.

jake freezes, too flustered to speak.

PHONE STRANGER oh come on, don’t be rude. where are your manners? this is where you say hi back. go on, try it.

JAKE who is this?

PHONE STRANGER that’s too easy, don’t you think? and too easy is never any fun.

jake seems to deflate, his exhaustion too potent to argue with a stranger. he hangs up once more. the phone rings again. he answers it in an almost violent fashion.

JAKE leave me alone!

PHONE STRANGER hang up on me again and i’ll take that pretty, little butcher knife (jake’s eyes dart to the knife block on his kitchen island. camera changes focus to knives) and run it down the entirety of your torso until the floor is slick with your blood and organs.

jake looks around the apartment, understanding there is a large chance he is being watched.

camera angle changes to a shaky shot farther away from around the corner in a dark hallway, suggesting whoever is watching is already in the apartment with him. goes back to jake in kitchen.

jake inches forward, wrapping his fingers around the very same knife he was just threatened with.

PHONE STRANGER hiding it won’t help you, jake. and neither will using it. i promise.

jake’s fingers immediately let go and he takes several steps back in horror as he realizes he is definitely being watched.

PHONE STRANGER good boy! (sounds genuinely excited) so you do listen after all. now. let’s start over. hi, jake.

JAKE hi. (voice cracks, clears his throat) what do you want?

stranger clicks tongue in disapproval.

PHONE STRANGER jake, jake, jake. didn’t we talk about manners already? (jake inches toward the front door, stranger laughs) eh, i probably wouldn’t go that way if i were you. (jake freezes, eyes flitting around the room wildly) what do you want to try next?

camera briefly shifts to a dark corner closer to jake now. goes back to kitchen.

JAKE who are you?

PHONE STRANGER my name is hoshi. (jake is very obviously surprised) didn’t expect me to tell you my name, did you? thought i’d keep that a secret? you don’t have to ask either; that’s my real name.

JAKE why?

HOSHI why what?

JAKE why are you telling me your name?

HOSHI well, it doesn’t matter if i tell you my name. it’s going to die with you anyway.

jake quickly takes the phone away from his ear and begins to dial the police. being drunk, he mistypes several times.

HOSHI i won’t try to talk you out of that. someone needs to find your body after all. i do want people to know you’re dead. i want her to know you’re dead. that you’re never going to hurt her ever again. so by all means, call the police. but i assure you. they won’t come in time.

JAKE (in a shaky voice) yes they will.

HOSHI no. they won’t. and you know how i know?

jake finally gets the call going, phone automatically putting hoshi on hold.

HOSHI i know because you’re a dumb ass and you never even put me on speaker.

camera focuses on jake’s face front on as his eyes widen and he freezes. audience hears dispatcher answer the line.

DISPATCH what is your emergency?

hoshi appears behind jake in a white mask, face contorted into a permanent scream, and a black tattered robe. audience hears a squelch as jake’s mouth falls open in pain and he stumbles. his phone falls out of his hand, ending the call.

camera angle switches to side view, where audience can see a hunter knife buried in the middle of jake’s back. hoshi slowly slides the knife out of him, letting him fall to the floor, where he’s immediately crawling away.

hoshi makes no move to follow him yet. simply watches him kick and struggle to stand.

HOSHI i knew you were dumb, but i didn’t realize you were this dumb.

he slowly walks after him, watching as jake pathetically tries to make it to the front door, blood trailing behind him. he crashes into most of his furniture as he stumbles past.

hoshi reaches him and kicks him in his stab wound, causing jake to fall back to the floor, screaming in agony.

JAKE god, why?! WHY?!

HOSHI question of the night, huh?

JAKE (sobbing, turns over and pulls himself away enough until he’s slouched up against the back of his couch) i don’t even know who you are!

hoshi squats down in front of him, forearms on knees, eye level. he keeps his bloody knife threateningly close to jake’s face.

HOSHI but i know who you are. oh man, i know exactly who you are. i’ve heard all about you, jake. more than i should’ve ever had to hear about you.

jake sobs harder as hoshi runs his knife gently across his neck, leaving his own blood on his skin.

HOSHI you couldn’t just be the quiet coworker who came to work, minded his own goddamn business, and went home, huh? you had to be the red pill loser.

JAKE (weakly) what…? i don’t… huh?

HOSHI you hurt her, jake. and when you hurt her… well frankly, you hurt me. and i don’t let anyone get away with hurting me.

JAKE who’s “her”?! who are you?! i don’t even know what you’re talking about, dude. please! please! i promise i won’t tell anyone! i’ll do whatever you want! i’ll give you whatever you want—just let me live!

hoshi doesn’t say anything for several seconds. resembles predator watching prey. when jake starts blubbering and begging, he sighs.

HOSHI what if what i want… (tilts his head menacingly at him) is for you to die… (wipes his knife along the length of his sleeve, cleaning it of blood) an incredibly slow and painful death? hm? what if that’s what i want? will you still give it to me, jake?

JAKE i don’t get it, please, i don’t get it. who are you? what do you want?

HOSHI god you’re a fucking moron, i literally just told you what i fucking want.

he drives his knife into jake’s thigh. when he screams, hoshi backhands him to shut him up.

several seconds pass as jake tries to catch his breath.

JAKE why are you doing this?

hoshi removes his knife from his thigh, just to plunge it into his abdomen. jake doubles over, blood spilling past his lips.

hoshi lets go of the knife, leaving it buried inside jake. he tries to reach up and remove it, but hoshi gently presses a single finger to the hilt. jake screams and lets his hands fall away. hoshi removes his finger.

HOSHI (casually) honestly, it’s kind of futile explaining this to an idiot who gets off of shitting on women.

jake’s breathing is labored as his screams subside.

HOSHI (comically scratches his head) like, how do i even explain love to a greasy little incel like you?

JAKE (incredulously, while stuttering) love?

HOSHI yes, jake. love. you know, it’s so funny. i really, really hated that word for most of my life, and then… one day that just… changed, i guess.

JAKE you’re killing me because… you love… me?

HOSHI (sputters/laughs) what?! are you fucking—what?! (backhands him again) i can’t even fathom how fucking stupid you are! what the fuck? (jake groans) no, you jackass, how could anybody love you? you’re like shit on the bottom of my shoe. (mutters again) what the fuck?

JAKE i don’t get it.

HOSHI (sighs) i know you don’t, dimwit. that’s why i’m not going to bother explaining why you’ll die tonight. you’ll never understand what it’s like to love someone the way i love her. i fucking adore her. 

he watches jake carefully, head tilting to the other side like he’s studying his looming death. or enjoying it.

HOSHI and jake (just barely skims one finger from where the blade disappears into flesh, up the hilt of the knife) one thing about me?

jake’s eyes go up to meet the black holes in the mask, breathing coming out in short gasps now.

HOSHI my adoration is killer.

without warning, hoshi grabs his knife once more, other hand holding jake’s shoulder down as he pulls the knife up his torso with alarming force. he makes good on his promise to cover his floors with his own blood and organs.

your life has become a sad routine of miserably crying monday through friday, suffering an emotional hangover on saturdays, and spending the entirety of sunday shaking with anxiety over the mere thought of having to go back to work and do it all over again the next day.

your job, for the most part, is predictable. you expect to come in and endure catcalls, unprovoked insults, glares, and lewd gestures all before you even reach your desk. you expect to have your work—as flawless as you know it is—ridiculed and mocked, just for someone else to copy it word for word, claim it as his own, and receive endless praise for it. you expect your boss to sheepishly shrug and tell you boys will be boys and to be a “team player.” you expect to be told you’re useless, you’re just a diversity hire, and all you’re good for is something nice to look at.

as the only woman on an all-male, all-asshole team, you expect pure torment.

what you don’t expect is to be corralled into the company auditorium with hundreds of other employees first thing in the morning, where you’re all informed that jay, the psychopath you share a cubicle with, was not just playing hooky and skipping work like you and all his buddies assumed, but that he “tragically” passed away earlier this week. you’re in a daze as they tell everyone grief counseling is available and that those close to jay can take bereavement effective immediately if they have to.

what you also don’t expect is to return to your desk, google his obituary, and be met with several articles detailing a gruesome murder that took place in his apartment building. jay isn’t directly named, but you don’t need him to be to know it’s him. the executives were too dodgy about the announcement of his death for this to be about anybody else.

your eyes scan over words like “stabbed,” “bloodied,” “screams,” “ripped,” and “spilled.” the journalist describes it as the most grisly homicide to take place since the “prank call killings”—even goes as far to make connections between jay’s murder and the string of deaths that took place years ago, in a small town not far from where you are.

both involved victims with multiple stab wounds.

both were indicative of a frighteningly large hunting knife with unique serrations used as the weapon.

both ended with the torsos being carelessly cut open down the middle—while the victim was still alive.

the one difference is that police found no evidence of calls made to jay’s phone before his death.

this begs the question: after nearly a decade, has the prank call killer made their return, or has a copycat ascended their throne?

the closing line sends a chill down your spine, but you’re not sure it feels bad.

in fact, there’s one last thing you don’t expect that comes of today: as you turn in your seat to look at jay’s desk, exactly how he left it, you find that you don’t feel horrified about his death. contrarily, you find yourself feeling relieved. elated, even. and that’s what horrifies you.

as the team that housed jay, your boss releases you all from work for the rest of the day, some for the whole week. not you, though—never you. you are expected to return first thing in the morning to begin sorting through jay’s work and figure out where you can fill in and what you can split amongst your coworkers. but you know that won’t be happening; no one on your team would lift a pinkie to help you even if you were on the floor dying. everything jay left behind will be your responsibility now, not that that’s much of an issue. the man was already pawning all his work to you anyway.

“baby?”

soonyoung’s voice filters through the noise of the coffee machine as you close and lock the door behind you. a head of blonde, spiky hair pokes out from around the corner. your boyfriend’s eyebrows are raised, mouth puckered into a cute, surprised o.

“hey, what are you doing back?” he asks as he completely exits the kitchen and walks around the corner. his hands are immediately pressed against your forehead and neck when he reaches you, eyes running up and down your body like he’s checking for injuries. “are you okay? do you have a fever? are you sick?”

you don’t even have the energy to playfully slap him away and roll your eyes like you normally would at his overly worried behavior. you just shake your head slowly.

“what’s wrong?” he mutters, letting his hands fall to snake around your waist. soonyoung watches you so closely and so attentively, you almost swoon enough to forget why you’re so distraught.

“i…”

soonyoung doesn’t urge you to speak, patiently waiting for you to find the words you want to use. you shake your head again.

“jay’s… jay is dead?” you announce, sounding unsure and confused even though it’s literally just a fact now.

soonyoung snorts. “that would be a dream. how would he die? what’s the most satisfying way to imagine it? hit by a bus? fell into an open manhole? choked on a—”

“no,” you interject, gripping his forearms and squeezing. he moves to let go of you but you keep him where he is. “he’s actually dead, soonyoung. like… dead dead.”

he raises an eyebrow, still obviously hesitating. “okay, i want to say you’re joking… but your use of my government name is telling me you’re not…?”

“i’m not!” you insist, slapping his arms away now.

“hey.” he pouts.

“why else would i be home right now?!” you point out. “park told us to take the day off.” you toe off your shoes and push past soonyoung, further into the home you share. “something about grieving.”

you go straight to the couch, flopping onto it face down.

“oh my god?” your boyfriend murmurs in a daze as he follows you, brows furrowed into a deep frown.

he sits on the small sliver of couch you’re not occupying, automatically arranging you so that you’re laying face up against him between his legs. his arms find your waist once more.

“what… what happened…?” he asks, obviously trying to tread the topic carefully. he knows how much you hated jay—hell, as your biggest supporter, he hated him too. but for him to die? you’re full of complicated feelings. “is that why he’s been skipping work?”

you nod. “and it’s not just that… park and the other execs didn’t say this, but… i looked up his name to see if i could read the obituary.”

“mmm,” he hums, nodding. “tracks for a nosy girl like you.”

“not the time!” you whine, already pulling away. he tightens his arms around you, keeping you from moving.

“okay, okay! sorry! i’ll be serious—i swear! i’m sorry!”

you huff and relax against him once more.

“so you looked up his obituary…” he encourages you to continue, voice lower as he tries to be serious—a feat for him, honestly.

“i… i think jay was murdered.”

you whisper the words without meaning to, like you’re scared of giving life to them. like if you say them loud enough, the prank call killer—or their copycat—will come bursting through the door and shred you and the love of your life into ribbons of blood and flesh.

soonyoung remains quiet and you can almost hear the gears in his head turning as he tries to find the correct thing to say. you bet he’s trying to scour his brain for anything that isn’t an inappropriate joke.

“murdered…?” he asks in a small voice. “why… how…?”

you rest your hands over his on your stomach, pressing even further into him as you retell what you read.

a victim was found in his own apartment, stab wounds to his back and left thigh. it was clear he was attacked in his kitchen and that his assailant let him make it halfway to his front door… before they cornered him against his own couch. then, they gutted him—from lower abdomen to sternum, where his bones wouldn’t give any more way for the knife. they didn’t name him. they didn’t even describe his appearance. all they said was that he was 28, and he lived alone.

but you knew, and from the way you spoke, you were confident soonyoung wouldn’t question you about it. he was good at trusting you and believing in you.

“that’s… fucking barbaric…” he breathes out after you recount the story. “i mean, the guy was a fucking asshole, but… that’s… i mean, it’s… i—”

“i feel happy.” you blurt out the words that have been brewing in your head since you left the office.

to his credit, your boyfriend has taken most of this information well despite the poorly timed jokes. but at this new revelation, his entire body tenses against yours, and you immediately regret being honest.

“you think i’m a monster, don’t you?” you ask quietly, ready for him to gently remove you from him. to admonish you. maybe even leave. “you think—”

“i don’t think you’re a monster.”

he says it with so much conviction, you believe it the first time he says it. soonyoung repeats it anyway.

“i don’t think you’re a monster, baby. please don’t say that. i’m just… surprised. i mean i’m definitely not mourning the guy, but i know how these kinds of things can upset you.”

you know he’s referring to all the times news headlines made you cry, or the times bleak documentaries pushed you into a weird episode of feeling like there was no meaning to life and everything was pointless. you’ve always been easily affected by the world around you, so it’s fair for him to be surprised that being this close in proximity to a victim of such inexplicable violence doesn’t send you straight into a panic attack.

“he just… he made my life so hard, soonie,” you say, not expecting the tears that fill your eyes. your voice cracks on your boyfriend’s name and he immediately rests his lips against the crown of your head and whispers his love for you.

“i know,” he says after he’s told you he loves you at least a dozen times. “trust me, i know.”

soonyoung actually knows best because he’s the one who’s picking up the pieces when you come home broken and inconsolable. he’s the one who calms you down enough to explain what happened this time.

jay purposefully knocked your coffee over a report that took you a week. jay took credit for a project you were forced to collaborate with him on—a project you ended up doing all by yourself. jay was telling everyone you were a ditzy bimbo that couldn’t do her job right. jay went out drinking with the boss and spent the whole night talking shit about you. jay wouldn’t stop trying to convince you you were only hired because you had a pair of tits. that those tits are all you’re ever going to be worth.

he’s the entire reason the team is the way they are around you now. he’s the one who emboldened them to treat you the way they do.

and day after day, week after week, for almost a year now, soonyoung has had to endure all your rants—rants that were exactly the same because you didn’t know how to stand up for yourself. the only thing you knew how to do was “be a team player” in the hopes that you could find a promotion into another team or even better, a new job altogether.

being the best boyfriend there is, soonyoung never complained about your venting. even on nights he had to abandon the latest script he was working on, even on days he had to call in sick to the writers’ room because he had insisted on staying up until the sun rose, consoling you—he never complained or even hinted that he was tired of you. not once.

even more meaningful to you, he never chastised you for being unable to find the strength to speak back or enforce your boundaries, something you were already plenty embarrassed about. he never made you feel less than; he knew you already had enough of that from the men in your work life.

soonyoung was the gentleness and softness you craved and needed so desperately in your life. he was safety and love and warmth and he was what continuously healed you as your job tried over and over again to break you.

he knew all of this. he knew how much you hated it and how much you hated jay, and it comforts you to know that he doesn’t think you’re a monster for being happy he’s dead. it gives you the courage to be even more honest with him.

“i’m relieved,” you tell him, wiping away your tears. “i’m so relieved he’s gone, and that it’s over. that maybe now… maybe now, i’ll be safe.”

his hold on you tightens and he leaves more kisses in your hair.

“and… i feel like a terrible person saying this…”

“whatever it is, you’re not. so don’t.”

it’s the push you need.

“i’m glad he suffered,” you admit, feeling lighter as soon as it’s out of your mouth. “i’m not just happy he died… i’m glad he died in the most heinous way. and i’m glad his killer made it hurt.”

once the words are out, you can’t take them back. and soonyoung doesn’t make you feel like you should. after a few seconds of silence, he just sighs and leans forward to kiss your cheek.

“then i am too, baby. if you’re happy, then i’m happy.”

he says it like you didn’t just tell him the grossest thing you’ve ever said in your life. and when you look up and catch his reflection in the window opposite of you, unbeknownst to him, you find him smiling into your hair almost like he’s pleased with you. you believe that he really is happy when you’re happy.

and honestly, you love him even more for it.

“i love you, soonie.”

“i adore you,” he says, his favorite way to express his affection for you—even moreso than “love,” though he learned to return the four-letter word once you expressed how important it was to you. “endlessly.” he pauses briefly before promising: “i’ll love you forever.”

it takes just one week, when everyone returns from their bereavement, for you to realize you aren’t safe—that jay’s death just put his friends on edge and made them more dangerous than ever. that for some fucked up reason, they felt that torturing you was the best way they could keep their sick friend’s memory alive.

and it makes you wish they were all dead too.

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

as hoshi stands over his bed, clean of the blood he shed just hours ago and watching his girlfriend sleep, a montage of traumatic events from hoshi’s childhood begins flashing—switching between his memories and their bedroom until his memories win out.

FLASHBACK

a very young hoshi screams as he throws his tiny body against his father’s uselessly. his father has his hands around his mother’s neck, choking her mercilessly. 

YOUNG HOSHI stop it! stop! get off my mommy! (begins punching but makes no headway) stop! please!

DAD you think i wouldn’t hear about you coming around to that dead beat’s house under the guise of asking for sugar, you fucking whore?!

YOUNG HOSHI please! mommy!

hoshi’s father removes one hand from his wife’s neck to shove his son aside. hoshi stumbles several steps before falling and hitting his head on the corner of the table and blacking out.

memory moves to hoshi’s recovery, when he is back home with a bandage around his head. blood blooms on the back of it. he is freshly woken up, in his pajamas, and his mother is changing the dressing on his injury.

there is something eerily blank about his face.

MOM (in a hoarse voice) let me know if it hurts, sweetheart.

YOUNG HOSHI okay. (pauses in what seems to be thought, though his expression does not change) will you let me know if it hurts too? 

camera follows his gaze, focusing on the bruises around her neck. his mother’s hands still on his head before she continues in silence.

hoshi does not urge her to answer him, his eyes almost glazing over as he stares at her bruises. his mother finishes up changing the bandaging.

MOM you don’t worry your cute, little head about mommy, okay? in fact—

she pauses to put the medical supplies away into the first aid kit resting on the nightstand and smooths her dress before crouching in front of hoshi’s bed. she takes his hands in hers.

MOM mommy doesn’t want you interfering like that ever again, okay? (hoshi’s face remains blank as he meets her eyes now) when you hear daddy or mommy shouting, i want you to stay right here, in your bed, with the door shut and locked, and i don’t want you to come out until i come get you, alright?

YOUNG HOSHI am i in trouble?

MOM no, no sweetie. you’re not in trouble. but daddy will be home soon. in the next day or so. and mommy needs you to be safe and healthy, so will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?

YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?

MOM daddy is… he’s sick, sweetheart.

YOUNG HOSHI if someone is sick, is it okay for us to let them hurt us?

despite hoshi’s blank stare, his mother recognizes this will be a pivotal moment that informs the way her son sees the world. she blinks rapidly as her thoughts go into overdrive and she tries not to cry.

MOM (whispers) no. (she pauses, shaking her head and quickly wiping away her tears before returning her hand to hoshi’s) no, it’s not okay. you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.

YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?

MOM i… i love him, hoshi. i love your father. and he loved me once too. maybe he will again. but either way, i will still love him. he gave me you.

hoshi’s blank stare breaks at this, like the idea of any part of him being from his father bothers him. like he realizes he might be the only reason his mother stays with his father.

YOUNG HOSHI you love him… (his mother nods) i never want to love someone then.

memory moves years forward, when hoshi is 17. they remain in the same home, but messier and much sadder. colors are cooler than the past warmer memories audience has seen before. 

hoshi is seated on the edge of a bigger bed now, in the same position as the previous memory, this time without his mom. 

hands grip the comforter tensely. works his jaw anxiously as he stares, expressionless, at the door.

sound is muffled as camera zooms in on door. audience hears high-pitched whining sound as shots quickly flash between the door, hoshi on the bed, and the blood that spread on the floor from his head injury when he was young.

the whining gets louder as all the memories that flash now focus on young hoshi’s traumatic brain injury (blood, his mother screaming, blood, cops, stitches, bandages, blood, blood, blood).

the sound comes back full volume as the flashing comes back and stops on his closed room door.

MOM i’m sorry! i’m—

his mother’s pleas are cut off with her own scream as the walls shake and boom with the force of her body being thrown against them.

hoshi relaxes his fingers and smooths the comforter where he wrinkled it. he stands calmly, making his way to the door. his hand hovers over the locked handle.

flashes back to his conversation with his mom.

MOM will you promise me that you’ll stay out of it?

young hoshi’s face is blank but the way his eyes search his mother’s face in a way audience did not see before now implies that he possibly could’ve been weighing his options, even as a child.

YOUNG HOSHI why does daddy hurt you?

back to 17-year-old hoshi.

HOSHI (mutters to himself) you never promised.

audience sees he made it to the kitchen during the flashback. he faces the doorway from the kitchen to the living room.

camera focuses on door. mother is thrown across the living room, father stalks after her. the sounds of punching are heard but they’re beginning to muffle again.

flashes back.

MOM you don’t let anybody hurt you, sweetheart. not you. no one hurts you.

flashes back to memory from beginning of film.

MOM (both sprawled across grass on a sunny day) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you!

YOUNG HOSHI i’m you and you’re me?

MOM hm. not quite but sure, yes! and we’ll always have each other.

flashes to conversation after brain injury.

YOUNG HOSHI why do you let daddy hurt you?

MOM i… i love him, hoshi. 

we come back to teen hoshi in the kitchen. his mother’s voice is still there, but as muffled as the rest of the sounds are.

he walks forward and calmly retrieves the biggest knife from the block on the counter. 

MOM (muffled voiceover) i love your father. and he loved me once too. 

he weighs the knife in his hand and flips it so he’s holding it blade up. he holds it like someone who’s practiced this before.

he turns back toward the living room, walking to the doorway that separates it from the kitchen.

MOM (muffled voiceover) maybe he will again. 

he watches as his father punches his mother wherever she can’t block him. as he takes a step forward, the high-pitched whining returns, the camera begins to shake, and the house seemingly starts to crumble around him as he walks forward.

scenes once again flash between hoshi approaching his father, the conversation on the bed, and the blood pooling from his brain injury.

MOM (voiceover, warped by the whining) but either way, i will still love him.

the scenes flashing now show bits of hoshi reaching his father amongst the rubble of their home, grabbing him by the shoulder and yanking him off his mother and onto his feet.

whining and shaking reaches a fever pitch before going eerily silent and the scene shows sunlight filtering through leaves.

MOM (clear voice) he gave me you.

camera comes back to hoshi and his mother sprawled across the grass. the memory is different this time. 

MOM (said less warmly, more an order now) you and i, we’re one, hosh. you’re made of me, and i’m made of you.

as dialogue progresses, sun disappears, covered by dark clouds. hoshi sits up and narrows his eyes at the sky. when he turns toward his mom, he sees they are now both in the living room, the house completely in tact again, and she’s holding his small body—the younger version of him, limp in her arms as he watches from across the room. she’s covered in his blood, and so is the floor and coffee table.

MOM (blankly with no urgency) you and i. we’re one. someone hurts me, they hurt you. and what did i tell you?

HOSHI (voiceover as camera begins to follow the trail of blood gushing from young hoshi’s head) no one hurts me. 

complete silence, camera still following young hoshi’s blood as it flows across the hardwood floor.

the flow joins the massive pool around two pairs of shoes, both facing each other. camera stays there for a few moments, before his mother’s screams pierce the silence.

camera slowly travels up hoshi’s legs from behind, until it reaches his head, where it looks like his dad is embracing him.

something heavy falls into the blood (presumably organs), creating a splashing noise, and shortly after that, hoshi shoves his father. it’s clear he had simply died and collapsed onto him.

his mother starts screaming and sobbing over his body for several minutes, but hoshi finds that he feels relieved, his face breaking out into the smallest smile for the first time since he hit his head.

when his mother gains her senses, she grabs his face between her hands, her own face bloody, puffy, and bruised.

MOM go! you have to go! they won’t understand, they’ll take you to jail, hoshi! you have to leave!

HOSHI (frowning) but we’re safe now.

his mother freezes. 

HOSHI he’s gone. we’re safe now.

MOM (she swallows and nods shakily) we are. but i can’t let them take you to prison, sweetheart. 

his mom begins leading him through the house, quickly forcing him to change out of his blood-soaked clothes, gathering important belongings and food, finding years’ worth of hidden emergency cash she never found the courage to use, stuffing it into his backpack.

HOSHI mom… what… i…

his mother brings him to the back door, weaving his arms through the backpack and smiling unconvincingly. she takes his face in her hands once more and kisses both cheeks as her tears start to fall.

MOM you be safe, okay? 

HOSHI are you mad at me? do you hate me?

MOM what? no, no, sweetie. no. (said forcefully. pauses to think) i’ve only ever felt adoration for you, hoshi. adoration and nothing else. i’m sorry i let this happen. i’m sorry i subjected you to this.

HOSHI mom—

MOM but you need to go now, okay? the neighbors will have heard all the screaming. take the cash, go far away, and whatever you do, don’t come back.

HOSHI but—

MOM go!

she all but shoves him out of the door. she lingers there for a moment, trying her best to let the last memory of his mom be one of her smiling. she whispers an i love you before slamming the door shut.

PRESENT

we return to present-day hoshi, who is now seated on the edge of his girlfriend’s side of their bed. he strokes her hair away from her face as she breathes softly, still asleep.

he smiles, obviously, genuinely in love. 

HOSHI (whispers) adoration.

you’re back at work the next day, much to soonyoung’s chagrin. he had been hoping you’d get the rest of the week off, and maybe he could get out of going into the writers’ room and keep you company at home. but he knows that was wishful thinking, especially with how set your team has been on not only working you to the bone, but ruining your life. but at least you enjoy the rest of the week since no one else is there to bother you.

for the first time since jay entered your life, you start to look light again. you start to smile more freely, joke more, and come home with bright eyes. it brings him hope that this is how it will be now—that he did the right thing.

though, he already knows for a fact he did the right thing.

soonyoung can’t describe the pure ecstasy that ran through his veins the moment you admitted you were happy that jay was dead—not only that you were happy he was gone, but that you were glad the killer made it hurt. you didn’t say it, but he heard it loud and clear.

you were proud of him for what he did. you adored him for the way he punished jay, and he would do it again. no matter how many times it took—how many lives it took—he would spill gallons and gallons of blood for you, and he would do it happily. no one would ever hurt you again. not with him around, and he planned to be around until you were both buried six feet deep.

there wasn’t anything that could beat this feeling, he had decided the moment you bared your heart to him—so naked and vulnerable, and still trusting him to hold it gently. you weren’t horrified by his means of protection. you weren’t running the other direction. you were grateful. and he doesn’t know why he thought you would be any other way. there’s a reason he’s with you, after all.

if there’s anything even remotely similar to a soulmate, that’s what you are. you’re meant to be his—made to be his. and he was made to be yours—to serve you, to keep you safe, to kill for you. it doesn’t matter that his habit started long before he ever even met you; now, his talents are only reserved for you.

and it made excitement bubble under the surface of his skin knowing you liked it. you didn’t even know he was jay’s murderer—hell, you didn’t even know he was the prank call killer—and you still admired his work anyway.

“what are you smiling at?” 

he startles and looks up to see jihoon peering at his laptop screen, still only half a page full although they’ve been in the writers’ room the whole day. his colleague and friend frowns.

soonyoung sighs. “just daydreaming, man,” he says. it’s not dishonest. he shuts his laptop and stretches in his seat before standing and drawing the attention of the small handful of writers left. “going to head out now, everyone. got a pretty lady waiting for me at home. don’t stay too late, okay?”

he gets the usual playful eye rolls and smiles and cooing from the others as he slaps jihoon on the back and promises to get dinner with him soon. at work, he’s only known for three things: the exceptional writing that got him his lead position on the show, his fixation on horror movies, and his “obsession” with you. he liked it—the idea that when people thought of him, they immediately thought of you too. they know you belong to each other, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

soonyoung barely has the car started and in reverse when you call. he answers immediately.

“hey, baby, i’m just lea—”

“soonyoung?”

his heart stops at the sound of your voice. it’s clear you’ve been crying. for how long, he doesn’t know, but your words are still thick with tears. you sound exhausted and broken and worst of all, defeated. you sound like the day you came home and he decided he was going to kill jay—the first person he’s killed since he graduated college almost 10 years ago.

he puts the car back into park, clenching his jaw for a moment so that his first response to you isn’t tell me his name and i’ll have his head in front of you in an hour.

“soonie?” you whimper. “are you there? i’m sorry to call, i know you’re at work. i—”

“y/n, where are you?” he asks as calmly as he can. 

“i’m home,” you answer, voice so small, it makes his rage burn hotter. 

the fact that you’re home gives him at least some relief. 

“i was hoping you’d be here,” you tell him, voice shaky. “i just need someone to talk to. i had…” you whisper your next words like if you’re any louder, you’ll completely break down. “i thought work would be better. fuck, soonie, i thought work was going to be better.” your words devolve into devastated sobs as you repeat yourself.

soonyoung’s instinct is to race to you, to hold you until your tears stop, and to put you to bed and make sure that every time you wake up from a nightmare, he’s still there, arms tight around you, unyielding. protecting you and in turn, protecting himself.

but his mask, robe, and knife are still in the trunk from his visit to jay’s last week, and right now, he thinks that paying a visit to whichever idiot you’re going to tell him about is the best way he can help.

he forces himself to turn the engine off.

“tell me everything,” he says softly, though his body feels so tense, he thinks he might pop a blood vessel. 

“you’re not busy, are you?” you hiccup through your tears. “i can wait until you—”

“i’m not busy, love,” he says, eye inadvertently twitching from using the word. 

soonyoung still struggles with it. he tries not to because it’s an affection that makes you feel comforted and, well, loved, and he’ll do anything to make you feel that way. still, he doesn’t know how to keep it from feeling like an insult to you. 

love was what his father gave his mom. love was what made his mom stay with a monster. what he has for you isn’t the same; it’s leagues beyond it. he doesn’t think there’s a word for what he feels for you at all.

“go on,” he encourages you. “i’m listening. tell me.”

and you do.

soonyoung used to think he never had a control issue with his habit. it wasn’t something he craved or thought about the way he read that other serial killers did. no, his murderous tendencies only ever reared its ugly, useful head when he needed a solution for an ugly, useless lowlife.

the first was his father. something about cutting his stomach wide open, feeling the warmth of him rush over his hands, hearing the sound of him fall to his feet in pieces—he decided that would be the way it happened each time. he wanted to see a man who didn’t know how to treat a person right—and he wanted to feel the life flow right out of him. without meaning to, it became his M.O. 

he found himself hopping city to city after being forced from his home, and there was no shortage of men who needed correction—or, eradication. it was simple at first; he’d see a horrible interaction between lovers or a father and a child or classmates or even strangers, he’d follow the offender until they were alone, and he’d gut them like a pig. he didn’t think about hiding or burying the body, leaving it in plain sight to humiliate his victims further. he didn’t even have his mask yet, and in retrospect, he’s not sure how he didn’t get caught because he was careless in those early days.

he took it as a sign from the universe that he was doing exactly what he was supposed to.

soonyoung was smart with the money his mom left him and picked up part-time jobs until he had enough to put himself through school. university was crawling with losers begging to be killed, but he was a little older and a little wiser, and he knew a serial killer on campus would draw too much attention. so he forced himself to focus on the worst of the worst. and that was when he realized his M.O. was evolving.

it started with a frat president rumored to drug and take advantage of girls at their house parties. soonyoung watched him for a whole semester, taking note of his schedule, his routes, his haunts, his friends. then, he started calling him. nothing more than heavy breathing at first. but when he could hear the man’s nerves fraying—and that didn’t take long—he started talking to him. he found that he liked psychologically torturing him as much as he’d tortured the girls he’d hurt.

hi, allen.

who i am isn’t important.

i hear you can’t get a woman to consent to having sex with you. what’s the problem? is it small? well, even if it is, that isn’t really an issue—just gotta know what to do with it, right? 

well, i mean, why else would you resort to drugging and assaulting women? 

don’t lie to me. i see everything.

one night, weeks after he’d started calling allen, soonyoung had one last phone conversation with him, one where he was no longer bluffing. he actually was seeing everything, standing in the dark corners of the kitchen in their fraternity house—this time in full disguise—while allen and his brothers got drunk in the backyard.

oh, allen, it’s a bad night to be drunk, buddy.

why? because i’m going to free this campus of you tonight. gonna cleanse the floors of this horrid fucking house with your blood.

it’s too late for “sorry,” allen. besides, i’m not the one who needs to hear it.

the frat president tried to stay with at least one person at all times after the call, but as his brothers got drunker and drunker and started stumbling off to bed or passing out, allen found himself alone. and in the morning, his brothers found him the same way, except this time, with his insides all over the outside.

soonyoung killed two more people while in college, and even though they were far enough apart, he still got dubbed the prank call killer, a name he found childish and dumb. besides, he didn’t want a name; he wanted men to be scared. at least scared enough to try to be decent.

then, college ended, he packed up to follow the shows he wanted to write for, and it led him to you. and he didn’t have time to think about anybody else, let alone plot their demise. soonyoung was occupied by you, your smile, your laugh, your scent, the way you made him feel normal—the way you made him feel at all, something he struggled with since his accident as a child. and once he actually had you? it was over. he knew there was no possible way he’d ever be able to let go of you ever again. 

and the killing just… stopped. with you, he learned how to make friends—made a ton of them. he learned to enjoy other people and their company. he learned how to love, even if it sometimes made him want to plunge a knife into his own stomach. but he did it for you because he adored you, and nothing was more important than you.

so no, he didn’t think he had a control issue. it was largely easy minding his own business and refraining from stabbing men left and right when he had you next to him. 

but then, you started this stupid fucking job. you met jay and all his little cronies, and soonyoung realized it wasn’t a matter of his control; it was a matter of your safety and happiness. because now that you were the center of his universe, you two were one. if someone hurt you, they were hurting him. 

and the way he sees it, his only job is to make sure no one hurts him. no one messes with what’s his.

it’s not about control. he has none now. it’s about you.

by the time you finish telling him everything that happened that day, he has a strange calmness about him he hasn’t felt since before you. he can’t do anything but stare blankly forward, watching as employees of the studio walk to their cars and pull away.

“i’m so over it,” you grunt, having passed from sad to angry fairly quickly. “i don’t think i can do this anymore, soonie. i know money would be tight and i don’t want to put that stress on us but—” 

“no, don’t be silly,” he says, feeling like he’s on autopilot. “please quit, baby. i’ve wanted you to quit since the first day; i just… didn’t want to be that boyfriend.” he means every word and yet, he can’t feel any of them as they leave his mouth. “we’ll figure it out. please quit.”

there’s a heavy silence between the lines until you sigh deeply. “okay, love. i will. i’ll do it.”

he thinks he should feel relieved. he doesn’t and he knows he won’t until he kills them. “yeah? you will?” he asks, hoping he sounds excited enough. “you promise?”

your smile is loud and clear as you speak. “yes, i promise, soonie. i’m going to march in there tomorrow and quit without notice, and i’ll tell them i hope they all drop dead—no!” 

you gasp and correct yourself. 

“i’ll tell them i hope the prank call killer comes for them just like they did for jay!”

soonyoung feels something then. he doesn’t know what; he can’t define it, but it quickly grows into something bigger the more you speak. it pulls both his spirits and the corners of his lips up. it kisses him and fills him with light. it makes him feel alive, more than a shell for a soul he isn’t even sure he has.

“i don’t even know if any of them realize what really happened,” you think aloud before sighing like you’re daydreaming. “ugh, what i wouldn’t pay to see them on the news like that. ‘grisliest murders since prank call killings plague corporate hell’! that would be nice, huh?”

soonyoung smirks. that, he can deliver.

“yeah, baby. it would. a headline like that… i’d die happy.”

“me too,” you agree before telling him: “no one gets me like you do, soonie.”

his heart soars. 

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

after he’s done gagging howard—so tightly, the fabric is cutting into his skin, a punishment for the earlier kick to the head—hoshi stands in front of the two men, leaning up against the pool table and watching them.

they both have cuts and bruises on their faces, from the struggle to get them into the dining chairs, but hoshi’s knife is still nowhere in sight.

HOSHI (begins mindlessly and slowly pacing in front of them) i bet you want to ask me who i am… what i want… why i’m doing this, right?

howard glares at him but chris is already crying.

HOSHI and usually, i’d entertain the questions because prolonging the hope that you’re going to survive makes this more fun for me, but… (stops facing away from them) i’m tired. and i think i’m beyond having fun tonight. (turns head toward them and chris flinches at the mask) i think… (fully turns toward them with hunting knife in hand, catching the light) i just want to wipe you two off the face of this earth and be done with it.

howard’s glare falters and chris urinates on himself. hoshi snorts.

HOSHI (walks up to chris, who cringes away from him) chris, right? (leans down so chris is face to face with his mask) i asked you a question.

chris nods obediently and quickly, gag soaked in his own tears.

HOSHI so you’re the one who called my girl a bitch, hm? (chris frowns but he doesn’t seem to know exactly who hoshi is yet) called her a bitch in front of the whole office… told her she’d be better sucking your dick under the desk than trying to assign you work?

howard’s eyes widen as he realizes exactly who hoshi is talking about. chris starts sobbing loudly, begging for his life incoherently through the gag.

HOSHI (looks down at chris’s soiled lap, points his knife at his crotch) you want her to suck this dick?

chris’s begging becomes more desperate, thrashing in his seat as he realizes what’s about to happen. 

HOSHI (looks up at chris briefly and huffs a single laugh) what dick?

he shoves his knife into chris’s crotch. chris screams in muffled agony and howard starts shrieking and flailing in an attempt to scoot his chair away from the other two. 

camera is focused on hoshi’s upper half and audience can see his arm jerking quickly back and forth as chris’s screams continue and howard finally starts crying. then, there’s a dull thud on the floor, and hoshi straightens back up and takes a step away, knife disappearing in his robes as he tilts his head and views his work.

HOSHI looks like there isn’t a dick to suck there, chris. shame. 

chris’s wailing continues as hoshi looks to howard now, who begins shaking his head and crying through his gag.

HOSHI and you, you annoying little fuck. (crouches in front of howard) it wasn’t enough that you’re making her life a living hell, you wanted to piss me off even more and kick me in the head, huh?

hoshi rips his mask off, revealing his face to howard. there’s already a bruise spreading across the top of his left cheek. he smirks.

HOSHI my name is hoshi, if you’re wondering. and yeah. i’m her boyfriend. and as her boyfriend, she tells me all kinds of things. i’m sure you can imagine. 

he stands up and walks back to the pool table, resting his mask against the felt before turning, leaning up against it once more, and crossing his arms.

HOSHI and today, she had a lot to tell me. she told me that jake’s two closest idiot friends were trying to continue his legacy as biggest asshole in the office. do you know how jake died, howard? won’t bother asking mr. no-dick, over there. seems busy. 

camera goes to chris, who keeps fading in and out of consciousness, face soaked with sweat, tears, and drool slipping out of his open mouth.

HOSHI no guesses? (a gagged howard looks at him incredulously) okay, fine, fine, i’ll tell you. i killed him. 

even though his tone sounds prideful as he speaks, his face is blank. he stares at howard with soulless eyes, and it unnerves him further.

HOSHI i snuck into his apartment while he was out drinking with you guys. (howard makes a noise of surprise) yeah, that’s right. you two were the last people to see that moron alive. i should probably thank you. (tilts his head up at the ceiling like he’s reliving the memory) his inebriated state made it a lot easier to tease and kill him. not a lot of fight in that one. surprising, don’t you think? (head remains tilted at ceiling, but eyes flash down to meet howard’s) that someone who tormented a woman’s life the way he did would die so easily… so quietly… so… pathetically.

chris regains consciousness and starts screaming and sobbing again, head hung over where his member used to be

HOSHI (brings his head down and looks at chris now) how will you two die? (eyes slide over to howard) will you beg for your life the way jake did? will you… offer me meaningless apologies and promises? will you… tell me that you’ll give me whatever i want? 

he brings out his knife again and wipes it against howard’s pool table, smearing chris’s blood against the green felt. he inspects it like he’s making sure it’s sharp enough. camera focuses on hoshi’s reflection in the blade.

HOSHI (shrugs, puts knife down) i guess we’ll see in a few moments—how similar you are to jake. i will say, (pushes off the pool table, taking his mask with him) you two seem to be even worse than that deadbeat. do you agree, chris?

chris screams at the mere mention of his name, convulsing as hoshi walks closer to both of them. he stops just a couple of steps away from them, right in between the two.

HOSHI jake was a demeaning, narcissistic misogynist. and i tore him wide fucking open. let his intestines spill all over his own floor. made his living room a shallow sea of red.

both howard and chris beg through their gags.

HOSHI can you imagine what i’ll do to you if i think you’re even worse? (puts his mask back on and looks at howard) can you imagine what i’ll do to the man who told the whole office that he was gonna fuck the ambition and fight out of my girl, whether she liked it or not? what do you think i’ll do to that man if i made a massacre out of the dumbass who said a few mean things? 

howard desperately shrieks excuses against his gag, no success in saying even one understandable word. 

HOSHI (sighs like he’s come to a decision) yeah, i’m beyond having fun tonight. (quickly slashes chris’s throat, shallow enough that it will take a long time for him to bleed out. howard screams) at least with him. but with you? (crouches in front of howard again) the night has only started for you, howard.

IN THEIR HOME

TV NEWS ANCHOR authorities are doing their best to calm increasingly panicked citizens as fears that a serial killer is rampant on our streets spread. last week, 29-year-old jake lee was found brutally murdered in his downtown apartment (camera view switches to hoshi’s girlfriend as she tidies up around their living room. she looks pleased upon hearing that sentence), stabbed multiple times. last night, police answered multiple calls to 911 reporting the screams of a man in their high-rise apartment. 

she stops tidying, turning to look at the news broadcast from where she stands. her eyes are wide and her mouth hangs open in surprise.

TV NEWS ANCHOR upon entering, they found 27-year-old howard wang and 25-year-old chris vu’s bodies in the former’s apartment. authorities have not yet released details of the crime, but sources report that the nature of their deaths is comparable to that of jake lee’s. we have maya on the scene, reporting.

the tv turns off as she sinks into the couch, obviously in a dazed shock. the camera focuses on her from straight ahead, slowly zooming in on her for several, silent seconds until only the lower half of her face is visible. after a few more moments, she smiles.

you watch soonyoung carefully as he washes the dishes, something he insisted on doing since you cooked tonight. you think it’s the least you can do for the sole earner of the household now that you’re unemployed, but he refused to let you do it yourself.

from where you stand, you have a clear view of his sharp profile. the bruise he says he got from falling down the stairs at work earlier this week has become a deep purple, spreading across his cheekbone and toward his jawline. you suppose he could’ve gotten that in a fall. a fall that took place the same night hayden and charles were murdered. the same night you told him you wished jay’s killer would come for them next.

you want to say your boyfriend would never do something that insane. you want to say your boyfriend doesn’t have the kind of temperament required to commit vengeful crimes like these. but after almost ten years together, you think there have been enough signs to make you take pause.

soonyoung almost never got visibly jealous—never paid any attention to men who looked at you a little too long or sent the server to deliver you a drink. he was confident in his trust in you. it should’ve been comforting how unbothered he was by the attention you received, but sometimes, you felt offended that he wasn’t at least a little bit jealous.

these thoughts were vanquished immediately when one night, someone grabbed you at a bar. it wasn’t even inappropriate; the man just took you by your forearm and yanked you toward him in an attempt to keep you from getting crushed by a drunken patron who had zero spatial awareness.

you’ll never forget the rage you saw in soonyoung’s eyes when they landed on the stranger’s hold on your arm. he didn’t do anything—simply threw the hand off you and led you away, but the look stayed with you. it was a raw, all-consuming, unadulterated, and unchecked rage you don’t think you’ve ever seen with your own eyes before. 

the kind of rage you think could be capable of murder, given the right circumstances.

it should’ve scared you. just like the idea of soonyoung murdering your coworkers one by one should scare you. but it didn’t, and it doesn’t now. exactly like back then, it gets you wetter faster than foreplay itself.

soonyoung turns the faucet off and wipes his hands on the towel. when he turns, he’s so startled to find you standing so close to him, he stumbles back.

“oh shit,” he breathes, laughing a little. “i didn’t realize you were so close. you move so quietly.” he notices the way you stare at him intently. like it’s second-nature, he wraps himself around you and pulls you into his chest. “what’s up, baby?”

“i want to try something,” you say softly, a little hesitantly. 

you know what you’re about to ask for is depraved and worrisome and… inhumane. but you can’t bring yourself to care right now, not when your panties are this soaked at the thoughts flying wildly around your head.

“okay,” soonyoung says, laughing a little. “can you be more specific?”

“i want… to roleplay a little,” you say, gaze going down to soonyoung’s neck, then his chest. your fingers trace the edges and dips of his collarbones and his pecs.

his grip on you tightens. “is that right?” he says, smirking. “and who do you want us to pretend to be? are we strangers in a bar?”

you shake your head. “no, not strangers in a bar.”

“okay,” he acquiesces easily. 

soonyoung is always eager to give you whatever you want, and it bolsters your confidence to ask this of him. he leans down to graze your ear with his lips.

“am i your sexy sidepiece you’re cheating on your boring ass husband with?” he whispers, running his hands down to your ass and gently squeezing, pressing your hips against his so you can feel him already hardening from this conversation alone.

you smile, eyes fluttering closed as he nips at your lobe. “nope, not that either.”

“tell me who you want me to be, and i’ll be whatever it is, baby.” he subtly grinds into you and you try not to moan. 

“you promise you won’t judge me?” you whisper.

“i would never,” he promises, leaving open-mouthed kisses down your neck now. 

“i want you to be him,” you say as he starts to bite and suck. “i want you to be the prank call killer.”

he completely freezes in your arms, mouth still against your skin. for a horrifying minute, you think you’ve crossed the line. of course soonyoung is going to think you’re a freak for asking something so debauched and immoral of him. you have little to no evidence that he would ever enjoy something like this.

you’re about to push him away and start groveling for forgiveness and promising to seek therapy, when he grabs you by the face with both hands and envelopes your lips roughly with his own. his kisses are hot and wet and his tongue is in your mouth before you can ask if this means “yes.”

he presses you up against the kitchen island, and you can feel his entire length against your thigh, fully hard now and begging to be inside you. you groan just thinking about it—thinking about the murderer that took your tormentors off the street fucking into you viciously and relentlessly.

“and who are you?” he asks, breaking away from the kiss and lifting you so that you’re sitting on the counter. 

soonyoung’s voice is rough and raspy with desire you haven’t heard from him quite like this before, and you feel the wetness between your legs grow knowing he’s willing to do this for you.

“i’m exactly who i am right now,” you say, feeling a little shy, but when he moans at your words, you feel bold enough to be honest with your fantasy. “i’m your girlfriend,” you inform him, hands diving under his shirt and caressing the muscles there. “and you’re going around killing all the losers i fucking hate because you adore me so much.”

“fuck, you’re so goddamn hot,” he mutters as he takes both hands and rips your blouse open, buttons popping and fabric ripping. you gasp and he smirks at the sound, slipping the ruined piece of clothing off you. “shhh, don’t be scared, baby. you’re the one person in this world i would never hurt.”

the sentence undoes you.

“oh god,” you breathe, diving forward and capturing his lips again. 

soonyoung makes quick work of your bra, throwing it somewhere behind him once it’s off. he massages your breast for a few moments before taking your nipple between his fingers and tugging.

you break the kiss to tilt your head back and groan, and he takes the opportunity to bite and suck at the space where your neck meets your shoulder.

“rougher,” you breathe. “c’mon, you’re a murderer.”

soonyoung laughs a little at that, his love bites turning into gentle pecks up and down your neck. 

“and you think this killer… he’d be rough with you?”

your eyes blink open a few times, staring at the ceiling and losing yourself in thought. in the days following your colleagues’ deaths and your own resignation from work, you’ve had a lot of time to think—and touch—about this. when you envisioned soonyoung as your murderous protector, you saw him as vicious and wrathful and cruel. but when it came to you… his need was desperate and carnal, but always softer. gentler.

you realize it’s probably not so different from the way soonyoung already likes to fuck you: like you’re the only person in the world he cares about.

“how about…” soonyoung presses one last kiss to your neck before his hands are suddenly up your skirt. he pushes your panties aside and abruptly plunges his middle finger into your heat. your body jerks into his in response. “you let me take the lead here, and if you don’t like something, you just let me know, hm?”

every word you’ve ever known escapes you as he fucks you with just one finger, the wet sounds of your arousal embarrassingly loud as he moves in and out. his thumb lands on your clit when you let out a particularly filthy moan for him, and you lean back on your hands and open your legs wider for him for better access. he gives you another finger as reward.

“oh, soonie,” you breathe. “yes.”

“so warm, so wet,” he rasps, other hand landing on your chest and flicking your nipple. “so beautiful.”

“babe,” you whine, rolling your hips onto his fingers in frenzied movements. “tell me… tell me about—oh my god!”

“hm?” he hums before the sound of more fabric ripping fills the kitchen. 

you frown and look down in time to see soonyoung bringing your panties to his nose. you have half a mind to scream at him to stop but his fingers are still inside you, rendering you absolutely speechless as he presses the lace against his face and inhales deeply. your instinct is to feel self conscious—to snap your legs closed and grab your ruined underwear back. but you watch as his eyes roll back into his head and his lips twitch up against the black lace, and you realize he loves it. he breathes in again, and this time, you feel the excitement it causes through his fingers. they move with renewed fervor, like they’re thanking you for the gift you’ve given soonyoung. 

“smell so fucking delicious,” he all but growls as he balls the panties up and pockets them.

before you can say anything back, he’s bending down to let his tongue taste your clit briefly before pressing his thumb back against you. your hips jerk and you can’t help when your elbows give, making you collapse and lay all the way down on the counter. 

his fingers pump in and out of you faster now, and he completely replaces his thumb with his tongue, guzzling and drinking you up so intensely, his face quickly becomes covered with the stickiness of you.

“taste perfect,” he moans into you, tongue lapping you up eagerly. “tastes like mine.”

it pushes you over the edge quickly, and your back is arching off the island counter as your orgasm seizes you. the room is filled with your boyfriend’s name as you ride out the pleasure on his fingers.

“what do you want me to tell you about?” soonyoung asks once you come down, thumb going back to your clit. he keeps his face close to your pussy as he speaks, nose occasionally slipping between your folds and inhaling as he does. “should i tell you about how i disembowelled that ugly, little douchebag, jay?”

your cunt spasms at the words and soonyoung huffs a laugh when he feels you clench around his fingers. he curls them inside you, easily finding the spongy spot he’s been purposely avoiding up until now. he slows his movements, rubbing you patiently and carefully.

you sigh at the sensation, unsure if it’s because you feel so good or because you’re frustrated he’s eased up.

“i ran my knife up his body until his bones wouldn’t let me butcher him any further,” he whispers, moving so that his mouth is over your stomach, tongue slipping out to trace patterns on your skin between words. “and i made him bleed, baby. fuck, i made him bleed so much.”

“soonie.”

“i made him bleed for looking at you, for breathing near you, for ever thinking he could make someone as perfect as you bend to his will,” he whispers, breath hot as it fans over your skin, fingers still working you to a second orgasm. “i painted his apartment red. and i made it hurt. i made sure to make it hurt. just… for… you.”

he pushes roughly at your spot as he says that last word, eliciting a lewd moan as the beginnings of your next orgasm start to settle over you. soonyoung smirks against your skin.

“as for charles, i cut his fucking cock off,” he tells you. 

you gasp at that even though you know he’s just making shit up for the sake of roleplaying. still, you find it in yourself to hate how much you love the idea of soonyoung doing that to someone who told you to get on your knees and suck his dick. someone who wasn’t your boyfriend.

“he cried like a bitch,” he says, kissing your clit before straightening back up so he can properly watch you writhe under him. “cried all the way up until i slit his throat.”

you smile at soonyoung then, reaching for his free hand—the one not currently buried two fingers deep inside you—and bringing it over your tit and holding it there. he looks at you like you’re the reason he’s alive. like you’re the only good thing in the world. 

he massages you, just as gently as he did when this first started.

“but my favorite…” he says, eyes heavy-lidded as he takes you in. all his. all the time. until the end of time.

he removes his hand from your chest and shoves his sweatpants down just enough for his cock to spring out. your hips immediately start to buck at the sight, but all soonyoung has to do is shake his head at you once for you to immediately stop moving. there’s something so demanding and powerful about his presence right now that you’re not willing to push the limits of his patience. the pleased look on his face makes your emptiness feel worth it. he takes himself in his fist, pumping a few times as he speaks.

“my favorite was hayden. do you know why, baby?” he asks, moaning when you start playing with your nipple and breathing his name. “can you imagine the shit i did to the loser who thought he could fuck what’s mine?”

“i am,” you sigh, nodding desperately. “i’m yours.”

soonyoung pumps even faster now, but his fingers never falter inside you, intent on getting you to another high. and it’s close. you can feel it building almost painfully in your lower abdomen.

“i cut that ugly tongue of his out of his fucking mouth,” he grunts. you clench hard around his fingers. “and i started chopping him to fucking pieces—”

“soonyoung, i’m going to cum!” you half-shout, twisting under him uncontrollably. 

“i cut him up, and the entire time, i only thought of you,” he fucks into his fist harder as you start to lose yourself to your climax. 

“soonyoung!”

“and i thought that i’d kill the entire fucking world if i had to… just to keep you mine.”

you cum harder than you ever have in your life, near-screaming as you squirt all over soonyoung’s hand. the feeling reaches every, single corner of your body, making you convulse with pleasure.

“holy shit,” you hear from somewhere above you.

you don’t have time to gather your senses, though, because immediately, your body is being dragged down to the edge of the counter until you’re flying right off it. your boyfriend catches you, standing you up and kissing you full on the lips as he shoves your skirt down enough for it to slip off you and pool at your feet. you take the opportunity to tug his shirt off too, hands all over his naked torso once it is. 

“let me cum in you?” he asks without leaving your lips.

“god, please,” you whine, feeling the wetness soonyoung caused sliding down your thighs.

he wastes no time after that, turning you around so that your hips are flush against the kitchen counter. you feel the fabric of his sweatpants glide down the back of your thighs as he removes them, and that’s the last thing you remember before the darkness overcomes you.

your eyes squeeze shut as soonyoung slams into you in one go, giving you zero time to adjust as he starts to immediately rut into you from behind. it burns and hurts so delectably, having him stretch you like this. usually, he takes even more time than he did tonight, making his way up to four fingers sometimes, but having him fuck you like this—like if he waits even a second longer, it’ll be his ruin—it threatens to violently shove you into an abyss of pleasure you fear you’ll never get out of.  

soonyoung makes sure to hold you up, one arm across your chest with his hand on your breast, the other on your neck, forcing you to tilt your head back and rest on his shoulder.

you feel his eyes on you, his breath fanning your cheek as his gaze rakes you top to bottom, and you know he looks like a god, but you can’t open your eyes to save your life right now. you think if you do, you might explode into a million little pieces, forever disappearing into the ether. 

you feel his lips rest against your ear as he sloppily whispers, “do you like it? knowing i’d do anything for you?” his voice is hoarse as he fucks you rougher than he ever has, the debased sound of skin slapping against each other filling the kitchen. “that i’d kill anyone without a second thought if it meant keeping you forever?”

you moan loudly, eyes pathetically rolling when you attempt to open them. you give up, keeping them shut as you reach up and grab soonyoung’s hair. he groans as you tug.

“soonie,” you sigh, shoving your hips back to meet his and making him curse. “i love it. i love it so much.” 

you don’t know that you’re playing a role anymore. the idea that soonyoung would do any of this for you is so titillating, you feel drunk off it.

“feel so safe with you,” you say in broken gasps, your boyfriend’s rhythm making it impossible to say more than two words smoothly. “know you’ll always protect me, soonie.”

soonyoung curses loudly and bites into your neck to keep from getting any louder. his hips snap to yours at an increasingly unforgivable pace.

“and i’ll always protect you too,” you tell him. 

you don’t care if this is something you wouldn’t be able to double down on when his cock isn’t buried to the hilt inside of you; it feels like the right thing to say. it feels exactly like what you want to do for him too: everything and anything. just to keep him yours.

“i would do anything for you, soonie,” you whisper.

without warning, there’s a burst of warmth inside your cunt, and soonyoung’s hand briefly tightens against your throat before immediately relaxing again, nothing but his moans and your name taking up the air in the room. he comes inside you hard, hips gluing to your ass like he’s trying to keep every, tiny drop inside you. 

the feeling of his dick pulsing against your walls, pushing his seed into you, claiming you as his—it pushes you to your third orgasm, a slow and rolling one, not as intense as the others, but impossibly more satisfying. because this one not only brings you pleasure and an endless well of love for soonyoung; it brings you clarity.

because as you finally open your eyes moments later, soonyoung whispering sweet affirmations, vows, and affections in your ear as he keeps his softening cock warm inside you, you realize with startling lucidity that it wasn’t just a little fantasy.

the idea of soonyoung covered in blood and gore on your behalf was the stuff made of your dreams—or, arguably, nightmares. the idea that you had someone who adored you so deeply, he would play god like that made your heart grow tenfold. and now that soonyoung has fucked the fantasy deep into places inside you you couldn’t reach, you didn’t have it in you to feel ashamed about it.

you’re happy those three are dead.

and you’ll be even happier when the rest of them are too.

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

HOSHI (leaning forward on the table) what’s your favorite scary movie?

YOUR ALIAS hmmm… (she buys herself time by taking a sip of her coffee) maybe… “saw”? why? are you big on scary movies?

HOSHI (shrugs) i like ‘em. probably more than other genres, yeah. (laughs nervously) what, um, do you like about “saw”?

she looks at him like she’s endeared by his nervousness.

YOUR ALIAS i mean, it was a really lengthy and roundabout way of doing things, but i guess i just enjoyed the idea of someone delivering retribution to people who deserved it but escaped it, not that i agreed all the victims chosen should’ve been chosen at all. just enjoyed seeing a few assholes die.

HOSHI (nods slowly) you like karma.

YOUR ALIAS (pauses with coffee at lips. she nods, maintaining eye contact) i do. (sips coffee) what’s your favorite scary movie?

HOSHI i like any slasher movie with a good final girl. if i had to pick, i’d probably say “halloween.”

YOUR ALIAS ahh, laurie, the final girl of all final girls.

hoshi visibly lights up at the comment, smiling widely at her.

HOSHI you know more about horror than you let on.

she nods, smiling back.

YOUR ALIAS just a little. i wouldn’t say i’m knowledgeable but i’ve watched a lot of the classics at least once. i’d call it a green flag that you root for the final girls. laurie’s a good one.

HOSHI i’ll take it. (obviously pleased) but humor me. why is it a green flag?

YOUR ALIAS (shrugs) when done correctly, final girls are the perfect mix of vulnerability—

scene suddenly and almost startlingly flashes to memories of hoshi’s mother for a brief second, accompanied by what sounds like a loud gust of wind. the memories are happy ones between hoshi and his mom.

YOUR ALIAS —and strength—

the memories become times his mother endured his father’s beatings.

YOUR ALIAS —and don’t subscribe to traditional gender roles and ideals. i’m not a huge fan of some films making it so that a lot of final girls are, like… holier than thou virgins, but i think the trope has come a long way. 

hoshi nods, seemingly satisfied with her answer. she laughs and adds:

YOUR ALIAS unless you like final girls because you like to see a woman struggling against a violent serial killer. then red flag.

hoshi forces a laugh and shakes his head, looking down at his coffee and tracing the mouth of his mug.

HOSHI no, no. definitely more in line with the first one. i, uh… (looks up at her and seems to search for something in her eyes. whatever it is, he finds it and has the strength to be vulnerable for the first time in his life) my dad was abusive. with my mom.

her face falls and reaches forward to hold hoshi’s hand. the feeling is foreign and odd but he lets her hold it, even curling his own fingers closed around hers.

YOUR ALIAS i’m so sorry.

HOSHI she made me get out. she forced me to leave and never come back so i don’t really know what happened to her. i guess i just hope she’s a final girl.

she takes her second hand and closes it over the top of his and rubs it comfortingly.

YOUR ALIAS she must have loved you so much. (hoshi visibly bristles at that but doesn’t pull away) to be able to give you a better chance at life even if it meant never seeing you again… she absolutely is the final girl.

HOSHI (smiles) i like the way you described it. vulnerability, strength. 

YOUR ALIAS (smiles back) tell me more about her.

the two talk until the cafe closes and kicks them out, and the audience sees a montage of the couple going on their second date, third date, until they are moving in together, and planning a future together. hoshi is the happiest the audience has ever seen him, and it seems the side of him that kills has been quieted, though we know that to be untrue from the murders happening present-day.

the montage moves into a scene where she comes home from work in tears. hoshi consoles her, but eventually, that same blank stare we first saw after his head injury comes back.

once she’s asleep, hoshi visits a storage unit he rents a few miles away. he reels up the door, revealing just one trunk in the unit. he walks up to it and opens it.

inside, is a mask, a robe, and a knife.

sex with you after that night in the kitchen has become twice as intense as it ever used to be, and soonyoung knows it’s because a big part of him isn’t holding back anymore—he’s bringing his whole self into bed with you, not bothering to pretend he isn’t completely eviscerating anyone who even looks at you funny in his spare time.

he tells you everything you want to hear, which funnily enough, is just the truth. 

two more deaths to add to the list at your office, and he tells you exactly how he did it. he tells you what they said, how they begged, how he made them pay with their lives. between all of that, he never forgets to tell you he would do it time and time and again for you. he would do anything for you. kill anyone for you.

and the way you moan and gasp and cum at his words every time without fail is so goddamn addicting, he thinks he might die whenever he’s not inside you. 

it’s dangerous, he knows that. as you start to tell him more stories you didn’t bother to when you were still working there, the itch to go annihilate that entire office becomes overwhelming, and he knows if he doesn’t control it soon, it’s bound to draw unwanted attention; he doesn’t know how it hasn’t already, with five dead bodies—all on the same team at the same company.

so for a few weeks, he doesn’t do anything about the mental list of names he has in his head, letting the headlines and panic die down. 

you go out interviewing for jobs, he goes to work, you both come home and fuck each other’s brains out, and he stifles the voice in his head telling him to go murder every last person on that team.

but then, you ask for something terrifying.

you’ve been exploring your kinks ever since you first asked him to roleplay, and you’ve found the things you like and dislike—all things he agrees with so far. you like being tied up, you like blindfolding him, you don’t like calling him daddy (he absolutely fucking hated trying that one), you loved when he spit in your mouth, and he loved when you spit in his. 

and while he was open to all your suggestions, there were some things he hesitated with. you asked him to choke you and though he initially agreed, he couldn’t, immediately getting soft when he tried to. you asked him to degrade you—call you a bitch, a slut, a whore—and he figured it was your way of coming to terms with what you experienced at your nightmare of a job. that maybe if it came from someone you loved and felt safe with instead of the asshole in the next cubicle, you’d slowly chip away at your trauma. but he couldn’t do that either.

you always handled his rejections gracefully, assuring him that you could do missionary with zero kinks involved for the rest of your life, and you’d be “on your knees thanking him for blessing you with his dick either way.” and you do your best to prove that to him, taking kinks off the table for a while and seemingly giving him a break. the only thing that stays constant is the “roleplaying,” though that’s probably more at soonyoung’s insistence than anything else. the intimacy he experiences from being himself in bed with you—truly himself—is unparalleled. 

until one night, you ask him to use a knife on you during sex, and the panic attack it incites—the first soonyoung has ever experienced—is so massive, you almost call 911. he calms down enough to convince you not to, and the rest of the night is spent in your arms as you cry and apologize profusely for suggesting something like that when you know how his parents raised him. he tries to find the strength to tell you it’s okay, and that he understands, and that there’s no harm in asking, but each time he tries, nothing comes out of his mouth. he spends that entire time staring at the wall, and for the very first time, he experiences it: an undeniable thirst to plunge his knife into someone. 

soonyoung isn’t sure why, especially since he just suffered the most exhausting mental breakdown over the measly idea of even holding a knife anywhere near your vicinity. maybe it’s to take his mind off the gruesome, nauseating thoughts of his hunting knife sinking into your flesh—images that flooded his mind against his will the moment you asked that of him. maybe it’s a need to recalibrate his brain, like if he kills another one of your tormentors, it will remind him of his devotion to you.

whatever it is, it nags at him day and night for the rest of the week until he accepts it’s something he needs to give into, no matter how callous and unwise it might be. in an attempt to convince himself it’s okay, he says this will be the last one; regardless of the handful of names left, he’ll do this last one, and he’ll move on. as such, he makes his last victim the one person who could’ve put an end to all of this from the start: your boss. 

daniel park is a man of routine, soonyoung learns over the next few weeks. he leaves his home at a sharp 7 a.m., stopping by the same coffeeshop near his obnoxiously large house in the suburbs. he gets to the office around 8 a.m., a full hour after he required you (and no one else) to be in the office when you were still his employee. now that you’re gone, park is usually the first of his team in the office. he locks himself up inside his corner office doing fuck all while everyone else does his work for eight hours. he leaves the office exactly at 4 p.m., and from there, he either goes out for dinner and drinks with his team (something you were never invited to), meets equally old and ugly buddies for drinks, or goes to a bar alone for drinks. either way, the man is drunk by 6 p.m. every day. 

then, around 10 p.m., he’ll make his sorry way home—driving drunk while at it—and he’ll stumble into his home, paying no mind to his already sleeping wife, who took care of the home and their child the entire day with no help from him. 

soonyoung decides to be reckless one more time. it’s his last one, anyway. he wants this one to matter. he wants this one to be the one you think about for the rest of your life—enough to hold you over even if he never kills again. 

he waits for a night when park drinks alone, usually around wednesday or thursday, when he’s gotten tired of his team and wants time alone with whatever stupid thoughts he has. soonyoung watches him from a corner booth at the bar, knocking back whiskey after whiskey like they’re shots. and when he stumbles out of the establishment, he easily guides him to his own car instead of park’s with little protest from the drunk. 

he drives him right back to the office building that took so much energy and life out of you, using his badge to get them into the floor. he’s patient with park, letting the man nod off for an hour as he ties him up and prepares for the rest of the night.

when park finally blinks his eyes open, soonyoung is fully dressed in his usual disguise and standing before him in the darkness, only the moonlight filtering in from the windows to his left illuminating his shape. the way your boss startles so violently is deeply satisfying, and it takes everything in soonyoung to refrain from laughing in his face. park jerks his limbs, horrified to find them tightly bound to his own chair, wheeled out of his office and brought to the front of the team floor, where park keeps a whiteboard for their daily stand-ups. 

“good morning, sunshine,” soonyoung says from beneath his mask. 

“who are you?! what kind of sick joke is this?!”

“none of you were raised with manners, huh?” he grumbles. “all of you skip straight to your stupid questions. why don’t any of you know how to greet a fellow human being?”

he stills in the seat. “‘all of us’?” 

soonyoung nods slowly, taking his knife out of his robes, freshly cleaned and polished the way it is before and after every single death. he feels a jolt of dread twist in his stomach when he looks at the blade, picturing it buried in your stomach. he shakes his head to free himself of the thoughts, and thankfully, park doesn’t notice, too busy blabbering all kinds of questions. 

“shhh, shhh!” soonyoung shushes him, waving his hands erratically. “quiet, shut up, i’m irritable tonight and if you piss me off on top of that, i’ll make this ten times slower than it needs to be.”

his mouth clamps shut at that and he presses himself back into his seat. 

soonyoung usually pretends to inspect his knife at this point just to intimidate his victims, but he couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t throw up looking at his own weapon right now, so he lets the arm holding it simply fall to his side. 

“all of you,” he repeats. “jay… charles… hayden.” he walks to park slowly, menacingly. “leo, ian.��

your boss’s eyes widen as he hears all the names of his slain employees from the last several months. 

“daniel,” soonyoung finishes his list. “you.”

“wh… what…?” he sputters, shaking his head in confusion. his words slur and this close, soonyoung can smell the alcohol on his breath even from under his mask. “you were actually targeting this office?!”

soongyoung scoffs. “well, yes. the only victims have been from this office.”

“b-but authorities! they said there have been a few others that could’ve been—”

park cuts himself off with his own scream as soonyoung’s knife pins his hand to the arm of his chair. 

“oh my god!” he screams at the top of his lungs, entire body jerking against his restraints. “oh my god, you stabbed me! you fucking stabbed me! oh my god!”

“i told you to be quiet, right?” he reminds him. “are you going to be quiet… or not?”

your boss stops screaming, though his whimpering and sobbing is almost just as loud. he does his best not to look at his own hand like it helps him pretend it didn’t just happen. he stares up at the ceiling, taking shallow breaths. 

“do you know what all of you have in common?” soonyoung asks. 

“no,” park breathes, still blinking furiously at the ceiling. 

“y/n,” he states easily. “that’s what you have in common.”

park’s eyes come down to soonyoung’s mask, wide and filled with tears. 

“yeah, you know exactly why i’m here, don’t you?”

“i—i—” his mouth opens and closes several times before he says, “i’m sorry.”

“whatever for?” soonyoung asks sarcastically, pulling someone’s chair out from their cubicle. 

he notices a light blanket on it, yanking it off and throwing it over his shoulder before he sits down. he slouches, bringing one ankle to rest up on his knee and cradling his chin in his hand, elbow on the armrest. he tilts his head in mock interest. 

“for it all!” he shrieks. “i swear, i’m sorry, i know i should’ve done more! i’m sorry! i’m a fucking coward, okay?! please! i know what they did to her was horrible!” 

“do you? know that?”

“yes, yes! i swear!”

“name them.”

“what?”

“if you can name everything they said and did to her,” soonyoung says, watching the way his blood drips from the armrest and stains the carpet below. “maybe i’ll make this quick. stab you in the heart and be done with it.”

“what?!” he protests. “what about you let me live?”

soonyoung scoffs exaggeratedly. “oh no, daniel. no. that’s cute, but no. the only way you’re coming out of this building is in a body bag. it really is just a matter of whether or not this will be quick and painless or… well, y’know… the alternative.”

he’s bluffing. he already knows exactly what he’s doing with park. he just likes giving him the illusion of control. when he rips it away from him, it’ll be all the more gratifying. 

“you have a minute. i’d start listing if i were you.”

“they, uh, they bullied her!” 

soonyoung rolls his eyes beneath his mask. 

“they catcalled her! they took credit for her work! they made her do all of their reports! they, uh… they—”

“tick tock.”

“they made sexual jokes about her! talked shit about her during dinners! uh, they—um, they spread rumors about her!”

“okay,” soonyoung says, waving a hand and nodding. “good run.” park seems to sigh with relief. “how about you, though?”

“what?”

“how about you?” soonyoung repeats himself, and even though he’s still slouched casually in his seat, his change of tone makes your boss flinch. “what are some things you said and did to her?”

“i… i didn’t…”

“uh-uh,” he laughs, wagging a finger at him. “i already know everything, daniel. don’t try to lie to me.” 

it’s another bluff. you told soonyoung you told him everything, but something about the way you said it never convinced him. he knew you were leaving something out, and if this was his last time with any of your vile colleagues, he might as well try to see what it was you were hiding. 

“what’s it going to be, boss man? are we going slow or are we making it painless?”

“i passed her up for every promotion!” he shouts immediately, wincing when his enthusiasm jostles his hand against the knife. “she was the most qualified and i passed her up every time!”

soonyoung motions with his hand boredly. “okay… and?”

“i told her to suck it up! that boys will be boys! i told her if she wanted to move up, she needed to get used to it!”

soonyoung glares at him from beneath his mask. 

“i—” he swallows hard, tears flowing down his face. 

soonyoung sits up, sensing the revelation he’s waiting for on the horizon. he plants both feet on the ground, stands, and stalks over to park until he’s towering right over him. he whips the blanket off his shoulder, balling it in his fist before he rests his hands on your boss’s forearms and leans forward to meet his eyes, ignoring the way he gasps at the pain the movement causes. 

“you what?” he asks calmly. 

“i… oh god, i…” he swallows nothing again. “i’m sorry…”

“what are you sorry for, daniel?”

“i… i told her if she did want a promotion… she could do me some favors.”

soonyoung’s blood runs cold in his veins. that’s not something you ever mentioned to him, and he can imagine why. he wouldn’t have just gone on a murderous rampage; he would’ve blown this entire building up. he thinks he might break his own teeth from how hard he clenches his jaw. after a few moments, he forces himself to release the tension and open his mouth once more.

“what kind of favors, daniel?” he asks quietly.

“oh god, please don’t make me sa—SEXUAL!” he bellows when soonyoung presses a hand to the hilt of his knife, pushing down another inch. “SEXUAL FAVORS!”

“ah, there it is,” he grunts, nodding. 

he stands back up. soonyoung unceremoniously yanks the knife out of park’s hand, flips it so that it’s blade up once more, and without hesitating, he brings the sharp side down on all four of park’s fingers. before the man has a chance to scream, he shoves the blanket into his open mouth, muffling any noise he planned on making.

“shhh,” soonyoung mutters almost soothingly. “shhh, you’re fine. it’s just a few fingers. you don’t need them where you’re going anyway.”

he pats park’s head condescendingly two times before hitting the same spot with the blunt end of his knife. 

“you’re all just fucking assholes, aren’t you?” he asks as blood starts running down your boss’s temple. “is that on the job listing? ‘requirements: must be a misogynistic pervert’?”

he grabs a fistful of park’s hair, yanking back so that all he could see was the ceiling. 

“i’m sure you know exactly what happened to the others,” soonyoung says, speaking so close to him, his mask presses up against the side of his face that isn’t bleeding. “i’m sure you know all about what i did to them.”

park sobs through the blanket, drool escaping the corners of his lips the harder he tries to speak through the makeshift gag. 

“i bet you didn’t count on her having someone who adored her like this, did you?” he asks, voice low. “didn’t think someone would come punish you for hurting the person they love most in this stupid fucking world?”

“no. he didn’t.”

soonyoung freezes at the female voice that cuts through the floor from behind him. your boss starts to thrash with renewed hope that someone has caught him red-handed. his fist tightens around his hair, yanking to shut him up. painstakingly slowly, and without letting park go, soonyoung cranes his neck to look behind him, heart stopping when he sees you there, standing in the moonlight looking as breathtaking as ever. 

he doesn’t dare say a word. under his mask, soonyoung frantically searches your face for any sign that you’ll run screaming from him, leaving him alone, never to see you again. he doesn’t find anything other than your usual, soft smile—“resting lovely face” he would call it on his especially sappy days. 

you’ve pretended to be a murderer’s girlfriend dozens of times by now, but soonyoung had no reason to believe you thought any of it was real—that you suspected him of all the heinous crimes he’s committed for you. as you let the large bag hanging on your shoulder slip off and fall to the floor and you start walking toward them, he weighs his options. 

he could run, but then what? leave you with a crime scene you’ll take the blame for? absolutely not. he could throw himself to the floor begging you for forgiveness, begging you to not turn him in but more importantly, begging you to stay with him. there’s a tiny, ugly voice that suggests he could also kill you. he shudders, shaking the thought away. if he resorted to that, he would have to follow right after. that had to be his last option. 

you reach them, and soonyoung knows he’s run out of time. whatever you do or say next will dictate the rest of your lives. 

when he forces himself to meet your gaze, though, he sees nothing there but absolute fondness and veneration. you rest a palm against his back as he continues leaning over your former boss. 

“mr. park,” you say, turning your attention to the man bound to the chair now. soonyoung follows your gaze back to the man, who’s still being forced to stare at the ceiling. he releases his grip on him, allowing him to look at you. his eyes widen in what soonyoung suspects is fear. “nice to see you again under these circumstances. really nice.”

soonyoung feels his heart skip a beat. he straightens up to his full height now, eyes on you as you continue speaking. your hand snakes from his back to his arm, and down, down, down, until your fingers are intertwined with his. 

“have you met my better half?” you ask him. “this is kwon soonyoung.”

he feels like his heart jumps into his throat at that moment, and he fights to keep from choking on nothing. you must feel the way he stills in your hold because you bring his gloved hand to your lips and kiss it gently. 

your boss starts sobbing twice as hard, throwing what looks to be a restrained tantrum. 

“i’m sorry,” you say, faking a wince. “you must have thought i was here to help you, huh?”

soonyoung’s mouth twists into what he’s sure is the largest, most insane smile he’s ever had the pleasure of smiling in his life. the adrenaline and dopamine that suddenly releases in his system makes him feel invincible in a way he never has before. because if you, the adoration of his goddamn life, know who and what he is and you still love him… then nothing will ever be able to stop him ever again. nothing stands between him and the entire world now.

“my bad,” you sigh. “i’m just here to watch you die.”

soonyoung takes that as his cue, lifting his knife toward park. but before he can do anything, your hand comes to his forearm, stopping him. he looks down at you, tilting his head in question. you look up and shake your head. 

“i want to do it,” you whisper. 

he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to talk to you while his mask is on. whatever it is, he can’t say anything as you try to take the knife in your own hand. 

sensing his hesitation, you smile and nod. “you’ve done so much for me, soonie. will you let me be my own final girl now?”

without a second thought, the tension in his arm dissipates immediately, completely surrendering his weapon to you. you hold his knife in your hand, and seeing it in your grip demolishes whatever last walls he had up between the two of you. you stare down at it like you’re holding a relic, and it takes him a moment to realize you’re imagining the men he’s killed in your name with it. 

he reaches out, wrapping his hand around yours and tightening your grip on the hilt. your gaze flick up to him and his other hand briefly caresses your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, smile widening for a short moment. when your eyes open, there’s a fire in them he’s seeing for the first time, and he knows that whoever he walks out of here with is going to be a completely different person than the one he woke up next to this morning. 

you give him a small nod before turning away from his hold and facing the man who’s made your life a living hell this entire time. 

soonyoung decides he doesn’t want to watch park’s face as the light leaves his eyes. instead, he walks around the chair behind him, holding it from behind to keep it still for you, his eyes trained on your face and only your face. 

the smirk that graces it now is glorious, and it takes everything in him to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the ground you walk on. 

“sorry, nothing personal,” you say, obviously reciting something he’s said to you before. “girls will be girls, right?”

soonyoung barely hears the muffled screams that follow. all he can hear is his heart singing as he watches the life, light, and joy this job stole from you come back to you all at once. he’s never been more in love. and he thinks he understands now. this. this is love. 

it was clear to you that something was escalating inside soonyoung for the last few weeks, and you knew he was gearing up to commit his last crime—you were sure of it. 

you had your suspicions when you asked him to roleplay with you, but it was the week after that you became confident in your intuition. the week after, when authorities finally released the circumstances under which hayden and charles died. 

you shouldn’t have been surprised when you read the dirty talk soonyoung used to get you to cum over and over again practically word for word in the article that detailed their murders. there was no way he would have been able to know all this information before the public did, and lucky guesses were out of the question, especially when every, last thing he told you was listed.

after that, two more of your ex-coworkers died, ones that made particularly lewd comments at you, something you noticed angered soonyoung more intensely than any other kind of offense. it made you feel more flattered than it should have—how possessive and jealous he got because of these assholes who thought they had any kind of entitlement to you or your body. 

soonyoung had ruined you for anybody else long before you knew this truth about him; he had no reason to feel jealous. still, it made you feel so special, and you didn’t stop to question the toxicity and unhealthiness of everything you’ve been feeling in the last weeks—in the last year.

for the first time in so long, you felt good and you felt safe, and you had no intentions of changing that. you’ve been all in on soonyoung since your first date. this changed nothing. 

so as he started escalating, you started watching. instead of attending job interviews like you claimed to be, you were following him. most of the time, it was just to the writers’ room, but a few times a week, it was to watch him tailing your ex boss. 

between following him around and snooping through his things, it didn’t take long for you to piece together what he was planning, and with how erratic soonyoung’s behavior had gotten since you made the stupid, thoughtless, grave mistake of suggesting knife play in the bedroom, you knew he was going to be prone to mistakes. so you started preparing right alongside him. 

when his gear disappeared from the creaky floorboard he kept it hidden under, you knew it would be time to act soon. then, today, as your boyfriend kissed you goodbye in the morning, he told you not to wait up; the writers room was going to run late to meet deadlines for next week’s episode. 

you’ll give it to him; soonyoung was a really good liar. after all, he has kept this secret from you for a good amount of time. and if he’s so comfortable doing this, you imagine it isn’t his first time killing either. who knows how long he’s been lying to you? 

but now that you were looking for the signs, it was easy to tell. he maintained eye contact too well, like he was actively telling himself to refrain from looking away and seeming suspicious. he smiled a little too hard. offered one too many details if you asked a simple follow-up question. 

“oh okay, what time do you think you’ll be home?”

“fuck, not sure, this episode has a lot of rewrites because one of the actors is throwing a bitch fit about his lines, and they want us back at the drawing board—well, writing board—with, like, three new options for this asshole by tomorrow morning, so. who knows how long that will take. i’ll text you when i’m on my way, though, okay? i love you.”

as soon as he was out the door, you were moving.

you made a trip to your old workplace under the guise of needing a copy of your last paystub from HR, which happened to work right next to your team. while you were there, you made sure you were seen on every camera in the lobby, made sure to say hi to several people—even if some of those people were assholes you wish soonyoung would waste too. you allowed stray hairs to fall from your travel hairbrush. you scratched wildly at your skin. you coughed openly. you gave a valid and proper excuse for your DNA—and trace amounts of soonyoung’s DNA—to end up here other than for a murder.

and when no one was looking, you helped yourself to a jay minion’s cubicle while he was away from it. alex. you pocketed his badge, which he had a bad habit of walking around without, and you scheduled an email from his account addressed to your former boss, knowing full well that a lazy idiot like him would not be noticing a scheduled message in his account.

if soonyoung couldn’t kill him, life in prison was a good alternative. 

once you were done with your part, you went home, dropped your phone off so that it couldn’t be tracked anywhere but home tonight, and packed a bag of extra clothes. then, you followed your doting boyfriend from his job, and once you saw him tuck your drunken former boss into his own car, you raced back to the office, where you were 99.9 percent sure he would be bringing him back. you scanned in using alex’s badge through the backdoor, where there were no cameras, you made your way to your team’s floor, and you waited. 

not long after, when a tall, lean person dressed in the gear you’d found under your boyfriend’s creaky floorboard, walked onto the floor, practically carrying park on his shoulder, it took everything to keep from shrieking and giggling at how well you knew your own boyfriend. 

you watched as he methodically and carefully tied him to his chair, rolled him to the exact spot he wanted him. you watched as he polished an already incredibly clean knife, shuddering uncomfortably a few times as he did. you wondered if it still bothered him—taking life. if maybe he wasn’t as seasoned as you thought, and the act still took something precious from him. 

you hated the idea that something as generous as ridding the world of vermin like your ex-teammates could affect soonyoung like that. 

what you hated even more was how turned on you were watching as he walked back and forth in his disguise, the muscles of his arms and his back still prominent through the tattered robes. but before you could debate jumping out of the shadows and convincing him to just leave and go home with you so you could ride him until dawn, your dumbass boss was waking up again. 

you honestly didn’t know when you were supposed to step out, but the more soonyoung’s love for you shown—the clearer he made it that he truly would do anything for you, the less you cared about staying hidden. 

and before you knew it, you were holding soonyoung’s very own knife, standing in front of a very dead daniel park, covered in his blood and laughing so hard, you thought maybe your nervous system was broken. but when the giggles died down and you didn’t burst into tears the way you expected you would, you knew you were perfectly fine. better than fine. you were thrilled. 

“finally,” you breathe, reaching forward to yank the blanket out of your boss’s mouth, wiping the knife on a cleaner corner. “here you go.”

you hand it over hilt first toward your boyfriend, who’s still standing behind park, splatters of blood all over him too. he gently takes the weapon from you, tucking it somewhere within his robes. you watch him carefully, wondering what his face looks like, wondering what he’s thinking. instead, all you get is that permanent scream on his mask as it stares blankly back at you. 

does he think i’m crazy? does it turn him off? would he rather be the one doing the saving?

you don’t voice any of your insecurities, though. you’re far too happy and relieved to ruin this moment with those thoughts. instead, you take the blanket you’re still holding and you dip it in one of park’s stab wounds until it’s soaked in his blood. you walk to the whiteboard behind his body and swipe at it in broad strokes, stepping back to view your work when you’re done. 

you look back to your boyfriend to see him looking at the whiteboard. 

FINAL

not for park or any of the other men soonyoung obliterated like a hurricane passing through, but for you. the final person standing, with the help of a man who loved you enough to make sure it ended this way. you hope he gets it and that he’s appreciating it the way you are.

while he continues staring at the board, you take the time to reach into the pocket of park’s jacket, fishing his phone out of it. because he treated you like his executive assistant, you knew most of his passwords, and you were banking on it being the same. 

when his phone unlocks, you breathe a sigh of relief. you navigate to his email, pleased to find alex’s email in his inbox just like you planned for it to be. 

to: daniel.park@loomis.com from: alex.cho@loomis.com subject: ! emergency situation, action needed body: mr. park, we have a dire situation at the office that requires your attention. a few of the other team members and i will be working late into the night to remedy this; please stop by the office when you can to discuss next steps.

once you’re sure the message is marked read, you wipe the phone free of your prints with the blanket before tucking it back into his pocket. when you’re done, you let the blanket fall to the ground, eyes going back to your boyfriend, whose gaze is back on you now.

soonyoung still doesn’t say anything, simply walking to the duffle he left in the far corner. he removes his shoes, replacing them with a disposable shoe cover on each foot, before removing yours and doing the same for you, an act that feels so intimate, you’re tempted to take him right here, in the middle of this gore, effectively ruining all your efforts to keep him from getting caught. 

he puts the shoes into spare trash bags and tucks them into his duffle before standing and holding his hand out for you to take. your fears that he’s mad you came here dissolve, and you take his gloved hand in yours. 

he leads you away, picking up your own bag off the floor for you as you pass it. you think he’s leading you out of the building, but instead, you both end up in the showers, an amenity usually meant for commuters or people who went to the gym and worked out in the middle of their work day.

soonyoung sets both of your bags down on one of the benches in the locker room before nodding toward the showers. you follow him wordlessly, heat pooling in your stomach as you do. 

he leads you into a shower stall, turning on the hot water and letting the water hit the both of you fully clothed. he turns around to face you, his mask wet with blood and water as it stares down at you. you hesitantly lift a hand up to rest on the jaw of it. you look up into the black holes of its eyes, hoping he understands you’re asking if you can remove it for him. 

when he doesn’t stop you, you push up on the mask, lifting it completely off his head. the first thing you notice is that soonyoung’s platinum blonde hair is matted to his forehead with sweat, all of his visible skin slick with it. and when you meet his eyes, you’re immediately rooted to the spot, robbed of all air. his pupils are blown, making his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as they bore into yours. his mouth is parted, chest heaving as he breathes like he’s been running for hours. 

without giving you a chance to think of your next move, he grabs the mask and chucks it somewhere behind you before wrapping his hand around the back of your neck and roughly pulling you to him. he cranes down to envelope your lips with his, wasting no time parting them and fervently shoving his tongue into your mouth. 

it doesn’t take long for him to get the both of you naked; you’re not even really sure when it happens, but suddenly, he’s kicking your soiled clothes away from the both of you, his hands going from cradling your face to softly running across your shoulders, your back, your ass, and you realize he’s rinsing the death off of you, all while peppering you with feather light kisses as he does. 

you hang your head, resting it against his shoulder as you watch red swirl down the drain, until it’s pink, until it’s clear. you sigh deeply at the sensation of the water pelting your skin and soonyoung’s fingertips dancing across every part of you. he presses his erection in between your thighs at the sound of your breath, and it quickly turns into a moan.

you reach to grip his cock in your hand, fisting it tightly. his breath hitches, and you decide it’s time to thank him for everything he’s done for you these last few months. you lift your head up off his shoulder and reach up to press your lips to his once more, gentle and chaste. 

“thank you,” you whisper. he runs a hand across his face to get water out of his eyes. 

“for what?” he asks, voice husky around the first words he’s said to you since the night started. 

“for loving me like this,” you answer, pumping your first slowly as you speak. “for doing all of this for me… and for letting me be a part of it too.”

soonyoung closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours, nothing but the sound of the water and his labored breaths as you stroke him filling the room. 

“i love you, y/n,” he says in a voice you haven’t heard from him before. it sounds small, vulnerable, and emotional, and when he opens his eyes, you aren’t surprised to see tears gathered there. “i love you so fucking much.”

you don’t think he’s ever said that to you like this. getting him to even use the word “love” was like pulling teeth in the beginning of your relationship. now, he says it like he’s free of the trauma he’s tied to the word over the years of his childhood. you tiptoe to kiss the tears out of his eyes. 

“i love you,” you return. “and i adore you. forever. now… let me show you.”

you kiss every bit of skin you can on your way down his body, until you’re on your knees. you look up at him one, last time, melting a little at the affection he stares at you with.

“don’t hold back, okay?” 

he curses under his breath before nodding. he reaches one arm across the shower, planting a palm on the wall behind you to steady himself as you take his entire length into your mouth.

“fuck.”

you hollow your cheeks as you slide away, tongue swirling on the underside of his shaft and dragging across the veins of his cock. you wrap one hand at the base tightly before sliding him back in, knowing that taking his entire monster length wasn’t going to be sustainable for you or your throat. you blow him like this—pumping and twisting at the bottom of his shaft with your hand, your other one massaging his balls—for only a few moments before soonyoung absolutely loses it.

and ever eager to please you, he follows your instructions and holds nothing back. he palms the back of your head with his free hand and without warning, starts fucking into your mouth roughly. tears stream down your face, mixing with the hot water of the shower and the precum leaking out of soonyoung. the back of your throat starts to burn early on, but still, you want more. 

your hands grab soonyoung’s ass, bringing him impossibly further into your throat on every thrust. he groans loudly, cursing in between shouts of your name. 

“y/n,” he breathes, slowing his movements after a few minutes until his hips stutter to a full stop. you frown, looking up at him when he pops his cock out of your mouth. “i don’t want to cum in your mouth, baby.”

“why not?” you ask dumbly. 

he laughs, obviously not expecting the question. instead of answering, he pulls you up and onto your feet, steadying you when you realize they’ve fallen asleep from the lack of blood flow. he presses you against the wall, caging you in and pressing his thigh between your legs to keep you standing as you regain the feeling in your legs. you gasp when his quad rests against your clit. 

“there are better places to cum,” he finally answers, just barely moving his thigh against you.

the tiny movement is enough to coax another moan out of you, though. his fingers come down to dive in between your folds and trace your slit teasingly back and forth, gathering your arousal. he brings his fingers up to his mouth, shamelessly taking them in and tasting the way he makes you feel. his eyes close as he savors the taste.

“mmm,” he hums fondly like your lust is a five star meal. he opens his eyes, smirking at the way you’re staring at him. “want to taste?”

you nod eagerly. at this point, you’d take whatever he wanted to give you. you reach forward to kiss him, but he pins your shoulder to the wall with a hand, making you squeak in surprise, and when his other hand comes up your neck and grabs your jaw, tilting it up toward him and forcing your mouth open, you realize what he means and what he wants. 

you fight your own smirk as you open your mouth wider, letting your tongue hang out as far as it will go. he presses his cock against you at the sight, cursing before he takes your face in both his hands, leans over you, and aims, spitting straight into your mouth. you whine pathetically when you feel it hit the back of your throat, immediately grasping both his arms and grinding down against his thigh while it’s still pressed between your legs.

“soonie, please,” you mewl, desperately and messily grabbing at whatever you can at this point just to get him closer to getting inside you, including his hair, his neck, his arms, his hips—anything.

he grabs your wrists when you won’t stop, holding them tightly in between your bodies with one hand, the other cupping your ass and guiding one leg to wrap around his waist, the tip of his cock already teasing your hole. 

“behave,” he hisses, squeezing your wrists until they hurt. you don’t dare wriggle against his hold. “are you going to be good?” you nod. he immediately releases you, guiding one hand to his shoulder to keep yourself steady. 

when both of your hands are wrapped around his shoulders, he takes your other leg and wraps it around his waist too, lifting you up and pinning you between him and the wall. he kisses you harshly and recklessly, tongue wrapping itself around yours as his cock starts to push into you.

he doesn’t wait until he’s fully buried in you the way he usually does. no, tonight, he can’t seem to help himself when he breaks away from you to remind you: “you’re mine.”

you nod, resting your head back against the wall, nails digging into his shoulders as he pushes in further. “yours,” you gasp. “always.”

“god, i love you,” he says for the third time tonight, making the burn feel all the better as he bottoms out. “you’re so perfect,” he breathes, adjusting to the feeling of your cunt around him. “so fucking tight.”

“fuck me, baby” is all you have the energy to whisper. and he delivers. 

he easily bounces you on his dick in time with his own thrusts, the corded muscles of his arms hard, wet, and glistening as he holds you up against the wall. you don’t care how loud you are, letting your screams out as they come. at this point, you’re not sure you even care if the police catch you like this and arrest you. 

all that matters is how soonyoung feels inside of you, how his mouth burns everywhere they press against you, how his fingertips dig into your flesh so hard, you think it’ll bruise. he rests his forehead against yours, holding unwavering eye contact with you as he fucks you like it’s simultaneously the first and last time. 

“marry me,” he whispers suddenly. “fuck. marry me, y/n.”

you gasp as he thrusts hard, tip kissing your cervix. “a-are you s-seriously asking right now?”

he smirks, kissing you quickly before thrusting even faster and harder. the sounds that come out of your mouth are a pitch higher and nastier. “i’ve had a ring for a year. i can’t fucking wait anymore. marry me. god, please marry me.”

you don’t have to think twice. “yes,” you half moan. “yes, soonyoung. yes, i’ll—fuck! i’ll marry you!”

the thought does something to the both of you at the same, exact time, and you’re both shouting warnings at each other as you reach your highs. his teeth sink into your collarbone as he comes inside you, your fist closing around the hair at the nape of his neck as you reach your own climax on his dick too. 

you stay in the same position for a few moments, both trying and failing to catch your breaths. 

when you finally do, you tap soonyoung’s shoulder to let you down, but he refuses, stubbornly staying inside of you. you frown. 

“what are you doing? we should shower and leave,” you point out, remembering there’s an incredibly deceased man outside.

“the longer i stay here, the longer my cum stays inside you, and the greater the chances i just got you pregnant,” he says cheekily. 

you glare at him. “soonyoung, i’m on birth control.”

he glares right back.

“okay, fine,” you relent, laughing. the sensation makes soonyoung wince as you clench around his overstimulated cock a little. “kinda hot, though—you wanting to get me pregnant.”

he raises an eyebrow at you. “oh? another kink of yours?”

you blush, knowing you’ve been somewhat of a sex fiend since discovering your fantasy of having a murderous boyfriend—your reality now, you suppose. “maybe,” you murmur. 

soonyong grins, kissing the pout away from your lips. “good. i’m going to keep trying.”

“okay, well, maybe we should try when we’re not in active danger of going to prison for life?”

“right.”

you both shower quickly, bagging the soiled clothes and changing into the outfits you both packed separately. you watch in awe as soonyoung takes out a blacklight and some kind of cleaning agent to get rid of any blood you both tracked into the shower. most of the evidence, it turns out, is right there in the stall, where his cum leaked out of you. 

when he’s done cleaning, you both head to your cars, each parked in different lots, agreeing to meet at home after you pick up drive-thru dinner and he goes back to work to pick up his phone. and when you do get home, you find that soonyoung beat you there, the apartment dark save for a handful of candles. he’s on one knee when you enter, a small box open and turned toward you, the ring he claimed he got a year ago right there, staring you in the face. 

“i love you,” he says. “i’ll spend the rest of my days loving you the way you deserve to be. adoring you with everything i have. will you allow me the honor of doing that as your husband?”

you don’t know how many times you scream yes at him as you drop the bags of fast food and throw yourself into his arms, the two of you collapsing into a pile of giggles and kisses.

TOP STORY • 2 MIN READ

Copycat serial killer sentenced to life in prison on three counts of torture, six counts of first degree murder

By Gale Weathers

Police investigating the torture and murder of Daniel Park, senior vice president of marketing at Loomis, Inc. two years ago.

Two years after a spree of murders rocked the local community, Alex Cho, former Loomis, Inc. employee, has been sentenced to life in prison, despite pleading not guilty to all charges.

Dubbed the "copycat prank call killer" for the similarities in mutilation amongst victims, Cho was found guilty on all counts of torture and first degree murder for the deaths of six fellow Loomis, Inc. employees, including his boss, Daniel Park, former senior vice president of marketing. Arrested just days after Park's murder, Cho was the authorities' main suspect since day one, according to a statement made by Police Chief Macher following the sentencing.

"Cho's name was on the board since the tragic murder of our first victim, Jay Lang," said Macher, "but as his spree escalated and became more frenzied, he became careless. The evidence against him became insurmountable after the death of Daniel Park."

Though evidence left behind by Cho at the previous murders still has not been disclosed by authorities to this day, his involvement in Park's torture and murder is clear. On the night of Park's death, Cho lured him to the office after-hours under the guise of a work emergency. Once there, Cho ambushed and tortured his boss before stabbing him almost 30 times and leaving his body to be found by other employees the next morning.

Police were able to arrest Cho early on, thanks to his email trail and the use of his badge at the Loomis, Inc. headquarters, just minutes before Park entered the building himself.

When asked about the sentencing of their former employee, a Loomis, Inc. representative told TOP STORY:

"Even two years on, we continue to mourn our tragically lost employees. As such, Loomis offers all our associates ongoing mental health resources and grief counseling. We also honor these victims with annual donations to various campaigns, including cancer research, LGBT support, and anti-bullying—all causes our former SVP of marketing Daniel Park championed. As for the sentenced individual, Loomis declines to comment, but ensures you that we are taking extra precautions and measures to vet all new employees, with annual mental evaluations of all existing employees. We are committed to the safety of our people, our clients, and all of our stakeholders."

As far as his "copycat" reputation goes, Cho denies drawing inspiration from the "prank call killer," though he continues to deny his involvement in the crimes at all. As of the publication of this article, the "prank call killer" remains an at-large, inactive serial killer, with the last victim dating back over 10 years ago.

Cho will be transferred to a maximum state prison later this month, where he will serve his life sentence with no chance of parole.

──── Share this story on social media

🎞️ a portion from an early draft of the script for cult classic horror movie, “adoration,” by renowned screenwriter kwon soonyoung

HOSHI (clicks out of video news story of andrew's arrest) i can't believe you did all that for me.

YOUR ALIAS (smiles, scratching his scalp comfortingly with her left hand, eyes admiring the ring on her finger as she does) i told you, i would do anything for you. you protect me, i protect you, right?

HOSHI (smiles, leaning forward to press his lips to hers) always.

fades into black. credits roll.

...

POST-CREDITS SCENE

a long while later, audience finds hoshi and his wife in the kitchen of a much larger home now, seemingly as in love and as playful as they always were. they are interrupted by their teen daughter running into the room, with her backpack still on, screaming and crying. both of them immediately tend to her.

YOUR ALIAS baby, what's wrong? what happened?

DAUGHTER (shrieks) it's tiffany! she's going around telling everybody i'm sleeping with the entire baseball team! i've never even had my first kiss and she knows that!

hoshi stills, face becoming eerily blank. you both exchange a look.

YOUR ALIAS you're only 15... why on earth are they talking about those kinds of things?

DAUGHTER (throws mom an incredulous look) all of them have already lost their virginities, mom!

YOUR ALIAS (pinching the bridge of her nose) dear god.

DAUGHTER she gave my number to a bunch of dudes and now they're calling and texting and blowing up my phone asking me when i'm free to do... gross things! (wails)

YOUR ALIAS we'll change your number, baby, don't worry. and i'll meet with your principal and make sure she knows we won't tolerate this behavior, okay? are you alright if i talk to tiffany's mom?

DAUGHTER no, please don't, she's so vindictive. i know it'll just get worse.

hoshi exhales slowly.

HOSHI okay, we won't do anything you aren't comfortable with, but... you're also not going to let her treat you like that, do you hear me?

it's clear their daughter is a daddy's girl when her crying immediately stops and she nods.

HOSHI no one hurts you, understand?

YOUR ALIAS nobody.

DAUGHTER (whispers, still sniffling) nobody.

HOSHI if you won't let us talk to tiffany's parents, we're going to have to show you how to defend yourself, baby. how to stand up for yourself.

YOUR ALIAS (smiles) your daddy is really good at that. you'll let him help, right? (daughter nods) good, go get cleaned up and i'll order whatever takeout you want.

DAUGHTER (immediately) thai.

YOUR ALIAS thai it is. go on.

their daughter retreats from the kitchen, still sniffling as she goes up to her bedroom.

YOUR ALIAS we aren't going to stoop so low as to kill a teenager, are we?

HOSHI (snorts, wraps one arm around her waist) no, we aren't. but kids like that only learn behavior like that from one place.

YOUR ALIAS their parents.

HOSHI mhm.

YOUR ALIAS you have the key to the storage unit?

HOSHI mhm. (plants one kiss on her cheek before grinning and nodding to the front door) i'll drive.

cuts to black with the sound of a piercing scream.

a/n: credit for the news story photo goes to unsplash. all other photos taken from pinterest, ctto. okay bye, i don't want to talk about how crazy i feel LMFAO.

[petalruesimblr]

Hello and welcome back to my blog!

My fifth and final gift for the Petalruesimblr Advent Calendar is: Dermatology Career! This is my third full-time career that I've created for The Sims 3 and I'm so happy it is finally complete.

I just want to wish you all a very Merry Christmas and hope your holiday season is filled with joy and love! 💜

If you are interested, click on ’Keep Reading’ below for more information and pictures of the Dermatology Career.

Dermatology Career

Sim File Share

Ready to get under the skin of the most fascinating (and sometimes most frustrating) aspects of beauty? The world of dermatology is calling! Whether you’re performing cutting-edge laser treatments or giving pep talks to patients with the occasional outbreak, there’s never a dull moment in the world of skincare. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even land an internship under Dr. McSteamy himself - so apply now!

Career Type: Full Time Available for: Young Adults, Adults and Elders Available Languages: English Levels: 10 Rabbit Hole: DaySpa Does it have Carpool? Yes Does it have Uniforms? Yes (details under Final Notes) File Type: Package Min. Required Game Version: 1.42 Packs Needed: The Sims 3 📣All descriptions for the levels, tones and metrics as well as skills required, salary, uniforms and other details are provided on the pictures above. Right-click on a picture and select ’Open image in new tab’ for a clearer view.

NRAAS Careers Mod

Branches and Wages: I decided to focus on two branches for my Dermatology career, which branch out after level 5: Cosmetic Dermatology, focusing on non-surgical treatments and Cosmetic Dermatologic Surgery, which specializes in skin surgery. The two branches share the same skill and metric requirements, as they are both part of the medical field. The main difference lies in their salaries, with the Cosmetic Dermatologic Surgery branch offering a higher pay. I aimed to make the wages as realistic as possible however to compensate for the increased days off and decreased work hours as the level increases, I had to raise the hourly wages beyond the normal salary ranges for Levels 6-10 for both branches. Metrics and Books: This career is similar to the medical career in The Sims 3, particularly in terms of the logic skill and research as part of its metrics. However, I also included charisma, as I believe it’s a vital skill for patients to trust and feel comfortable with their doctors, especially when it comes to skin treatments. Opportunities and Uniforms: With a bit of experience in creating opportunities, I decided to add four this time, three of which are repeatable! All of them are relatively simple and offer bonuses, as well as salary increases for some as rewards upon completion. For uniforms, I’ve provided a picture above to highlight the differences between the levels by assigning different colors to the scrubs. There isn’t a general color assigned to dermatology uniforms, as hospitals usually decide the scrub colors for their various departments. As stated above, you will need NRAAS Careers Mod for these careers to show up in the game and as long as you have the latest version of it, it should work for higher patches. You can also read my #psa regarding these careers, click here. I’m not fluent in any other languages to translate so if anyone is interested in translating this career, please don’t hesitate to send me a message here, comment on this post or let me know in my Ask/Contact form (if you don’t have a Tumblr account) and will let you know the details. I have tested this career in my game, so far it is working and all scripts are showing up. All feedback is very welcome to help me learn and improve my skills so please let me know if you experience any problems on your end and I’ll do my best to sort it as soon as possible.

MissyHissy step-by-step tutorial Twallan for the Career Mod S3pe

[yandere-yearnings]

Okay but see I'm so petty I would ignore vio forever now until he apologized that man needs to get on his mf knees if he even wanted me to look his damn direction fr

the promised continuation of the vio angst🥰 i didn't screenshot all the asks requesting for it bc then this would just be a very long post of nonnies slowly cursing vio out more and more violently with each pic ahaha (which i love tbh😩💕) but know that i've read each and every single one🥺🩷 i wrote this one in his third-person limited so there's a bit more insight into his thoughts❗❗

(that being said, there isn't much grovelling and his asking for your forgiveness here which i'm really sorry abt. i did try to go that route originally to align w/ some of the requests i've gotten, but vio actually just isn't the type. at least at the point in the relationship being depicted!! gotta keep in mind he is super arrogant and has probably never apologised once in his life😔💔 tho, he is suffering in his own way, rest assured. the silent treatment kinda broke him haha)

warning that there is a bit of violence here and gaslighting (??), ig just typically what you'd expect to see in a yandere work,, this really ran away from me bc it's like 800 words😭

Three days had passed. Vio sat inside his trailer, feet up on the dressing table, more annoyed than he’d ever been in his entire life. Blue hair in his reflection, mussed from his constant ruffling, looking unkempt and barely like himself — and it was all your fault. His agency was paying you a salary in five figures and your only job was to take care of him, which inherently, you were doing, but you were also ignoring him and Vio couldn’t stand it.

His eyes flicked over almost instantly when you walked in, tracking every movement from your shutting the door to hanging your coat over the back of the closest chair. All Vio could see were the snowflakes in your lashes because that was all you’d let him, your gaze downcast, avoiding his. Pride made him bite his lips, because actually, he fucking missed the way you’d look at him. He missed your voice and he missed your pretty words, and it was all lumping in his throat so he couldn’t admit it although he wanted to.

Something weak sounded from him; a desperate grab for your attention that didn’t work. He kicked his script to the floor knowing you’d pick it up, then watched with a clenched jaw as you did exactly that, not even a fleeting glare in his direction. Somehow, Vio felt like he was running out of time, papers placed back neatly and your back already turning, it was the curl of worry in his gut that had his hand snapping to your wrist and tugging you back to him.

“You,” he gritted, frustrated at the pull back, at your resistance — no, your refusal of him. “Don’t fucking ignore me!”

Clearly, you weren’t listening, for all that Vio wrested you into his lap, your eyes wouldn’t even meet his through the mirror. Your bones solid against his palm, and he squeezed, hard enough to take you in, to let out the anger. Though, watching your face twist in pain, tendons in your neck constricting just to cut off the whimper, Vio didn’t even know who to be mad at anymore. 

All he wanted was for you to give in. 

He’d missed you so much, he would dream of you saying his name again. As you always would, and give him that love he was addicted to — yours, that tasted like kisses to open flesh. Raw and sincere to the point that Vio would rather stay splayed and bloodied instead of getting help. He didn’t feel like he could come back from this, or who he’d become because of you. If he was falling from grace, he’d hale you with him.

“Y/N…” This time, it came as a whisper, erratic mind lulled quick to the sensation of your pulse pressing firm against his fingers. Counting throbs, taking breaths for you, telling himself to be kinder, kinder. “Talk to me,” his forehead rested on your shoulder blade, “let’s not do this anymore, hm?”

Gentility got a rise out of you, it seemed, in the form of a gasp and the violent twists to free yourself that followed. “Don’t you dare,” your tone was accusatory, yet when Vio leaned away he saw the tell in your tears, “you’re not allowed to act fucking civil after what you did.”

His brow twitched. Irritation. He didn’t have a clue what you were talking about. Either way, acting was already his whole career — it might as well have been his entire damn life, and he wasn’t going to be reminded. If you weren’t a director and he wasn’t the star of your show, he didn’t need you telling him what he could and couldn’t do. His grip on you tightened.

“I didn’t do anything,” he hissed.

Outside it had begun to rain, heavy droplets melting the sleet from the windows. Steady patters the furthest thing from therapeutic in his current headspace, Vio almost missed your broken, “liar.”

Knocking his knee to white wood had the make-up brush holder tipping, contents rolling around, more noise buzzing in his head as he adjusted you. Finally, you were forced to focus on him, and Vio's eyes were unblinking, boring into yours. “You’re making baseless accusations.” 

“You told me no one would love someone like me.”

“I asked you who could,” Vio bit back instantly, then, his voice softened, “...and the answer is me.”

Purple dotted into red when he let you go, wiping at your wet face. Speckled like poison in a garden of roses — what he was to you, and what you were to him. Vio thought it was fitting, beauty in that you were both to die of each other. His incurable illness. His darling disease. You shouldn’t have gotten so close to that gaffer.

“Only I can. Only I am allowed. Remember that, and love me in turn.”

[starstruckbyacomet]

How Long 9-1-1 Will Last after Bobby's Death?

9-1-1 could run for multiple seasons more, but it's not because of what you think.

A. The Problems Within

The creators of 9-1-1: Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, and Tim Minear.

Judging from Season 7 and 8, it's clear that Tim Minear is not a reliable writer. Once in a while he has great ideas (a cruise ship disaster, a plane disaster, Bucktommy, Bobby's death). However, most of his ideas are suck (retconning Gerard, Amir storyline, cutting Ortiz story short, doppelganger storyline, Eddie dancing in underwear to find joy, Bucktommy's out-of-nowhere break up, Denny's accident solved in one day, Brad Torrence and Hotshots, everybody forgot Hen's birthday, El Paso storyline which had no impact on Eddie – not even a character development 🙄, etc.).

As a showrunner, Tim's even worse. Late scripts becomes a running joke among cast and crew members (they named a drink 'Script TBD' at the Season 8 wrap party). Angela Bassett and Ryan Guzman openly talked about getting scripts the night before shooting time in separate interviews (compare this to Patrick Keleher of The Rookie, who usually got scripts two weeks before shooting!). Even after getting the script, it could be changed (Lone Star cast members got a changed script via text messages while shooting the scene 😬). Working on weekends seems to be the norm, because they are regularly behind schedule. Employees had to work amidst LA fire. An employee died in an car accident while driving home after long hours of work. What a nightmare.

The chaos is reflected in the mess that is Season 7 and 8. Especially Season 8, because Tim could not use a shortened season as an excuse.

B. What Bobby's Death Gives Us

Killing Bobby did not solve those problems. Killing Bobby saved the show some money and brought renewed attention to it. However, if the writing quality doesn't change, the attention won't last long.

Yes, Bobby's death has opened a lot of storyline possibilities: a new captain, a new Love Interest for Athena, new work pairing combinations within the team. However, those possibilities – except Athena's new LI – could be achieved simply by promoting Bobby to be the fire chief. But it also means 20th Century would still have to pay Peter Krause his usual salary, and I doubt Peter was willing to accept a paycut. It's not only about the money. It's about pride. Accepting a paycut means admitting that your work worth less than what people have thought. Peter wouldn't accept a paycut, especially not when Angela Bassett – his scene partner – did not get the same treatment.

Tim and the actors seem to hope that killing Bobby will give the show more seasons in the future. However, the unfinished – even rushed – storylines in ep. 8x18 "Seismic Shifts" (under-explored Buck, Hen, and Eddie's grief, Mara's blink-and-you-missed-it adoption scene, Maddie's record-breaking short pregnancy) indicate that the same problems still exist, even one episode after Bobby was buried.

C. The Big Question

Above it all, the most important question is: Does Disney/ABC actually want the show to continue?

I doubt it does.

Think about it. The highest rated show in the same time slot with 9-1-1 is CBS' Georgie and Mandy's First Marriage. It's a sitcom. The props are mostly indoor settings – a living room, a dining room, a bedroom, an office, a garage, a shop, a restaurant, etc. The only outdoor settings I remembered on the show (yes, I watch the show) are inside a car and a cemetery (which suspiciously looked indoor, judging by the lack of wind). The actors are good – some of them are seasoned stage/theatre actors, but they don't have big names like Angela Bassett, Peter Krause, or Jennifer Love-Hewitt. It's easy to see that the production cost of Georgie and Mandy's First Marriage is only a fraction of 9-1-1's rumored $9-10 million per episode. Yet it has better ratings!

If I were an ABC executive, I would be furious.

It seems that the initial plan is replacing the costly 9-1-1 OG with 9-1-1 Nashville. The OG was supposed to run one more season to support Nashville. After that, 9-1-1 Nashville and Doctor Odyssey should be Ryan Murphy's top shows on ABC. If that happened, there would be no need to kill Bobby. It'd be better to keep Bobby/Peter to support Nashville in the OG's last season.

The problem is, Doctor Odyssey failed. Hard. And neither ABC nor Ryan Murphy was ready for it.

I don't think ABC has any replacement for Doctor Odyssey yet. This situation pushes ABC to rely on 9-1-1 OG more. But then, they have to talk about the elephant in the room: the cost! Oh God, the cost! The exorbitant cost with performance below the CBS' much cheaper show!

While ABC still hasn't gotten a replacement (or an improvement plan) for Doctor Odyssey, 9-1-1 OG will run as Ryan Murphy/ABC's top dog, probably for two seasons or more, until they got a well-received replacement. Of course they have to cut cost in the long run. So they killed Bobby.

D. The Cost Cutting Continues

I don't think killing Bobby is enough to get the cost down to Doctor Odyssey's level. Angela Bassett and Jennifer Love-Hewitt are still on the show. Peter Krause seems to stay as an Executive Producer. Ryan Guzman probably gets a nice bump of salary, because the show couldn't afford to lose Eddie right after losing Bobby. Sooner or later, the show will also have to renegotiate the other actors' salaries. I think the pressure to cut cost will continue into Season 9 and beyond.

It's interesting to see how Season 9 will play out. Will there be a big emergency as the season opening? I bet it will. But how big it will be?

If ABC wants to maintain the facade that killing Bobby is not (mainly) a financial decision, the opening emergency will be extravagant as usual. The cost saving will be on other things, like less appearance of recurring characters such as Josh, Sue, Karen, or Tommy 😢.

E. How about Bucktommy

As Ryan Murphy's main crutch on ABC, now 9-1-1 OG bears a heavier burden than ever. It could not fail. The rating could not decline further. I've said before that the show's renewal could make Tim prolong the will-they/won't-they shit with Bucktommy. I think it's still applied. If Tim and ABC think it could make BOTH sides of fandom keep watching, they'll do it. The baiting will continue.

However, there's another posiibility. Judging from how white the Nashville cast members so far, the failure of Doctor Odyssey – a show which featured a 'woke' storyline (a threesome relationship), and how Disney (ABC's parent company) rewrote Lilo and Stitch live action to conform to the conservative norm, Buck and Tommy could be reunited – then separated – in Season 9A. It could be a repeat of Season 8A, but with a better writing.

Buck could be dating a woman very soon, so could Eddie.

If that happened (God, I hope not 🤞), it would be final. Next time Tommy reappeared might be at the end of the show. That's only if Tim wanted to imply that Buck's future would be with Tommy, instead of with Eddie (to appease the Buddie fans).

It's better to manage our expectation, Folks.

[mariacallous]

Julia is a 22-year-old model, student, and self-proclaimed “princess” from Malibu, California, with one nonnegotiable: She refuses to shovel cow shit. But she’s down to play the part, she tells Farmer Jay, handing him a framed black-and-white photo of her in a bikini and cowboy hat. Grace, 23, dreams of being a stay-at-home mom with four kids. Jordyn, a 29-year-old country singer who lives in Nashville, Tennessee, says she would relocate across the country for her partner.

The three women are among 32 contestants on the most recent season of Farmer Wants a Wife, Fox’s rustic spin on The Bachelor. They come from different backgrounds and have all sorts of interests, but their goals are ultimately the same: to settle down, get married, and have kids.

While the women don’t explicitly talk politics, their focus on traditional values fits into a genre of entertainment that is rapidly reshaping the industry: Welcome to Hollywood’s MAGA reboot.

Hollywood is in the midst of another evolution. Studios are releasing fewer movies every year. Broadcast and news ratings are in decline. Screenwriters are struggling to sell scripts as salaries for studio heads have skyrocketed. Television and feature film production in Los Angeles shrunk by 30 percent in the first quarter of 2025, compared with the previous year, according to a report by FilmLA.

At the same time, Hollywood is also undergoing a resurgence in anti-woke conservative content thanks to the Trump administration’s anti-DEI agenda.

“More conservative projects are getting greenlit,” says Colin Whelan, a former studio executive at TLC and founder of Conveyer Media, which has produced reality shows for Netflix, HGTV, and Investigation Discovery. “People are pitching more shows like that because they realize that’s what’s selling.”

Maybe you’ve also noticed the subtle changes on your TV screen—content that favors Christian values, heartland themes, or law-and-order style programming.

Yellowstone, the Paramount drama about cattle ranchers in Montana, gained a massive audience during Trump’s first presidency, routinely breaking ratings records, and has since spawned successful spinoffs. Tim Allen’s Shifting Gears, about a grumpy widower with manosphere viewpoints, is a ratings hit for Disney’s linear broadcast audience, with “more live viewers on average than The Conners season 7 and Abbott Elementary season 4,” according to ScreenRant. It pulled in 3.7 million viewers for its season one finale. Farmer Wants a Wife has held steady ratings, averaging 1.5 million viewers weekly, and works as easy counterprogramming to more raunchy dating fodder like Temptation Island and Too Hot to Handle (both on Netflix).

In 2024, Trump Media and Technology Group launched a streaming service called Truth+, and the company made clear that it would prioritize “news, Christian content, and family-friendly programming that is uncancelable by Big Tech,” a mandate that now seems to be shaping the look of Hollywood more and more. (The streaming service also features at least one documentary—included among its most watched programs on the platform in May—peddling conspiracy theories about “serpent or lizard-like aliens who are secretly wielding influence over the human race,” according to an investigation by Talking Points Memo.)

In Trump’s version of Hollywood, old-fashioned values are in vogue again. The Christian drama 7th Heaven, about a Protestant minister and his seven children that aired for 11 seasons on The WB (later The CW), is in early development at CBS Studios and will “focus on a diverse family,” though it’s not clear what that means. Jessica Biel, who was in the original cast, is executive producing the reboot alongside Devon Franklin, a producer of faith-based films. Roseanne Barr, whose namesake show was canceled in 2018 after she posted a racist tweet about former Obama White House adviser Valerie Jarrett, is shopping a series that “saves America with guns, the Bible, petty crime, and alcoholism,” she told Variety.

Duck Dynasty, a duck-hunting reality show that ended in 2017, is also returning to television screens this summer on A+E, which experienced its first big hit of the year with Ozark Law, a show that followed multiple police departments in the Missouri region. Duck Dynasty producer Rob Worsoff is in talks with the Department of Homeland Security about a reality show where “immigrants compete to prove they are the most American,” according to The Wall Street Journal. Potential challenges include mining for gold or working on a Model T assembly line in Detroit.

What’s happening is a “cultural recalibration,” says Carri Twigg, a founding partner and head of development at Culture House, the production company that created Ladies First: A Story of Women in Hip-Hop and Hair Tales. The recalibration has led to a “generalized chill” in the industry that has caused more diverse projects to suffer.

“I’ve heard from multiple executives that there’s a noticeable hesitancy around content perceived as too progressive, especially if it centers non-white leads or tackles social issues explicitly. Even projects with mild inclusivity are getting flagged in internal discussions,” Twigg says. “Colleagues have expressed frustration that kinds stories they were encouraged to pitch just a couple years ago are now getting passed on as like ‘too niche’ or ‘not resonant right now’ by the same execs who once called them ‘visionary’ and ‘universal.’”

Twigg says there are two key reasons for the hesitancy.

“The political climate has emboldened executives who were always uncomfortable with the industry's post-2020 shifts. The power that DEI-era storytelling offered to historically excluded creators was unfamiliar, and in some corners, unwelcome.” The second, she says, is fear of reprisals from the administration.

In February, Federal Communications Commission chair Brendan Carr, who previously said he would end the agency’s DEI initiatives if appointed, opened a probe into NBC parent company Comcast, and later Disney, promising to take action if the investigation uncovered “any programs that promote invidious forms of DEI discrimination.” Carr has since said that the FCC plans to look into broadcast network affiliation agreements to help “constrain some of the power of national programmers.” According to Variety, Disney, Amazon, Paramount, and Warner Bros. Discovery have all rolled back programs aimed at increasing diversity.

Talk shows are also being encouraged to shift their programming. In a recent meeting with the cohosts of The View, the popular morning gabfest with Whoopi Goldberg and Joy Behar, ABC News president Almin Karamehmedovic urged the women to soften their criticisms of Trump, saying “the panel needed to broaden its conversations beyond its predominant focus on politics,” the Daily Beast reported. Disney CEO Bob Iger also suggested that the show “tone down” its political rhetoric.

One former executive at Amazon MGM Studios tells WIRED that Trump’s anti-DEI agenda, whose impact on film and TV only seems to be growing more pronounced, is a part of the administration’s Trojan-horse playbook to roll back civil rights. “It’s just the rhetoric they’re using to articulate what they really believe and who they really are.”

The White House did not respond to WIRED's request for comment.

The anti-DEI backlash threatens to make Hollywood even more out of touch than it already is to younger audiences, who increasingly prefer TikTok and YouTube to traditional viewing formats. An estimated 50 percent of Gen Z identifies as non-white, and nearly 30 percent identify as LGBTQ+. “These audiences aren’t just asking for representation—they expect it,” Twigg says. “If the industry starts backing away from inclusive storytelling, it won’t just be regressive—it’ll be a bad business decision.”

Original, inclusive storytelling is trending right now, as Sinners, Ryan Coogler’s vampire drama, proved by becoming the biggest box office success story of the year so far, earning $316 million globally. Hulu’s Paradise, about residents of a postapocalyptic town, and HBO Max’s The Pitt, a medical drama that follows an emergency-room crew over a 15-hour shift, have also felt like watercooler moments at a time when the industry is starved for them.

Beyond the cultural and commercial risks of a less diverse Hollywood, Twigg says there is a strategic one: Film and TV take years to develop and produce.

“Hitching your content strategy to a political moment that may not last through the next election—or the next news cycle—is short-sighted,” she says. “The stories being greenlit today will premiere in a future that may have swung back toward the very audiences currently being sidelined. If anything, the smartest strategy right now would be to build with resilience and relevance in mind—not reactionary politics.”

Whelan says that in over 20 years as a television producer, he has taken the same approach, regardless of the political and social climates of the time: to create shows that “entertain and inspire and maybe teach.”

In 2014, following stints at Syfy and TLC as a network executive, he applied that mindset to New Girls on the Block. It was the first follow-doc reality show with an all-trans cast. The series focused on a group of women in Kansas City, Missouri, who faced changing relationship dynamics in a society struggling to make space for trans women. The reality project he just wrapped probably sounds like a complete 180. It focuses on a Christian family who runs a ranch and takes in at-risk youth. But there’s more to it, he says.

“What’s interesting to me, having done it for so long, is I don’t see a huge difference between a show about a group of all transgender women and a group of ranchers trying to help at-risk youth,” he says. “It’s two groups of really amazing people trying to change their lives for the better, and change the world around them for the better as well.”

Tonality aside, fewer projects overall are moving forward this year, Whelan says, but that hasn’t stopped genuinely good ideas from finding an audience—no matter who sits in the Oval Office.

“Ozark Law would have sold regardless of the administration. The Netflix scripted series is all about breaking the law, so you know someone’s gonna come up with the idea of enforcing it. That’s how we pitch reality shows,” he says, before admitting, “I wish I had thought of that.”

[fir3ylolol]

Hiii!!

I was inspired by your "Sleeping in Seattle" idea and I totally thought about Johnny with a screenwriter SO. If you could write like a small thing (or a biggish sorta thing 🥺🫶) on it, I'd love to read it and eat it and hold it. Honestly I'm only thinking of him all but dragging the reader onto the set to help with the script and screenplays and such.

Anyway, I love your writing!!!! Thank you for reading this.

- Ronny

sunset boulevard

pairing: Johnny Cage x Screenwriter!Reader

summary: johnny drags you onto set with him, but not without ulterior motives

a/n: thought this would be a cute little fluff-y piece, tried to stay brief with it. but thank u ronny!

word count: 587

Ao3

Johnny is practically pulling you onto the lot, a wide smile plastered across his face. Your feet are dragging, trying to wave to the people you’re rapidly passing. He stops next to the craft table, grabbing water for both of you. You follow him as he makes his rounds, his usual charisma on display as he introduces you to everyone with a wide smile and plenty of praise. He seems proud just to stand next to you, holding you tight as he watches you talk to the director. It’s not like you’re unknown, it’s just that you’re not very social. Well, not as social as him. But talking only lasts so long, as it’s time to film again. This scene doesn’t need Johnny, as he stays next to you. But you can see his eyes lighting up, truly thrilled to be able to watch such incredible performances. You feel him leaning closer to you, whispering in your ear as softly as he can, “What do you think?” You nod, giving a small thumbs up. But he whispers again, trying to lead you to what he really wants, “What about the story? You know, from your professional opinion.” 

You scrunch your face up slightly, making a so-so motion with your hands. You can see the famous twinkle in his eyes, and you suddenly start to get worried. Which was the right feeling, as the second the scene is over, you’re gone, being pulled around again. You nearly crash into him, and he suddenly stops as he reaches his trailer, looking back at you happily. “Wait here!” He rushes inside, quickly returning with a large heavy script. “Here you go,” he nearly shoves it in your arms, the weight causing you to shift slightly. “You should give it a look,” he winks at you, arm wrapping around your shoulders. “Jonathan Carlton…” you look up at him, scolding tone. He puts his hands up, smile only growing wider. “Uh oh, the full name? I’m in trouble now. Sweetheart, I just think you’re absolutely brilliant. And I know that if you worked on this, it would go from cool to face-melting-ly awesome!”

His enthusiasm is intoxicating, and you find yourself nodding in agreement. He almost squeals, jumping towards you to plant a kiss on your cheek before pushing you into the trailer. He sits you down at the vanity, placing a pen down so you can edit. You wait for him to sit, but he stays standing above you, watching you intently. Knowing him, that won’t change soon. So you write, slashing words and rephrasing lines so it sounded like an actual person was saying them. Johnny chimes in occasionally, always in agreement with your changes. He almost cheers as you cut one specific line, loudly proclaiming, “I knew that line sucked! It always sounded so blocky and weird! Ugh, honey, you’re a genius.” You finally finish your work, letting out a sigh as you close the script. But it remained there for only a second later, as Johnny snatched it up, already in the doorway. “Wait here, ok? I’m gonna go give this to the director and tell him that you improved his movie tenfold. And when I get back, we’re talking salary, ok? Such beautiful prose deserves compensation.” He pauses shortly, smiling at you with pure joy, before leaving with a cry of, “I love you!” He’s gone, and you can hear him yelling excitedly as he goes, screaming out, “I told you it was a shit line, man!”

[thatbanditqueen]

Come Hell or Come Sundown

A Charro! One-Shot

Summary: It is the summer of 1968 and Elvis finds himself in a New Hollywood, no more production code, just a ratings system with the promise of more sex and violence. This is good, because Elvis is in transition too! He is hot off the set of his TV special and ready to make a gritty western he can be proud of. Things are going well, he's making friends on location in Arizona, but then first they cut some of the violence, and now he's not so sure there is going to be any sex scenes in this movie. What's next, are they going to make him sing to his horse?

Inspired by the cut nude bath scene and the notes in Donna Lewis' diary that there were originally sex scenes scripted in Charro!

A response to the writing prompt: "Cowboy Elvis"

Warnings: References to past sexual harassment, minor drug use implied and kissing.

WC: 13.4K

Thanks to my lovely writing support group @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @be-my-ally @lookingforrainbows @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @shakerattlescroll @peskybedtime and to @whositmcwhatsit for alpha-ing most of this. It is been a crazy two months, I won't go into it, but if you are still reading my stuff let me know it.

July 29, 1968

Apacheland Arizona

Ina leaned against the back side of the sound stage listening to the cactus wren sing their sunrise melody for the desert. Off in the brush she saw a lizard scurry away. It was early, but the air was already beginning to heat up and hung there thick with promise. She took a sip of her coffee, savoring the light, sweet taste, her heart full of hopeful anticipation for the sweet day ahead. 

She ran her fingers down over her blouse, enjoying the smooth empty feeling underneath where round flesh had been a month ago. 

This picture had been the answer to her prayers, a sign that she could still land a part as the love interest role. It was a role she knew well, one she had been playing for ten years in vehicles designed to showcase male stars: John Wayne, Paul Newman, Jerry Lewis, and now Elvis. Ina rarely got a leading role in a picture focused on a couple or a strong female character, but she accepted it was still a good salary and it kept her busy on and off between modeling gigs.

Lately, however, the on and off had been more off, and her agent, Mickey, had started talking about auditioning for roles as older sisters, aunts, and even, gasp, mothers.

But then she got this and bam! She had knocked over her phone with excitement as Mickey  described this project as a “modern, gritty western.”  She’d even agreed to the nudity, accepting her agent’s advice that this was going to open up even more doors now that the production code was gone and the film industry had a new rating system that allowed for mature content.

The first American western with a sex scene. That’s how Chuck, this director, had pitched his script in their first meeting, while also assuring her it would be tasteful and artistic and mainly shot using her facial expressions. She hadn’t cared, signing anywhere they wanted if it meant staving off cinematic spinsterhood for as long as possible.

And then, after carefully examining every dimple in her bottom that night, Ina had launched into a month-long disciplined regimen of ballet classes, black beauties and one meal a day. Ina took a deep breath and inhaled the earthy, floral aroma of the Arizona desert, letting it fill her with confidence. Her tummy was svelte, her skin glowed with a healthy bronze tan, and she was ready to conquer the shoot ahead. She had a feeling about this picture. A good one. 

Hollywood was buzzing about the TV special Elvis had just finished shooting. Apparently it was raw and gritty and unvarnished, just like the script for this film. And Chuck, her director, was the king of the westerns, who had been promoting Charro! in the trade press as Peckinpah meets Leone with more sex appeal and heart. 

Ina looked out at the orange glow of the desert sky at sunrise one last time as she stomped out her cigarette butt and murmured to herself with hushed excitement.

“What a glorious start to a glorious day.”

She headed back inside and made her way around the back of the set where she bumped into Elvis’ stunt double and friend, Jerry. Ina grinned, she couldn’t help it, Jerry’s serious eyes and rugged shoulders made her heart skip a beat. 

“That was some party last night, huh?” 

Jerry looked down, his low chuckle heavy with the weight of words unspoken as they both reflected on the prior evening. Ina was sure she saw an echo of her own desire in the warmth dancing behind Jerry’s blue eyes.

“You should talk, Sandy Koufax. Charlie’s grateful he can still see.”

Ina gulped, covering her mouth.. “ Oh no! Is he really hurt? I felt so bad, I was aiming for his stomach.” Ina said, twirling her hair. “Although I didn’t feel nearly as bad after watching Elvis go after Alan with the whole bucket, intentionally, over and over. He really took it to the next level.”

“Oh, that’s just how the bossman lets off steam.”

“That’s one way to put it. Say, where is the old steam engine, anyway?”

“He just went out front to get some dirt on his clothes.”

Ina raised her eyebrow. 

“He wants to make sure he has that real cowboy look.”

“Huh, Elvis Strasberg. Who knew?” 

Ina thought of Elvis out rolling around in the dirt and tried not to giggle. This got harder and harder as she looked into Jerry’s eyes, which were also twinkling with amusement.

In a moment of vulnerability Ina decided to let down her guard and step closer, trailing her fingers over Jerry’s upper arm. His muscle flinched slightly under her hand and it made her feel a little flight of butterflies in her tummy. 

“Too bad,” she murmured in what she hoped was a sexy, flirtatious voice.  “I was beginning to hope maybe you’d have to step in for him today.”

Jerry’s eyes widened for a split second, as he ran his hand through his hair. “Uh, well, as far as I know his scenes today aren’t dangerous at all.”

“That’s what you think.” Ina smiled, walking backwards for a few steps to enjoy the slight blush coloring Jerry’s scruffy cheeks.

She couldn’t be sure, but she felt there was a spark between them, and it made her feel young and giddy. Fifteen years of having her body and self worth surveyed and scrutinized and picked apart had left Ina unsure of her seduction abilities. First it had been photographers and advertising executives, then producers and directors had joined the throng out to shatter her confidence. For some women, the brutality of the business helped them create a calloused, impenetrable outer shell and distorted sense of self worth. For Ina, it had done the opposite, and she frowned as she felt the familiar knot of insecurity tighten in her stomach and vowed not let her self doubt stop her from having fun this time. No, before the end of this shoot she’d get Jerry alone and find out if he was as quiet and soft spoken in bed as he was on set.

Twenty minutes later, Ina was still smiling to herself when she slunk into a chair in make-up and pulled her thick, terry cotton robe tighter around her body. 

“Look at you,” Bertie gushed as she toyed with Ina’s long, brown hair. “Excited for the scenes today?”

Ina paused and looked at herself in the mirror, letting out a nervous sigh. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

She awkwardly smiled up at Bertie, and told herself to relax even as her shoulders inadvertently rolled upward and she tugged at the hem of her robe.

“You know five, even three years ago, you would kiss, passionately, then the camera would pan to the bedside table and come back into focus with you smoking. But now, Blow Up, Bonnie & Clyde, the new rating system. It’s a whole new ball game out there. I’m not sure - “

“Oh, you’re gonna be fine.”

Ina looked down and studied the top of her cleavage, she felt strangely ambivalent about the nudity and the sex scenes they were shooting. She was proud that they wanted her to do them, it bolstered her self esteem and made her feel longed for and desired, special. But she couldn’t shake that nagging feeling deep down that she would get on set, bare it all and then have the director and DP exchange hushed whispers before pulling her off and recasting her role. She met her own gaze again in the mirror and tried to squelch her self doubt.

“I know, I know, and it’s all very tasteful. I trust Chuck. Still, I’m the one wearing a see-through robe. All Elvis has to do is take off his cowboy hat before he carries me to the bed. He might be shirtless in the second scene, but for the most part all we’ll see is a little bit of his ear.”

Bertie nodded into big rounds of hair she was smoothing over with oil and pinning into place with bobby pins lodged at the side of her mouth.

“Yeah, well, with most guys I’d be fine just seeing the ear, cuz women’s bodies are just more beautiful. But with Elvis, I kinda wished they’d have him nude too, you know?” She clicked her tongue and winked at Ina in the mirror,

“You should get Betty Friedan on that, it would really be a movement for sex equality. Though I bet he’d give you a private show if you asked him, Bertie. He’s making his way through the crew, two at a time I hear.”

Bertie wiggled her eyebrows into the mirror.

“Yeah, I heard about that, two of the pretty Mexican extras, right? They can have him, I just want to look at him. I don’t think I’d survive if he touched me.” She flipped her long red hair over her shoulder and bit her lip. “I don’t know how you are going to make love to him all day.”

“Oh, well, when it’s work, you sort of detach yourself. I mean, yes, Elvis is very handsome, but he doesn’t really send me, you know? You should have seen him last night with his guys. Like a pack of wild animals.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think Jerry is the only one who has ever opened a book, or doesn’t eat with his hands.”

Ina tried not to move as she watched Bertha pin another round hair piece in place. 

“The stunt double? He sure has that silent type thing going for him.” Bertie squinted her eyes at Ina as she stuck a few more pins in. “Ahhhh, let me guess, that’s the type you go for. Over Elvis. Are you telling me that you wouldn’t, you know, play patty cake with Elvis if he made the move? I thought he always dated his leading lady, maybe those extras are just the appetizer before the main dish..”

Ina sat up, admiring the tower of rolled hair Bertie had constructed on top of her head. Satisfied, she leveled Bertie with a friendly but stern look.

“Things can get sticky when you bed your co-star. And giving in just encourages them. You shoulda seen Jerry Lewis trailing me around off set like a creep. like I owed it to him.” 

Ina grimaced, remembering Lewis’ sweaty brow as he had pushed her against the wall of her dressing room and promised that she’d like it, that she didn’t know what she was missing. She shuddered, thinking of him and all the others: the photographers who’d grinded into her as they straddled over her during a photo shoot. The producers who had invited her to an audition and then cornered her alone. She felt sick to her stomach and reached out for the random half drunk bottle of Coke on the vanity in front of her to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

“You ok, Miss Balin?”

“Please Bertie, call me Ina. After that party last night I think we’re all on a first name basis.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess.” She turned Ina around to finish her make up. “You know, I think you might be the only woman here who doesn’t want to sleep with Elvis.”

“Thank god Elvis seems to be somewhat of a gentleman, because I’m not looking to be another notch on his belt, I’ve worked too hard to stay in this business without a casting couch reputation, and I plan to keep it that way. Plus, with all the bed hopping that happens on location, and then having to run scenes together if things get, you know, weird. Better to keep things professional between us.”

“On the other hand, a lonely stunt man...”

Ina winked, she could feel the giddy excitement bubble up just thinking of Jerry. She tried to stifle it and stay aloof as she spoke.

“A month is a long time, even a lonely stuntman deserves some company.”

A cough interrupted their giggles and the women turned to see Elvis leaning against the doorway, one hand on his belt. He squinted his eyes, looking at them with exaggerated suspicion as he wiped his hand over his forehead leaving a dark streak of dirt above his brow.

“Uh huh, and just what’d I stumble into here, huh? You two look like you are up ta no good, boy, I tell ya what.”

Perfectly lined smoky eyes sat below Elvis’ dirty forehead and more dirt billowed off his trousers as he strode toward the two women, his hands hanging off the top of his corduroy trousers. Bertie shot Ina a cautious glance in the mirror that warned her not to laugh, even as  the sides of her lips seemed to hold back a chuckle.

“I’ve seen that look before Iny Niny.” Elvis said. “Right about the moment ya took aim and fired at poor Charlie Hodge, square the eyes.”

“I really didn’t mean to hurt him! Really.” Something about Elvis’ easy charm made it impossible not to smile broadly. “I - we - we’re not up to anything, you. Just chit chat. I was saying how I almost didn’t recognize you when I got here yesterday. On account of that beard you got, Presley.”

“I almost don’t recognize myself, honey.” He paused and looked in the mirror, taking a step closer as he rubbed the dirt into his forehead more. “That’s probably a good thing, maybe this picture actually has a chance to be something.”

Ina sat up as Bertie dusted her with a last round of hair spray and swiveled her chair around to face him. 

“Oh, now don’t say that, there’s a reason you’re the star here. I love your movies.”

Ina may not have actually seen them all, but she knew of Elvis’ desire to be in more serious dramas. It was a common topic of conversation in Hollywood when his name came up. Ok, well, one of the common topics. Maybe not as common as his reputation for fucking his costars, she mused to herself, but still, as someone who had even less clout to be picky about projects, she sympathized with that ever present double bind of needing the money, not wanting to be seen as difficult, and yet, also yearning for more creative fulfillment.

Their eyes met and he nodded to himself, pursing his lips, as if he were reading her mind,

“Huh, so you're the one.” He grinned and took his cowboy hat off, running his hand through his hair as he tried to fill the awkward silence. “Well, sorry but I can’t issue you a refund, Iner Niner. All I can promise is that this ‘un will be better than some of the stinkers, I reckon.”

Ina smiled big, thinking of the desert sunrise this morning, all the good omens. “I don’t know if I would ever describe an Elvis film as a stinker. But I do have a good feeling about this film.” 

Elvis scratched his beard, a naughty blush lighting up his cheeks as he took in the very sheer negligee peeking out from under her white terry cloth robe. 

“Huh, feeling better and better the more I look- I mean listen to you, INy”

Ina felt a chill up her spine as she looked into Elvis’ dancing eyes, lingering on his face with newfound appreciation. There was something about the way the stubbly beard he had grown out for this role accentuated his jawline and made him seem more rugged, more handsome than he had looked when he played the polished romantic lead in his previous films. She felt a flutter of something unfamiliar stir in her belly; she had never been gaga over Elvis before. 

And you are not now, she told herself, it’s just the characters and the scenes you know you are shooting today. Besides, he flirts with everyone, why he’d been flirting with you and every woman in the bar last night even when he had one or two extras on his lap. 

Elvis arched his eyebrow, and Ina pulled her robe closer with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, I think you’re gonna be seeing a lot more of me today.” She chuckled. “I was just telling Bertie I remembered when all I had to do to film a sex scene was lead a cowboy into my wigwam, and let the camera cut to smoke coming out of the top. We left the rest to the audience’s imagination.”

“Yeah, I think I remember that one.” Elvis whistled as he plopped into the make-up chair next to her.  “Well, don’t worry, we’re only gotta pretend to make love with an audience of a hundred or so crew members watching, so no pressure.”

They laughed nervously, and then one of the production assistants peered around the door and called to Ina that the DP was ready to work out the lighting for her fully nude bath scene. She stood and gave Elvis a friendly pat, smiling inwardly as she looked over her shoulder to see Bertie trying to wipe the dirt off his forehead. 

“See you out there in the ring, Presley.”

“Ok,” he smiled.

Ina studied him for another beat, wondering if the way his beard framed his lips made them look even bigger and more luscious, but she couldn’t be sure.

Striding from the building with wardrobe and dressings back to the soundstage, Ina considered how Elvis had managed to meet and completely defy her expectations. She had never seen him at awards shows, premieres or parties, nor ran into him around town or at the studio canteens. Indeed,he had a reputation for keeping to himself in Hollywood. All she knew was the second hand information she got from people who had worked with him and the Hollywood rumor mill. There were so many contradictory descriptions of him that no, she had not known what to expect when she arrived in Arizona and discovered an Elvis she barely recognized under the scruffy beard he’d grown.

When Chuck, the director, had brought her over to introduce them, he had been shy and sweet, sheepishly sticking out his hand with an affected deep “Hullo, I’m Elvis Presley.” But then by the end of the rehearsals yesterday they had become more comfortable with each other. Something about kissing Elvis inbetween jokes she knew he was making to make her feel at ease had broken the ice between them. And he had started in with the nicknames almost immediately, helping to bring her into the camaraderie that had been established with the crew before her arrival. 

The run through yesterday had gone well, all jokes aside, and he had shown himself to be respectful and kind, never pushing or trying anything when they were in each other's arms. It’s probably good that he’s sleeping with some of the extras, Ina thought to herself. That way there would be no pent up sexual expectations and she could just focus on being a professional and perhaps even friends with Elvis. 

Yes, she could be friends with him. Ina had only been in Apacheland for a little over 24 hours, but she could tell from Elvis’ warmth that they had established a solid rapport and chemistry for their roles. She felt as safe as she could with him as she readied herself for her first nude role on film.

“Today is going to be a good day,” Ina repeated to herself as she opened the door and entered the sound stage.

Ina was walking along the corridor behind the set when she heard Jerry’s voice on the other side of the plywood and hurried to catch him and flirt a little more. But then he said her name and she stopped, listening, as she realized he was speaking with one of Elvis’ other friends. It sounded like Charlie.

“I saw y’all. Why, she had her hands all over you, ya big stud. You really ain’t gonna try to bury the hatchet in that briar patch?”

“Oh, you know how Crazy can be. All I did was apologize to Alma and Flor for blocking the doorway last night and he ‘bout split in two. I ain’t about to try no funny business with his leading lady.”

“But you heard him call her Groucho, said he could barely stand to kiss her with that mustache above her lip. Said she was so manly, you could almost mistake her for one a the cowboy extras in drag. Like a goddamn drag queen who forgot to shave, is what he said.”

Ina felt the blood drain from her face and she began to tremble, tracing her fingers above her smooth upper lip, the one she diligently waxed every two weeks. They might as well have punched her in the gut with a steel two by four. She could almost taste something metallic at the back of her throat, where a lump formed.Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and it took all her willpower to push them back as she stood there paralyzed while Jerry and Charlie chatted away.

“Aw, well he was off his rocker, she isn’t nearly as bad as that dog from continuity he had in his room at NBC, you know, with the big knockers?”

“Nah, I think In-ahhs pretty cute myself. If she’d been pawing my chest I’d be on that like white on rice, man.”

“Heard you like drag queens, Hodges.”

“Aw naw man, see, now that ain’t fair. Sides, that’s Lamar.”

The busy sound of the crew talking and moving around the sound stage echoed up into the lights with Charlie and Jerry’s laughter, but Ina could hardly hear anything except the pounding of her heart through her whole body. Air. She needed air. Ina hurried out a side door, her mind was racing and there was no way she could stomach the idea of filming a sex scene with Elvis now. Jerry and Charlie’s words had fractured the fragile veneer of confidence she had spent the last month building up. Dieting, ballet classes, early nights, slathering her face in cold cream and plunging it in ice first thing in the morning, staying away from alcohol and ice cream. She had worked so hard to get to a place where she had been able to look in the mirror and tell herself she could do this. Now all her self doubt had returned tenfold. 

Facing the desert, she lit a cigarette and muttered under her breath, her voice cracking as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Oh god oh god, why did I take this role? Why do I embarrass myself again and again?”

Ina pressed her hand to her throat as she sucked in deeply, willing the nicotine to steady her shaking body. She longed to run off, get in her car, and maybe drive to that bar down the road Bertie had told her about, the one where all the baseball players went. 

The very idea of male attention was like a salve, and it helped her slow her breath as she slumped against the warm, concrete wall of the sound stage and looked out at the desert, focusing on the hills in the distance.

It was like looking out at a completely different view than she had faced that morning. The land was now  desolate and unforgiving in the July heat, and the jagged peaks of Superstition mountain loomed like a giant, dark fiery sentinel in the sky. Her chest rose and fell with each inhale and exhale of smoke, her fingers trembled as she tried to quell the turmoil churning inside her. 

Just when she was sure she couldn’t walk back inside, she smelled a hint of sage in the dust, it filled her nostrils with renewed energy. The wind whispered in her ear that she was stronger than she knew, she had trudged harder paths than this.  She could put one foot in front of the other.

The door next to her exploded open and there was the fresh face of the young, blonde PA who had called to her in wardrobe.

“Oh, there you are Miss Balin, we’re ready for you.”

Ina sucked in another drag of her cigarette and took a deep breath. She could do this. Elvis and his entourage were a bunch of childish idiots. Fuck them. 

True to his promise, the director, Chuck, kept the set closed for the nude bath scene Ina was shooting first. It was just him, the cinematographer, his assistant, the boom operator, and three female PAs. One to hold the clap board and two to help Ina in and out of the tub. The scene was blocked so the camera only captured her naked from behind with the side of her breast visible as she donned a sheer blue robe lined with black lace. They would run it from the top, then Chuck would run over and tell her how stunning she was and ask for another take as she shivered. It took eleven takes in all before he and the DP were content they had the footage they needed.  

Ina reclined in her chair, trying to warm up during the short break before the next scene. She was rehearsing the dialogue as people trickled in to shoot her first love scene with Elvis, and she suddenly became paranoid that other crew members had heard Jerry and Charlie’s story about Elvis’ calling her a drag queen. She sat up and looked around. Suddenly every hushed whisper was about her, every glance her way was filled with pity. She gripped the side of her chair and told herself to get it to-fucking-gether. 

The next scene was meant to occur directly after the bath, when her character, Tracy, discovers Elvis’ character, Jess, rummaging around in her bedroom looking for his gun. They would argue, then kiss, then argue more before he carried her to the bed. After that, he would remove her robe and begin to kiss her neck, stop and then put his hat on the bedpost, before the camera moved in for an extreme close up of her face as they made love.

Then they would break the set and set up for the second sex scene that was meant to take place at the end of the film when Jess has been victorious against the band of outlaws and takes her to Mexico with him to start a new life across the border. 

Ina squeezed her hand, using her thumb as a metronome as she said her lines. “I must look new to you - toooo you  - I MUST look NEW to YOU now.” She had these little games she had learned in acting class to vary the rhythm and emphasis over and over until she was comfortable in the dialogue, in the character, and it rolled off her tongue naturally, without having to think about it.

Elvis' voice rang out high above the buzz of the crew and all the words she had ever known fell out of her head. She felt her sphincter clench up tightly instinctively as if on cue at the sound of his chuckle, and a frown formed on her lips. The air was suddenly ripe with the smell of sweaty bodies and stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

Looking over her shoulder, just the sight of him surrounded by his flunkies made Ina’s stomach sour. A spark of defiance bloomed in her belly at his smug face and she longed now to walk up to Elvis and slap him sharply across the face before telling him off for being such a rotten two-faced charming bastard. But instead she popped another black beauty to fight off the hunger she had sensed growing in her belly and steeled herself to give the performance of a lifetime.

Elvis passed by her chair as she stood, a crooked grin pushing the apples of his cheeks up above his beard. 

“Well, might as well get it over with.”

His despondency made Ina bristle. She was completely incapable of stopping the prickly voice that sprang out from her throat.

“We don’t have to shoot these love scenes.”

Elvis paused in his stride toward the set and looked back at Ina, his brow furrowed for a moment before he grinned again, bigger and wider.

“Huh? Course I want to shoot ‘em, love scenes are my specialty.”

Ina narrowed her eyes at his stupid, smirking expression as he glanced around at his friends as they whistled and chimed in with a chorus of stupid affirmations. 

“Uh huh.”

“That’s right.“

“On and off the set” 

“Well, you seem anxious to, what was it, get this over with?” She said cooly, leveling him with a glare. “So then it must be me. Maybe we could just cut them from the film altogether. CHUUCK?”

Elvis’ face began to scrunch up in a frown as Ina’s voice rang out like a knife, cutting through the chaos of a live shoot. The sound stage had been buzzing with activity as the crew readied the set, but now everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the two leads.

Elvis’ eyes zoned in on Ina and his face clouded with concern as his hands tightened against his body in clenched fists.

“Now see here - “ then he paused and took a deep breath, smiling big. 

That broad, smooth, movie star beam. 

“Aw, now I think we got are wires crossed someplace.That’s jus my ole stage fright talkin’, honey. Gets me ev’ry time like a sonabitch. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Iny Tiny, come get over here. I feel very honored to work with you. I been sayin’ all week, haven’t I, Chuck? That I couldn’t wait for Ina to get here, class up this joint’?”

Ina looked at where Chuck stood, hands at his hips as he nodded, a terrified grin plastered on his face.

“That’s right, that’s right. Why, that's what we’ve all been saying, Ina, we couldn’t wait for our Tracy to get here.”

Chuck dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it over his big, balding head as he spoke slowly, as if talking to a spooked horse. Ina

“I think I know what’s going on, my dear.”

Chuck looked over at Elvis and then put his arm around Ina, guiding her toward her mark. 

“You’re nervous. We’ve just spent two hours during the bath scene. And this sort of  - um - delicate, shall we say, yes, delicate feminine performance is new to you, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but I - “ 

Chuck put his finger to Ina’s mouth

“Say no more, my dear. It’s natural to feel vulnerable in this situation. But let me assure you, everything is being shot in the most artistic technique possible. And you, well, just look at you, huh?” He spun her around in the center of the set. 

“Ina, you are a dream. My living, breathing Renoir painting. And I want you to know, that was my inspiration for your room here. The colors, the outfits, a Parisian chorus line meets the Old West. The colors, the costumes, they are meant to evoke the Belle Epoch, you know? You are wearing the same outfits Degas’ dancers wore, did you know that?”

“Uh huh, you mean if they wore anything?” Ina added in a clipped tone.

“See, and that’s exactly it! The original work of art is, of course, the beauty of the female form.”

“Cain’t argue with that.” Elvis smirked, but Ina shot him a withering look which threw him off again and once more he was frowning and searching her face.

Chuck noticed none of this and kept talking. 

“And you are an exemplary example of the female form, a perfect specimen of a woman.”

“Well, I assure you I am no drag queen.”

Elvis coughed nervously, his hands clenched in fists at his side. The quick, sharp look he shot Joe did not escape Ina’s notice and she knew then that he had said the things Jerry and Charlie had been laughing about. She narrowed her glare at him, telegraphing her contempt as he stuttered and tried to regain control of the conversation.

“No - ah-uh -er -  siree, honey, you’re the real deal, got more class than the rest of this outfit combined. Why, I reckon I’m more nervous ‘bout this scene than you are.”

Chuck nodded vigorously.

“Yes, we are all nervous shooting something that is, as I said, delicate like this. And your character is unsure in this scene, she loves Jess, but is torn, because she’s worried he is still the bandit she sent away.  Channel your feelings into the scene and let’s make beautiful artwork here today.”

Ina rolled her eyes. “Ok, ok, I’m ok. Like he said, let’s just get it over with already.” 

Elvis grinned as he walked around the set door to his mark. 

“That’s the spirit, Iny Beany.”

Chuck yelled action, directing them through the scene as the cameras rolled.

“You see him rooting through your stuff, and you think of how long it's been, how he left you without a word. You hate him because you love him, but you wish you didn’t and you are trying to keep it all bottled up. Beautiful. Indifferent. That’s it Ina, that cool, icy glare, it’s perfect.”

It was not hard for Ina to muster a cool, icy glare for Elvis as he looked down at her. Every time they started, one of the PAs would come over and spray her body and chest with water for continuity with the bath scene that was just supposed to have occurred in the storyline.

In the third run through, she couldn’t help herself when Elvis’ foot knocked into hers. She thought of that guilty grimace she saw move across his face at the words “drag queen” and she stepped on his foot. Hard. 

“Perfect! Perfect Ina, you’re nailing it!” Chuck called out from where he was watching the monitor.

“Nailing me is more like it,” Elvis said, jumping back, a hurt pout on his face. Then he reached out and stroked the side of her shoulder. 

“Say, you sure you ok? You’re not sore at me for something, are you? It’d be better if we just clear the air. If I said something this morning, or did something in passing, honey, I’m sorry. But you gotta tell me.”

Ina looked in his big blue eyes, searching hers, seeking a connection. She glanced off behind him, at the brocade pink wall paper. The air smelled of bath water, sweat and cheap aftershave. Chuck was right, she thought, this could be a cheap Parisian brothel.

“I assure you, I am fine.” Ina forced her mouth into a tight smile. “Just watch where you’re going and we’ll be fine.”

He squinted his eyes at her, but seemed to decide against whatever it was he originally wanted to say, and stepped back with his arms up in surrender. “Okay. Alright. Whatever you say, Iny,  my mistake. Let’s try again, I bet we’ll get it right somehow.”

They went through the whole scene three times, up until the part where Jess lifts Tracy up and carries her to the bed. Elvis’ eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her, uttering his lines in a stern, serious voice. But when he picked her up and hoisted her in the air, she heard Charlie’s obnoxious laughter in the background and their words from earlier began to play through her head again on a loop.

The shrill sound of his laugh sent a sharp bolt of pain down the center of her head and suddenly she felt as if ginger ale was bubbling up on to the top of her brain. She wasn’t sure if she could hold it together anymore. 

There was the taste of bile again at the back of her throat. She swallowed, running through all of the tools she had learned in the Actor’s Studio such as telling herself she was Tracy and trying to channel her anger into the tension between Tracy and Jess. She was, after all, supposed to be fighting Jess’ advances at first and pushing him off before giving in. But she could barely look at Elvis and instinctively jerked back when he placed her on the bed and began to move his fingers over her sternum. 

Her head throbbed and she could feel more tears welling up. She had to get out of there and take a little break, so she cried out, “CUT!”

Elvis jumped back, a panicked look on his face.

“Did I hurt you, Iny Beany? Wanna do it again, just to practice, from the mark by the bed?”

“No.,” she hissed under her breath, pushing him away. Maybe she didn’t need a break, maybe they could just skip this scene altogether.

“No, no no. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. Chuck, do we really need a full love scene? We’re not making Belle du Jour here.”

Elvis had his hands on his hips, a stricken look on his face while Ina stood, straightening what was left of her dignity and snapping her fingers for the PAs to bring her thicker robe. 

“Ina, darling, we just went through this.” Chuck’s  transatlantic accent was getting thicker and higher-pitched the more he spoke. “And I hate to bring this up, you know I do, my dear, but it's in your contract.”

“Contract or not, I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

“My dear, what can I do to make you comfortable?” Chuck pleaded.

“Nothing. I would rather make love to a rattlesnake than to that man.”

Elvis stood taller, his fingers balled up into fists as his leveled, polished voice began to transform into a Southern snarl. 

“Yeah, uh huh, well I had about enough of this bull shit. Rattlesnake, huh? That can be arranged, honey, why, I’ll get it myself.”

“Well, I bet it will be small and limp, just like you.”

He staggered back when she hurled those words at him, flustered and mumbling as he looked around the set to see who had been in earshot and heard her yell out the words ‘small and limp’ at him. The answer, of course, was everybody. Because everybody in the crew was watching.

They had, of course, originally gathered around because Charro! was making film history with today’s shoot. 

All the popular European films being released had sex scenes, James Bond was having sex. Several recent westerns had initially included nude scenes, but studios had cut them at the last minute. 

But 1968 marked the dawning of a new era. The MPAA had a new rating system. Bonnie & Clyde had proven last year that audiences not only had a stomach for violence, but wanted sex. And like Bonnie, they wanted it much more than they got it. And so this picture, and about a dozen others in production, were all racing to give it to them.

Even if the plan was to pan to a hat and then just Ina’s face, Charro! was going to make history. 

Or rather, it would have made history. Instead, the entire crew watched in horror as Ina threw up her hands and stomped off in protest while Elvis coughed loudly, took a deep breath, and then announced to the crowd

“Don’t worry, folks, we’re gonna get Arthur Rankin in here and he’s gonna recreate these scenes with claymation. Make a little Elvis the Rednosed Cowboy.” His voice rang out with forced cheerfulness, followed by a ripple of nervous laughter that spread through the soundstage. 

“Boy, I tell ya what, now that would be a historical milestone, huh Chuck? Bet audiences would pay double ta see a stop motion love scene.”

The director nodded as Elvis patted him on the shoulder with a forced, playful candor and then strode out of the studio followed by his entourage.

Elvis’ motel room was dark, save for the television, an ever present companion, and the table lamp that cast shadows against the wall outlining Alma’s silhouette. The light captured every curve of her body as it lay sideways across the bed next to him. His fingers tapped absentmindedly over her bronze thigh, but his mind was otherwise occupied and failed to register the coquettish look she was giving him as she pouted and ran her hand over his arm.

He was thinking of his first film and the time had asked his co-star, Richard Egan, the secret to good acting.

“You. You already got it kid, in spades. Why do you think they renamed this picture after your song? Just be you, unaffected, unadulterated. You’re a natural.”

But what good had natural ability been without opportunity? He’d had such high hopes back then, hopes to be in real movies about real people, stories with an edge that packed a punch. And for a time, it seemed like he was. Dramas in which the singing was a plausible part of the premise.

But somewhere along the way the edge had been sanded off and his plans had all gone wrong. He’d gotten himself typecast as the type of character he hated, a romantic lead who broke into song during an appointment with the IRS. Those roles were fine for Rock Hudson, but not for him. He knew he could do better. Better than dumb musicals, better than all this. 

He had those same high hopes for this picture when he first read the script.

“Guess I should be happy this western’s actually being filmed in the goddamn desert and not in some California shrub valley,” he mumbled, balling his hands into fists as he spoke.

“What was that, baby?”

Elvis looked up at the woman lying next to him, he had forgotten she was even there. Her warm body next to him had become just another amenity of the room, like the mini fridge or the Gideons Bible. The puzzled look on her young, naive face reminded him how truly alone he was. 

Oblivious to Elvis' existential crisis, Alma decided maybe he needed some prompting after their kisses had dissolved into still silence. She moved her hand to Elvis’ thigh, stopping when he flinched and jumped up almost as if he were trying to escape her touch. She frowned, then flipped her hair as she adjusted and lay prone over the polyester orange bedspread, fashioning a come hither look on her face. She could tell he was rattled by the onset fight and was trying everything in her bag of tricks to laugh it off and redirect him to something better. Her. 

“Ha, small and limp. That bitch has no idea what she’s missing. It took all my self control not to cry out in front of everyone that you have an anaconda in your pants, Elvis.”

A grimace passed over his face, and Elvis started to button up his shirt and mumble to the floor.

“Don’t, baby - just-” He softened his voice at the rejection he saw in her eyes. “Honey, I can’t stand it when women do that.”

“What, what am I doing wrong?” Alma sat, her face falling as she scooted back against the pillows.

Elvis pulled on the red bandana around his neck and paced the other way, looking back at her as he tucked his shirt back into his clean, brown corduroy pants. His shoulders stiffened.

“Insincerity. I can’t, I jus hate it when women go overboard trying to puff up my ego. I’ve had my share of lovers, no one ever complained. That’s not the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah, honey. What that bitch is really saying is she don’t take me serious, I’m not man enough for this fucking role, for her New York high society standards. Fat lot of good any a that did her, thinks I don’t know she’s been in what, five pictures? Jerry Lewis? Try twenty five, sister. Give me a goddamn break. She’s wound so tight, she could start a fight in an empty house, I tell ya what, boy, and that’s the god honest truth.”

He began to pace the room, wringing his hands over as he walked.

“This un’ is gonna be different, Chuck said, more raw, Chuck said, more real.” His voice trilled between a high falsetto and a deep growl. “Then first they cut the violence, and now this bullshit. What’s next? Bet they gonna try and have me sing to my fuckin horse!” 

He punched the wall. “Fucking cowboys don’t fucking sing!” He screamed to the ceiling, then began to pace again, his hands now balled up in fists.

He turned and looked at Alma. “You ever see John Wayne sing? Gary Cooper? ‘Fore they walked over to the OK corral to shoot the bad guy?”

He punched the wall again and then turned and tried to compose himself when he saw Alma flinch.

“Ok ok ok ok.” He took a deep breath. “I  - uh - this picture’s got me all keyed up.”

“Want some grass? Flor has some killer grass, make you forget today even happened.”

“Nah, honey -  now, good lil girls like you should know better than to mess with that stuff.”

Alma pulled her hand through her hair and struck what she thought was a glamorous, come hither pose.

“Want me to give you a blow job? Help you relax?”

Elvis frowned. “Man, like a goddamn cat in heat and twice as willing. Don’t you think of nothing else?” 

Alma sat up and started to put her clothes on, her voice as low as her hopes for the evening.

“You’re the one who invited me up here and had me undress while you watched. I’m just trying to do what I thought you wanted.”

“Well stop tryin’ to think, you’ll wear yourself out.” 

Alma grabbed her shoes and opened the door, finding Joe on the other side with one hand about to knock and another holding up a tray of food in his hands.

“Oh, hey -”

“Hey yourself.” Alma said with a huff and a very aggressive hair flip, her long brown tresses smacking Joe’s cheek.

Elvis shrugged as Joe looked after Alma, whistling to himself. 

“Man o man, EP, you got the prettiest girl here. What’s up her butt?”

“I don’t know - Something up with the chicks on this picture, man, stuck up and crazier than a sack full a possums.”

Elvis looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall across from the bed as Joe mumbled about how many crazy women they had met on their journeys, half-listening as he stroked his beard and reassured himself that he looked just as fit as Clint Eastwood. And more handsome. He winked at himself and straightened his belt buckle, then looked over at Joe.

“Now hold on a second, son, jus’ what in high heaven is that?”

Elvis lifted his hands from his left hip and pointed at the cheeseburgers and fries Joe had laid out on the table, fixing him with a dark glare.

“You said dinner, EP, brought you dinner.”

“Tryin’ to get me back in the 200 club like you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you been auditioning for the part of lardass of the group.”

“But last night - I thought you - 

“I thought, I  thought - you ain’t thought shit, and that’s the problem. I’m supposed to be shirtless on film tomorrow and you fixin’ to get me fat as a boarding house cat.”

Joe frowned, furrowing his brow for the split second it took him to plaster a smile back on and nod. Now he understood what was up Alma’s ass, and what was about to be up his too if he didn’t turn this around.

“Right, boss, my mistake, tell me what you want and I’ll go get it.”

“What I want, what I want. Ain’t nobody cares what I want, and that’s the goddamn problem. Save a whole lotta time and money if you just thought to ask first.” 

Elvis put his hands on his waist and cried out an inaudible growl to the ceiling. 

“Jus… just bring me a caesar salad. A big one.”

Joe hurried out and Elvis went over to cover up the burgers, but the smell was too tempting, so instead he sat down and began to devour them one after another, mumbling to himself in between bites.

“Goddamit, if I look fat tomorrow it’ll be Joe’s goddamn fuckin’ fault.”

There was a knock at the door, and he yelled for whoever it was to come in as he went to wash up.

“Joe told me to come get rid of the - uh - food tray.”

Charlie’s voice trailed off as Elvis emerged from the bathroom and followed Charlie’s eyes to the table and the plates that were empty, save for a handful of cold fries.

“Well, have at it - wait.”

Elvis stepped back and looked around, grabbing one of the guns from the night stand and put it in his belt. He had all this nervous energy running up and down his body, he needed to just get out of this room, out of this motel, get as far as possible to just breathe some fresh air and think. He snapped his fingers at Charlie.

“Grab Gee Gee, we’re going for a drive.”

Charlie’s face softened into a big goofy, excited grin. “Okee dokee artichokee, where we heading?”

“Anywhere that ain’t this goddamn motel, numb nuts.” Elvis started to head down the exterior stairs, running his hand over the warm, wrought iron bannister. He looked back over his shoulder and clapped.

“Bring the cigars, too, then meet me at the car. Chop chop.” 

A renewed sense of purpose guided his steps as Elvis walked down the corridor of motel rooms that lined the pool,and he ran his hands up and down the front of his shirt. He mulled over what he wanted to do that didn’t involve eating more hamburgers. Or eating anything. 

When he looked up, he realized he had stopped outside Ina’s room. There, through the curtain, he could see the back of her through the curtain where she sat on her bed, talking to someone on the phone. 

“No no no, Mickey, of course I understand. Yes, well, I don’t know, I think you have to have been on top to get back on top, but your meaning is not lost on me. I get it. Yes. Opportunity of a lifetime. I know. Elvis Elvis.  Don’t worry. I’m gonna go make it right, right now.”

She looked up at the ceiling and wiped the sides of her eyes, summoning a mask of quiet cheer Elvis recognized well as she clutched the phone tight. 

“Yes, no  - I’ll be a good girl, Mickey. I promise. I know, I know, no bread.”

He was transfixed, enjoying the power he felt watching her unaware, and pressed closer to the glass, careful not to draw attention to himself. A small front section of her long, flowing hair fell out from behind her ears and she absentmindedly began to twist it nervously. She looked like a fragile little girl, like a beautiful flower someone had stepped on. The sight of her anxiously talking away pulled on his heart strings.

He shook his head. What the fuck had happened? Why was she so angry at him?  He'd played the part of the funny, affable host from the minute they met, introducing her to the crew and having Gee Gee get her screwdrivers as they all yukked it up in the bar. He'd about busted his gut when she lobbed a handful of ice at Charlie and knocked him over the back of the couch. 

He stood there watching as her big brown eyes lit up while she told her agent how nice the desert was. He almost believed her. Goddamit, why couldn’t she just be a good girl and get along? She’d been sweet and flirty in make-up and then what, an hour or two later, her claws were out and she’d aimed them at him. 

He whistled and thought about the fickleness of women as he turned to walk the long way around the pool. 

Thirty seconds later he heard the thud of a door opening followed by Ina’s voice calling out for him.

Elvis stopped, his hands moved out as if to balance himself as he swiveled around, slowly, to face her. A sense of dread settling in his stomach. Up above him, he saw Charlie and Gee Gee making their way down the staircase, while to his left a group of crew members were heading for the pool. The smell of chlorine wafted through the open air hallway.

He cautiously trudged back toward the doorway to where Ina stood, each footfall a slow thump of his cowboy boot against the hard concrete sidewalk. 

“Oh good, I’m glad I caught you, Elvis.” She swallowed, there it was again, that cheerful mask settling over her face as she exhaled a nervous laugh. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Elvis straightened up, looking around again before pulling on the red bandana at his throat. He definitely didn’t want to be alone with Ina. She was unpredictable and he couldn’t stand the awkward energy that flickered between them. However, he also didn’t want another public scene and he could already hear their names being whispered by some of the crew at the pool.

So he did what he always did with an audience, he mustered a wide, beaming smile and spoke in a nonchalant, cool voice:

“Hey honey, you ain’t gotta worry bout me, I’m all good. You get your beauty sleep and I’ll see you tamarra onset an - “

Ina’s lip trembled, she looked like she might fall apart at any moment.

Shit he thought, unable to stop himself from walking over to her and stroking her shoulder.

“There there, been a rough day. This desert heat, I tell ya what, baby, does things to ya head. Now go ahead and listen to ol’ Elvis -”

Ina put her hand over his where it squeezed her shoulder.

“Could we just talk - just for a moment?” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Alone. I -  I won’t take much time, I just - I’d like to apologize and clear the air if you’ll let me. Otherwise, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep and then you’ll be making love to a haggard old zombie first thing in the morning.”

Elvis' eyes softened and he looked around once more before nodding. “Ok.” 

As soon as the door closed he was an obedient puppy letting her lead him by the hand to sit on the bed, where he took off his cowboy hat and toyed with it in his lap. 

Ina stepped away, backing toward the dresser where she lifted herself to sit next to the TV, but then changed her mind. She felt like a ship adrift, unmoored and out of her comfort zone. Sitting and swinging her legs about was too casual, she decided, so she stood back up and swept the hair that had fallen out of her high ponytail behind her ears.

Just make it short, sweet, earnest, she reminded herself, you’re no stranger to eating humble pie. Indeed, Ina reflected on the number of times she had apologized unnecessarily just to smooth things over with her mother or sister, a producer, an ad executive. This was one of the first times she felt she actually had behaved badly and now she was lost for words.  If only there was a script for life. 

“I - um - thanks for seeing me - I - I - I.”

All the words left her head when she found Elvis’ dark blue eyes studying her beneath his long lashes. He was rotating his cowboy hat in his lap. The smell of the heavy floral cleaning products the maids had used lingered in the air, stronger now that the air conditioner cycled on with a heaving, mechanic whomp. She swallowed again, and counted to ten, trying to ignore the way the back of her neck seemed to prickle as a chill went down her spine. She steadied herself, forcing her eyes to connect with his. 

“Elvis, I am so very sorry. I mean it. I -  I - I - ’ve never lost it before onset, it is so unprofessional I can barely stand to look at myself.” 

She felt a release of tension as she watched his hands relax. He took a deep breath and stroked his beard.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Ina,  I been making two to three pictures a year since 1933. I can roll with the punches, ain’t nothing I can’t handle. ThoughI gotta admit you threw me off back there.” 

The register of his voice changed from rougher to softer as he looked down at the floor and then back up at Ina’s face. 

“Be honest, did I do anything to offend you or make you mad at me?”

His softer side was almost harder to withstand and his eyes seemed to penetrate her very being, seeking out the secrets she kept hidden in her heart. She shook it off with another nervous chuckle,

“No, no, this was 100% me. I’ve been so nervous about these love making shoots. Chuck’s is telling everyone back in Hollywood this is the first the first film with a sex scene - “

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I mean, since the production code, maybe, but they’ve shot plenty of them. It’s just that the studio always pulls out at that last minute -”

Ina covered her mouth and gasped when she watched Elvis’ lip curl up at her words but said nothing. He didn’t need to. The glint in his eye said it all and when he waggled his eyebrows up and down Ina laughed out. She was grateful for the levity, it seemed to crack through Elvis’ cool bravada and made this conversation easier.

“Stop, you know what I mean.” 

She blushed, and looked out her window, watching as the silhouettes of two people walked by. It was getting dark, she needed to wrap it up. 

“But yes, today I was nervous, I haven’t been eating or sleeping much, but I promise you - “ 

Her voice wavered as she turned back to find his steady gaze. 

“ - um - no more fights, no more difficult behavior. I am so grateful for this opportunity to work with you and I just hope you can forgive me for my lapse of judgment.”

Elvis stood up, his fingers were once more busy fiddling with his cowboy hat and he spoke in a low whisper.

“Ok. I forgive you. So long as you really ain’t mad at me.”

The breath hitched in Ina’s throat when Elvis looked up at her, biting his lip in a way that made the top jut out a bit as he searched her face once more, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve.

She gulped. “I - uh - I - no, I just need some sleep - I “

“Honey I can’t help feeling like you’re holding something back here, and if we’re gonna get along, I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Ina looked away. Damn him, he was like one of those fortune tellers back on Coney Island who she had believed as a kid. As a teenager she had learned the truth: they had no supernatural talents, they were just extremely gifted at reading their marks. Like Elvis was reading her right now.

“Oh, I may have been upset about something but it doesn’t matter, it was silly and stupid, like me. I - I was wrong, and I apologize. I’ll happily apologize to you in front of the whole crew tomorrow if you want. Really. If that is what it will take to make amends with you Mr. Presley.”

Elvis clenched his fists. 

“I don’t give a damn about a public apology or the crew or any of that. But I can’t bear it when a woman is sore at me and won’t say why. Ticks me off to no end.”

Tension hung in the air, and Ina sighed. Recounting the whole ordeal made it seem so juvenile now, though it still stung.

“I - I am, I heard some of your friends talking. They -”

“Which friends?”

“Jerry, Jerry and Charlie. I told you, it’s like high school and I can’t believe I let them upset me.”

“Well now you started, better lay it all out for me. Go on.”

“I - I well, I heard them laughing about how you had said I looked like - like drag queen that needed a shave. And they were calling me Groucho and saying I had big feet.”

Ina let her shoulders drop and forced a smile, but she couldn’t stop her hand from pulling on the necklace at her chest.

“Ha, actually now that I say it is kind of funny, you see I - um - I usually have a great sense of humor. Any of my friends would tell you. Some of them are drag queens, actually. They’d probably feel more slighted being compared to me. Your boys just, they  - they just caught me right before I was filming my first nude scene and well - “ 

Ina’s voice trailed off as she watched Elvis get up and pace towards the bathroom growling. 

“Those fucking nitwits, pulling a stunt like that and gummin up tha works -” he turned and his face fell at the pained look on Ina’s face. “You know I never said nothin’ like that.” 

Ina quickly shook her head, summoning the calm veneer that usually came so easy to her. She immediately regretted telling Elvis, now she felt as raw as she did after she had a full waxing appointment at the salon.

In her heart she knew he was lying, she knew from the way he had grimaced, albeit it briefly, on set when she’d said she wasn’t a drag queen. 

Yet there was something earnest and pleading in his eyes that made her question her own grip on reality. This got worse when he bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, all vulnerable and apologetic, as if searching for the right thing to say. It made her stomach flip up into her throat. Then looked at her, his eyes wide with a newfound warmth as he sought a connection from across the room, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Ina knew right then that she needed to get him out before anything changed.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I know. And, well  it doesn’t matter anyway, right? I mean it’s none of my business what you think of me - like I said, I knew some knockout drag queens, so it’s a compliment really. Ha so - “

Elvis stode over as she spoke and grabbed her hands, his thumb delicately soothing the top of her knuckles. The spicy smell of his aftershave entered her nostrils as he spoke in a low, soft voice.

“Here’s the thing now, Iny Beany, I just need you to know though that I didn’t say none a that. Ya right, them boys still in high school, and they been playing pranks like we’re still in high school. I guar-an-TEE you they knew the assistant had just called for you, and they set that whole thing up to ruin my first sex scene shoot. Have half a mind to fire 'em. They need to learn some goddamn respect."

Ina found herself transfixed, unable to step away or pull her hands from his. She looked him over. He somehow looked like a cowboy who had let a bunch of drag queens dress him. 

He wore a fresh pair of dark green slacks, a thick leather belt and a long sleeve white linen shirt. Over his hands sat several jewel-encrusted rings matched by the two necklaces that lay underneath his red bandana, tied much like a silk ascot through a cravat. His foundation make-up was impeccable, and his hair was styled in a high quiff perfectly slicked back above his forehead. It made him look cavalier and polished at the same time. 

Then there was the way his smokey eye makeup was now smudged around his waterline made him look even more ruggedly attractive. Sweat glistened underneath his beard, almost like glitter.  There, in the dim light of her motel room he looked like the prettiest cowboy she had ever seen.

“Know what I mean?”

Ina shook her head, realizing she’d gotten caught up staring at his scruffy chin and lost track of what he was saying.

“Um, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

A sly grin tweaked up the corners of his lips.

“I said, you cain’t listen to a word outta those boys' moufs, ‘specially Charlie. His elevator don’t go all the way up, if you take my meaning.” 

Elvis stepped in closer to her, cautiously, waiting to see if she stepped away or flinched.  But it was all Ina could do to just keep breathing, each stroke of Elvis' thumb over her hand now sent a bolt of electricity down her chest.

“How I could I say something like that about you, Iny? Ya so beautiful, I could barely look at you too long before turning into mush.”

Ina rolled her eyes, but she could feel her own resolve waver as his hand moved to her hips and a blush crept over her face.

“Stop, you don’t have to lie to me.”

He shook his head, his nose tickling over hers.

“How can you say that Iny Meany? You have no idea, no idea what you do to me.”

Ina’s heart skipped a beat when she felt his thumb at the indent of her girdle. The air between their bodies seemed to crackle now with heat, and he pulled her closer, nuzzling his nose over hers. A tear rolled down her face and he lifted his finger to catch it.

“Ssshhhh, s’ok baby, s’ok. I got you. And I promise ain’t no one gonna talk like that about you again.”

He pressed his cheek against hers and she pushed back,willfully embracing the harsh scruff of his beard. She could feel herself teetering on the precipice of something dangerous. If she crossed this line with Elvis it would change the dynamic of their work together, it would change her reputation. She had vowed to herself she wouldn’t be susceptible to his charms, him, of all people. He was so obvious, so cliche. And yet here she was, nuzzling her nose back along his.

Emboldened, Elvis gently pressed his lips to her skin, peppering her jaw with light kisses. Ina eagerly moved to give him access to her neck and he instantly took the hint and suckled at her nape, pausing to grin as she moaned out a high, breathy unladylike moan.

Her chest heaved as their lips met and the faint aroma of mustard filled Ina’s nostrils.

“Oh my god, you taste like hamburger.”

Elvis chuckled, unsure of himself for a moment. Ina enjoyed watching him become self conscious.

"I’m sorry baby, you want me to go brush my teeth?”

She shook her head, pulling him closer and speaking between kisses.

 “No - mmmm - it’s amazing — mmm - haven’t had a mmamburger in months.”

Elvis let out a nervous laugh. 

“Ok, ya kook, I’ll be sure and eat hamburger every day.” 

"Ha! I'm gonna hold you to that, Presley."

His fingers brushed over her thighs as he lifted her onto the dresser and Ina trembled.

“You ok? Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

She shook her head, stopping was the last thing on her mind. Though she suddenly thought of crew members at the pool who’d seen her call Elvis into her room to apologize.

“I wonder what everyone outside thinks we’re doing in here.”

“Hmmm, whatever they’re thinking, I guarantee it's not nearly as good as what I’m thinking.”

“Elvis - I - I don’t want to have sex.”

He arched his eyebrow.

“Whoo now, who said anything about sex?”

“I mean, of course I want to have sex with you.”

He stoked her thighs, a faint smile on his face.

"Relax Iny, we’re just having some fun. Don’t overthink it. We ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”

Ina released a nervous giggle. “OK, you see, I um, well, actually the thing is that I sometimes break out when I - I do it.”

“Really? You know that Max Factor stuff will cover anything.”

“Ha! I know - I just think tonight, no matter what I say later, we should just keep it simple.”

“I gotcha Iny girl. Sweet. Simple.”

Ina’s pulse quickened at the way he leaned into her chest, his hands worked up from her thighs. She felt like a giddy teenager as she smiled gleefully into his face, her right hand fiddling with his ear.

“You have a great earlobe, you know that? I can see why you’re a movie star.”

“Huh. That right? Cuz of my earlobe?”

He leaned in and kissed the top of her nose.

“Oh yeah, it's very photogenic. I see why this is the only part of you in frame during the sex scene. I mean the rest could as ugly as Boris Karloff -” Ina waved her other hand in front of Elvis face. “But this lobe, right here, it’s a million dollar lobe.” 

Elvis chuckled. “That right?”

“Uh huh. I hope you have it insured - oh god.” 

Elvis' right hand moved over her breast, flicking her nipple. 

“Hmm, well, maybe I should stop whateva this is and go call the colonel, get him right on that, uh huh.”

He moved as if to leave, smirking at how quickly Ina pulled him back into her arms.

“Don’t go.” 

She squeaked out, voice cracking.

“You sure? You don want me to fetch a rattlesnake to kiss instead? See if you like making love to his earlobe?”

“Stop.” 

Ina swatted him, straightening the line of his bandana. 

“Please don’t repeat what I said earlier, I was tired and nervous and upset and I hate myself for that whole scene. I really am sorry, Presley.”

“I know, baby, I know. I'm just teasing.”

He pressed his lip son hers once more and Ina rocked forward into him, following the slow, tender rhythm of Elvis’ body. She felt like a buoy, still unmoored and adrift in the ocean, but now she didn’t want to come into shore. She wanted to stay like this, swaying back and forth to the ebb of Elvis’ tide,  delighting in the wet smack of Elvis’ lips every time they smashed into hers. Again and again.

Her whole body buzzed when his fingers trailed down to her hem and absentmindedly began to work their way under her dress. He had notched himself between her legs, fitting snugly against her knee caps. She made a small squeak of surrender as she opened her hips to bring him in closer. The taste of onions and pepsi and meat filled her mouth as he took her with the tip of his tongue, slowly owning and consuming her completely. 

Elvis moaned into her and deepened their kiss.

Ina lost herself in the sweet supple cushion of his lips. His hands moved over her bosom,  fanning the spark in her belly into a flame. Then his fingers moved under her skirt and feathered over the warmth of her panties. Ina felt the bulge begin to swell at her thigh and then Elvis jerked back.

Every cell in her body cried out to pull him back into her embrace and then until he was inside her and they were melting into each other. Vows and boundaries be damned. Thank god he had some sense of self control.

“Whooa, whoa whoa.” He muttered slowly, almost painfully.

Ina nodded, licking her lips as she met his eyes.

“You ok?’

“Yeah, you?”

Elvis took a deep breath. “Course, honey, I - I - I just think we better put the breaks on for tonight.”

“Yeah, sure, no. Totally. This was exactly what I wanted.”

He wiped his mouth, shooting her an impish smile, like he knew exactly what she wanted.

“Guess I should clear out, huh?”

“You don’t have to leave, I mean, I enjoy your company. Is what I mean. But if you are looking to get lucky, then yes, I suppose you should find one of those extras you've been playing patty cake with.”

“Huh, okay, well I'll be on my way then. Catch ya later.” 

But he didn't move, just stayed there hovering above her. His forehead leaning into her as he pushed in even closer, pressing the air out of her lungs.

“You do have a reputation to keep up. I understand.”

"Mhmmmm."

Elvis shook his head and went to sit on her bed, up against the head board.

“Look, I'm willing to put my reputation aside, jus for one night. I promise, no funny business. Clothes stay on.” 

He smirked.

“Unless you’d feel more comfortable without your dress on.”

Ina hesitantly moved to perch next to him. She could still taste the mix of Elvis’ salty sweat on her tongue as she wiped her raw lips.

“That’s awfully accommodating of you, Presley.”

“What can I say, Iny Beany, I’m an open minded guy. Always say, if a girl wants to take her own dress off, who am I to say she can’t?’

“Well, if it’s all the same to you I think I’ll keep mine on. For now. There’s still time for you to make an exit.”

“Aw, now shut up with that exit junk already and get in here.”

Elvis pulled Ina down into the curve of his arm, and she sighed, embracing the cozy warmth of his body and rubbing her hand over the trim stretch of his stomach as he spoke to her in a soft, friendly voice.

"Alright now, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you. How did  the hell you end up in a god forsaken Elvis Presley picture, huh?”

“Hmmm, poor life choices? But Elvis, I thought you liked this film? I thought you were the one who made it happen.”

“Aw, well, sure, the first script was pret-tee fantastic. It was gritty and had guts, ya know, but then these damn producers been wittlin' it away to nothing, man. Chuck cornered me this afternoon once you'd left and started in on nagging me to sing the title song.”

“You don’t want to sing? Just the title? it would be so good.”

“So you like the way I sing, Iny?” 

Elvis’ eyes danced but then he remembered what they were talking about and was solemn once more. 

“Yeah, naw man, that would set it up as another Presley musical, the next they’ll be trying to get me to sing to my horse. No self respecting cowboy sings, you ever heard of a singing cowboy? Never seen John Wayne sing.”

“OK, sure, but what about Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hank Williams was the Driftless Cowboy, right?” Elvis leveled her with his blue eyes and pinched her side. 

“Hmmm - guess you got me there. But it’s 1968, I’d like to see Gene Autry sell a movie in today’s economy. My boy my boy. Today it ain't no joke. Can you see him in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly?”

Ina tilted her head in agreement back onto Elvis' shoulder, she felt the same way she did sinking into a pair of comfy, worn-in slippers, and founding his chest as relaxed and welcoming,

“Trust me, I get it, I’m just grateful I don’t have to do a rape scene in this film.”

He squeezed Ina tighter, kissing her cheek.

“Yeah, me too, honey, real grateful. Boy. Don’t know why anyone want ta see that.”

 “The old west ain’t what it used to be.”

“You can say that again.”

Elvis' arms closed around Ina tighter as they murmured the hours away, comparing diet pills, LA taco huts and favorite movies while their limbs easily intertwined into one another. The closest he got to undressing her was the moment around midnight when he stealthily undid her pony tail and played with her hair while she pretended to be miffed. Then he kissed her forehead and told her he had done her a favor, because it looked better this way, and she should just be a good girl and do as he said. Which got him a light slap and a big “HA!”

They spent the next hour enjoying a playful, cozy respite together in the dim orange glow of Ina’s hotel room. It was well past one in the morning when he gave her a parting kiss that turned into a series of parting kisses before he snuck back up to his suite. 

Shooting began the next day at 7 a.m., and you could have knocked the director, Chuck, over with a long, pink gaudy boa feather as he found Elvis and Ina in good spirits ready to work. They exchanged playful barbs and their onscreen chemistry sizzled when they went through each sequence, pausing between takes for Ina’s chest to be spritzed while another batch of assistants dabbed Elvis’ forehead with dry unused coffee filters. The industry’s secret weapon against perspiration.

Elvis found Ina in her dressing room during a break and their lips met with stifled giggles as they kissed now with away from the ever present surveillance of the crew, laughing and talked into each other’s mouths.

“Oh my god, now you taste like bacon. I swear Elvis, you’re gonna have me off my diet and then I’ll swell up like a balloon and then Charro! will be a very different film about a cowboy and his pregnant saloon madam.”

“Baby, you gotta let yourself have one hamburger now and then, trust me now, I been doing this longer than you. It will help the cravings.”

Ina kept her mouth shut as she calculated that she had been in this business just as long as he had, since she began modelling at 15 in 1955.

“Ok. I give in. I have no willpower around you. I will have one hamburger this week.”

“Tonight, honey. Imma have you for dinner.” He winked. “Over for dinner, I mean.  I’ll have one a my guys come get you and bring you up to my room later. ”

“Ok. Dinner. Tonight. Your room.” She grinned as she chased the taste of bacon on his tongue and the salty scent of his body as it enveloped her until a knock on the door brought them back into their roles on set as Jess and Tracy.

That night Elvis went through his usual routine after a shoot, which began with a shower to wash off the desert and the dust and the sweat of the set off his body. He took extra care in how he dressed, selecting a light blue dress shirt and a white suit, capping off his outfit with a small black porkpie hat. He doused himself in aftershave and the smell of Old Spice smacked Joe in the face when he came in to set up Elvis’ calls to Memphis and LA.

Once Elvis hung up his phone he leaned over and banged on the wall for Joe to come back in.

“You want me to get that sweet little Mexican gal boss? Alma?”

“Did I tell you to do that? That gal ain’t nothing but a big phony, naw man. Wait for me to tell you what to do, son."

Elvis stood up and went to slather more after shave on, exchanging one ring for another at his toiletry bag.

"Go down stairs and invite Ina up to join me for dinner.”

Joe let out a loud cackle. “What, Groucho?”

Elvis paused, taking in the look of disbelief on Joe’s face. His heart sank and he rubbed his hands over one another as he remembered how they all were howling at his jokes about her a few nights ago. 

He hadn’t even really meant it. He’d just said those things after watching Alma and Flor look at Ina with envy during rehearsals. All he had wanted was to put them at ease, make them understand he was attracted to them. Saying what he thought they wanted to hear. But then the boys had chimed in and now they all thought she was a dog. 

Elvis forced a low chuckle and ran his hand through his hair.

“Nah, man, not Ina - I meant Flor. Goddamn it,  this picture messin’ with my head.”  

He swallowed hard, thinking of the way Ina's beautiful big brown eyes looking up at him. They their legs had seemed to fit together, the way conversation had seemed to flow effortlessly. He smiled to himself thinking of the way she had blushed when he snuck into her dressing room. How her breasts had felt beneath as they ran their love scenes. He pushed away the pang of guilt for now and tamped down his desire to hold her once more. Maybe he'd sneak down to her room later if he could get away. But for now he had an image uphold. These guys looked up to him, and his control over them as their boss rested on the how cool they thought he was.

He snapped his finger at Joe. 

“But I don’t wanna hear y’all calling her that no more. Tell the others. Like I said this morning, y’all shitwads talking like that is what got me in trouble in the first place.”

And with that, Elvis spent another night surrounded by people and utterly alone.

I don't really think I did Ina justice here, look at how great they looked together. We were robbed of their sex scenes.....

taglist:

@i-r-i-n-a-a @ab4eva @eliseinmemphis @richardslady121 @artlover8992 @ashtag6887 @karolshungary @j-v-9-2 @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @notstefaniepresley @dollette02 @dkayfixates @everythingelvispresley @velvetelvis @moonchild-daniella @lialocklear @obsessionisthecure @louisejoy86 @arrolyn1114 @literally-just-elvis-fics

i don't really have a taglist for one-shots and I apologize if you don't want to be tagged, just let me know and I'll take you off.

[manifestingprincipessa]

week 1 of manifesting my dream life

At the beginning of this week, I posted my manifestation goals and I'm proud to say I already have updates! I got my salary this week and a bonus so I hit 20k in savings. This is huge for me!

I finally started being proactive about other areas of my finances - I initiated reclaiming the money for previous work expenses and getting savings from an account my grandparents and mom started for me.

I also cleaned my room quite a bit which is another big achievement, I struggled with throwing away things for so long and now I threw out a big bag of clothing and a lot of old paper and other trash.

I found a YouTube channel that talks a lot about the law of assumption and many ideas and techniques he talks about really resonated with me.

Next week I will focus on manifesting success in my work as a PhD student, understanding the techniques I am working with, and publishing my first paper. My script is:

I have sent in my first paper for publishing, and it has been accepted without revisions. I am smart and capable. I understand all the statistical techniques for my PhD. I am great at Maths and I understand new statistical concepts easily and quickly. I am proactive and I finish all of my tasks super fast. When I get an email, I respond to it right away. Other people view me as a statistics wizard. Academic institutions give me money left and right to do research and go to conferences.

Wish me luck!

Best,

Em

[spanishskulduggery]

Dragon Age The Veilguard (language update)

Okay, so I've been compiling more gender neutral language in Dragon Age and so far what I've found is that the majority of the characters that are trans or non-binary will use non-binary E in all their dialogue

I keep finding it mostly for the governor but it has happened for others and I'm too slow to capture it, but people will say things like les guardas grises "the Grey Wardens" for non-binary, les Cuervos "the Crows" non-binary, etc.

As in, non-binary and trans characters in the game are seemingly more hyper aware of gendered language and specifically use a neutral term (for friends and enemies)... such as les magues "mages" in non-binary or les enemigues "enemies" non-binary

They're more likely to use things like juntes "together / all of us", nosotres and vosotres [because Spain] for "us" and "you all" to be inclusive of any possible gender differences

...

My best guess is that there are some characters that have a kind of setting or flag that marks it so the translators/script writers will use specific language for them... in other words, if a character were to have that sort of flag then the translation would refer to them a specific way [I've seen ciudadane "citizen" and aldeane "villager" in non-binary, when they don't specifically talk about gender - so the game must recognize them as non-binary or trans or something?]

The flag seems to indicate that if a person has some kind of gender flag that they are referred to with NB adjectives and that they often use NB gender inclusive language such as les amigues / les enemigues

Characters that are cis or otherwise not having any kind of gender flag tend towards the standard gendered rules... like they typically say los amigos / los enemigos

...I'm curious what it would be like to play a non-binary main character to see how much would be affected

What I've also learned is that the gender neutral or NB inclusive language for general terms like amigues or for the faction names [like saying les Cuervos "Crows"] tends to replace the traditional "masculine plural is inclusive" rule - I've also seen the non-binary term used for proper names which did throw me off at first

[as in one faction is los Dragones Sombríos for "Shadow Dragons"; I've seen les Dragones and I believe I've seen les Dragones Sombríos but I might be wrong - I was looking to see if the plural adjective of proper nouns would also change i.e. whether it would become les Dragones Sombríes or something - if I can find it I'll let you know... the factions I've seen it with so far are gender neutral by themselves (les Señores de Fortuna "Lords of Fortune" and les Guardas Grises "Grey Wardens")... I keep waiting to see if I can find others but I think it might happen more if I had a non-binary character in a different faction]

The use of NB language taking over masculine plural was interesting to me though, linguistically, and as someone who learned Spanish in school. In other words, standard Spanish says los ciudadanos "citizens" which includes any mixed group, so it could be men and women (and non-binary), but as long as there was one man it was always implied that it had to be masculine plural...

The NB rule seems to be that if someone is non-binary in the group or if you're being as inclusive and gender-aware as possible, then NB plural takes the place of masculine plural

The governor character for example does this a lot and calls the Crows unes asesines a sueldo "(some) murderers for hire" [lit. "murderers for salary"], but in the non-binary - this kind of general inclusion implies that there might or might not be NB Crows [there are in the game, at least one and stated to be by others], but in general the other characters would call them asesinos in the general masculine plural

Same thing with some of the Shadow Dragons who some of them talk about les magues de sangre "blood mages" NB, while others use the term magos which is more standard

...

I'll discuss it more in my probably very big post with screenshots, but I'm not entirely sure if it's a limitation of the translation or a (possibly unintended) quirk

As in, are characters who are flagged as trans and/or non-binary getting NB translations? English is extremely gender neutral with adjectives so I can't say for sure; usually even when talking about groups we use "they" which is gender neutral, so it's hard to say if other people from other gendered languages would speak this way or not, or if it's a product of the game's programming

If it's a quirk, then it adds a subtle layer to these specific characters, that they are more aware of gendered language and specifically go out of their way to use NB language for all groups of people, friends and enemies

...and the other characters who aren't trans and/or non-binary don't consider gendered language as often; they refer to these people by their proper pronouns or by elle as non-binary, but they don't seem to use the NB plural because by standard rules that is inclusive

I think it's probably a mix of both; mostly a game mechanic or underlying game parameter, that also does fit with people who struggle with gender or use NB language are more aware of it than others

[also regarding trans characters; there are options to make your character trans and in the very beginning to discuss how they feel about their body/journey - I don't want to leave them out because that's also important, and some characters when starting a romance will mention it to potential partners and it's handled very respectfully, also all romance partners are available regardless of gender options so that probably helps but you're never excluded because of gender; there are just some plotlines regarding gender and finding oneself and that's probably what has certain people melting down online about "woke"... but minus a few slip ups in the writing (because not all the writers worked together and you can see it), it's clear that the people responsible for writing the gender stuff had experts]

[percheduphere]

people saying, oh it wasn't intended from the beginning so it wasn't intentional thus has to stay fanfiction bug me. like, shows can develop organically based on chemistry. they can surprise you and take you in a direction that wasn't planned but now just works. like, fucking, chandler and monica wasn't planned from the beginning! but the actors had chemistry and the writers tried it out and it became iconic. you don't throw something away just because it surprised you instead of being pre-planned; you cultivate whatever gold you find!

With Hollywood entertainment in particular, I think there is a lot of ignorance regarding how the creative process, production process, post-production process, and business all work. It is readily apparent that in Hollywood, there are many hands in the kitchen when it comes to creating a movie, documentary, or show. The "Original Intent" argument is weakest when it comes to Hollywood art, and in fact fails to be a viable argument in multiple areas. I will discuss how the "Original Intent" argument fails in Hollywood in more depth under the read more, using what I know from having worked in the industry myself as a writer. And to be honest, the fact I have to pull my private professional history out online, just to prove I'm not being delulu when it comes to the importance of queer subtext in film, pisses me the fuck off.

To be clear, since this whole discourse mess on my Tumblr is likely the result of someone thinking I'm an anti-sylki: I AM NOT AN ANTI. I have an extensive analysis on Sylvie as an integral character to the Loki series, Sylki in canon, and her relationship with Mobius here.

I agree with you: a lot of amazing art deviates from the original intention, especially writing. If deviating from original intent in the writing process did not exist, we would not have DRAFT REVISIONS, we would not have IMPROV, we would not have EDITORS (whose entire job hinges on giving the writer not only grammar corrections, but feedback on how to IMPROVE character, plot, and pacing, which inherently means making changes from the original intent!). This is to say nothing of the thousands, if not tens or hundreds of thousands, of media scholars--with actual PhDs--who spend years of their lives performing meta-analysis to write academic papers on subject matters like this. Papers that become formal publications and contribute to how queer history is taught in universities! This is no different than academic scholars analyzing women and race representation and resistance in film. Why should analyzing queer representation and resistance in film be treated any less?

LET'S TALK ABOUT ORIGINAL CREATIVE INTENT VS POWER HIEARCHY & POLITICS IN HOLLYWOOD

For context with respect to this ask, a different Tumblr user critiqued against queer subtext in one of my posts using the "original intent" argument for the Loki series and Lokius specifically. By this logic, if original intent is always honored, then the original script for Loki's S2E5 (written by Eric Martin) would not have been NUKED by the executive powers that be at Marvel. [source] But no, the original intent was not honored, it was rejected. So how does one square the primacy of original intent with original intent being rejected by people who are not the artist but the people who manage Disney's finances?

In television, "Executive Producer" (i.e. Tom Hiddleston, Michael Waldron, Eric Martin, etc.) is a title that can be given to a writer or actor who has more creative say in the execution of a story than a regular staff writer or actor on crew. It also indicates that the writer or actor is in a much higher salary range compared to their professional peers. It does NOT mean the same thing as a CORPORATE "Producer" of Kevin Feige's level, who ultimately has the FINAL SAY on what does NOT end up on the cutting room floor. The corporate Producer must take into account the wishes of corporate's shareholders and board of directors, who are often multi-million if not multi-billion global investors who need the distribution of the product to succeed internationally in countries like China, which is very anti-LGBTQAI+. This is how a script like Eric Martin's S2E5 can be nuked and the writer can be contractually gagged from talking about its specific contents by Disney, lest they be SUED TO HELL for breaking their non-disclosure agreements (NDAs).

This doesn't even take into account politics.

In 2020, Ike Perlmutter, Chair of Marvel, "gave $575,000 to Trump For Victory, $35,500 to the Republican National Committee in April, $5600 for Texans For Ronny Jackson in February. 2019 saw him donate $248,000 to the Republican National Committee, $466,100 to Trump For Victory, $5,600 to Donald Trump For President." His wife, Laura, mirrored those donations. "In late 2016, he also gave $5,000,000 to the Great America PAC." [source] Ike was only recently laid off from his position in March 2023 [source]. Perlmutter was in a power-struggle at Marvel with Kevin Feige for years. Feige was promoted to Chief Creative Officer in 2019, which brought the power struggle to a head, ultimately contributing to Perlmutter's departure.

There is also Bob Iger, CEO of Disney, who was famously quoted during the Writers Guild of America strike for saying, “It’s very disturbing to me. We’ve talked about disruptive forces on this business and all the challenges we’re facing, the recovery from COVID which is ongoing, it’s not completely back. This is the worst time in the world to add to that disruption”

This is the worst time in the world to negotiate to pay your writers, YOUR CREATIVE LABOR FORCE, who entertained millions of people while they were stuck in their homes for 2 years, fairly?

And these are just two men in executive power at Marvel and Disney. We're not even talking about all the other board members and shareholders. You think Tom Hiddleston, Michael Waldron, and Eric Martin have any real power compared to these guys? They do not. They are peons by comparison. And these artists (despite their "Executive Producer" title) are always at odds with the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP), who are ultimately not artists but FINANCIERS.

Here's another quote from a studio executive that occurred during the writer's strike:

"Receiving positive feedback from Wall Street since the WGA went on strike May 2, Warner Bros Discovery, Apple, Netflix, Amazon, Disney, Paramount and others have become determined to “break the WGA,” as one studio exec blatantly put it.  

To do so, the studios and the AMPTP believe that by October most writers will be running out of money after five months on the picket lines and no work.

“The endgame is to allow things to drag on until union members start losing their apartments and losing their houses,” a studio executive told Deadline. Acknowledging the cold-as-ice approach, several other sources reiterated the statement. One insider called it “a cruel but necessary evil.”" [source 1] [source 2]

Fortunately, this negative press and the WGA members' solidarity led to the WGA getting everything they demanded. I still have friends in the industry, specifically in the WGA and MPEG. A lot of them were indeed starved out. My friend who's a film editor is still unemployed because pre-production has only recently started to ramp up again and her profession is all in post. She has to wait for production to catch-up and finish in order to get work.

If the AMPTP is willing to use clearly unethical tactics to underpay their writers and actors (don't forget the SAG-AFTRA strike that joined later), do we really think members of the AMPTP (the studio execs) are willing to honor artists' original intent if the original intent may be "offensive to some viewers" and therefore can potentially cut into their financial bottom line?

We're not naive. We know the answer to this.

OUR FLAG MEANS DEATH, KILLING EVE, AND GOOD OMENS

But what about OFMD, KE, and GO? These shows are on MAX, BBC, and Amazon Prime respectively. These corporations have a different branding image than Disney. Disney touts itself as "family friendly"; (read: on-screen LGBTQAI+ affection between two lead characters is "not family friendly"). MAX and BBC's branding type also affords them the luxury of creating content for niche audiences. Disney, on the other hand, makes additional revenue through using their plethora of licenses to make toys, additions to their theme parks, and other merch. If a parent is offended that a canonically queer character like Loki has romantic love not just for Sylvie but also for Mobius (a same-sex relationship), what are the odds of parents like them not buying Disney's merchandise? We can apply this same question to Star Wars, Pixar, and any of Disney-branded animation or live action movies. How deeply can audience offense potentially cut into Disney's bottom line? If there were no discrimination taking place, we would have LGBTQAI+ representation through a lead character in any one of their licenses already. We do not, and that is a huge red flag.

In addition, these entertainment corporations (who do not tout themselves as "family friendly") generate other sources of revenue elsewhere. Netflix generates international revenue through the production of international programming like "Squid Game" and other K-dramas such as "The Glory" or Mexican shows including, "The Surrogacy" and "Haunted: Latin America". MAX is struggling. They were bought out for that reason. With AppleTV and Hulu, their target audiences are more diverse, they offer a variety of media product, and their business strategy is ultimately different from Disney. All of this grants them more freedom in what kind of characters they choose to represent, including LGBTQAI+ characters.

Remember House and Wilson from House M.D.? That show was on FOX. We know the political alignment of FOX. Dean and Castiel from Supernatural? WB Television. Both shows came out before streaming became dominant, and thus, these shows had to cater to anyone who might happen to land on their channels. When the market demands that you cater to the widest possible audience in order to generate the largest revenue, the creatives are forced to create relatively conservative artistic product. Hence, creative censorship and our long history of queer subtext.

At Nickelodeon, the artists actually had the support of corporate to move forward with Korrasami because the final season Legend of Korra was only available online. It did not air on their channel. If that had not been the case, corporate would not have approved Korrasami. However, that approval was contingent upon the artists being subtle subtle about Korra and Asami's relationship. Even in this canon ship, the animators relied on subtext for queer romance.

Not helping Disney's case is the cancellation of "The Owl House". Why was "The Owl House" canceled? It didn't fit Disney's "brand". [source]

THE FAILURES OF THE "ORIGINAL INTENT" ARGUMENT IN HOLLYWOOD

The "Original Intent" argument fails when it comes to art in Hollywood because:

Original Intent can change, and often does change, during the creative process. This applies to all forms of art, not just Hollywood.

Multiple artists are involved in pre-production, production, and post-production. At any point in this 3-part process of filmmaking, original intent can be changed for a variety of reasons.

Studio Executives, Boards of Directors, and Corporate Shareholders have more power than the artists in Hollywood. If they think a product will not make money, they will order changes accordingly.

Disney specifically touts itself as "family friendly". Its lack of a lead character (in ANY of its live-action licenses) being in an openly queer relationship with someone who presents as the same sex, is the direct result of not wanting to lose conservative audiences.

Non-Disclosure Agreements (NDAs) are common in Hollywood and prevent artists from providing specifics regarding original intent. This is done not only to safeguard corporate's intellectual property (IP), but to also safeguard their public relations image.

THE ORIGINAL INTENT ARGUMENT WEAPONIZED

The "original intent" mindset can be either very naive or very cynical, depending on the thinker's motives for choosing this belief. Naive, in that thinking creative purity actually exists (it does not) or that oppression does not still occur in Hollywood (it does). Cynical, in that either the thinker doesn't believe in artists intentionally finding ways around mass produced arts' media censorship, which has in turn created our rich history of queer subtext in film, OR the thinker wants the "original intent" argument to invalidate a change they do not like.

The last motive is the same strategy used by fans who reject Miles Morales as being a real Spider-Man. The same strategy fans use to deny that Shuri is indeed the new Black Panther. Both are tactics used to mask racism and sexism beneath the veneer of "creative purity". Fans who have internalized racism, sexism, or queer-phobia may also use this tactic at a subconscious level to protect themselves emotionally from disappointment. Finally, there are fans who use this argument to invalidate another ship, usually a queer ship that cannot be formally canonized because of corporate studio power.

Regardless of the reasoning, using this argument is frequently insidious because it perpetuates straight white male dominance in media representation.

PERSONAL LIVED EXPERIENCE

I'm an old poc queer and have worked in Hollywood long enough to know that the writers' original vision rarely ever--IF EVER--pans out as originally intended. If you ever sit through a movie and wonder why the story feels so weird in certain parts, I can guarantee you that about 2/5ths of the time, a corporate producer stepped in and messed with the original story in post-production (usually in an poor, over-worked editor's dark editing bay) and ordered reshoots the director may not have agreed with.

I've also worked in the industry long enough to know that it is an absolutely toxic work environment in which women, people of color, and queer people still struggle to get a creative foothold anywhere. My first experience pitching a script to a prospective agent involved being asked to meet at a hotel for drinks. We didn't talk about my writing at all. What I thought would be a pitch meeting was actually the writer's version of the "Hollywood casting couch". Yes, I was propositioned. No, nothing happened to me. I walked out. This happened to me in June 2008. It was not my last experience. The "Me Too" movement that came years later in 2017 was in response to situations I have encountered like this.

Those of us who succeed are very rare, and 97% of the time, the executive staff is very, very white and male. There is absolutely oppression and exploitation of all sorts still happening in Hollywood. I fucking lived it and continue to have nightmares about it.

QUEER SUBTEXT STILL EXISTS

Thus, to deny queer subtext's validity as an art form and to only accept the words of those who are either in power or limited in what they can say because of those in power, undermines not only the artists' efforts to tell the story they want to tell but cannot tell explicitly, it also undermines queer joy and queer resistance in cinema. And yes, sometimes those artists are cis straight white male allies who want to tell these stories because they simply make sense for the characters. These people are the artists, not the financiers.

It's more mature to embrace, or at least leave alone, the loud joy others experience from shipping and performing meta-analysis instead of publicly pissing on them with the profoundly weak and ignorant argument of "original intent". Don't mess with me on this. The number of scripts I have worked on that completely warped from what I wanted, and then to have my writing credit removed or stolen, still makes me sick. Yes, I'm bitter, but I'm also glad I left.

[bird-slayer-brainrot]

Angels Don't Dance - Ineffable Husbands short fluff fic

Angels don't dance blah blah blah blah blah. He'd heard it a million times before. There was that one ball in Venice that Crowley technically wasn't supposed to be at but was at anyway.

(This was because one of the wives of a prominent business man had taken quite the shining to Crowley. As such, he'd made a new effort to steer clear of high society when and where he could. This particular evening and soirée being an exception. He'd heard the new Doge of Venice was making a rare appearance, and it wouldn't really hurt to make introductions.)

It wasn't long before Crowley spotted the angel by the corner, looking thoroughly uncomfortable in the dancing crowd of the ballroom. Crowley abandoned what he was doing (a rather dull conversation with a young women wearing a dark mauve gown that likely cost five years salary of one of the servers she'd chastised for spilling a tray of savory hor d'oeuvres in front of her.) and made his way across the room.

As Crowley approached, Aziraphale glanced up at him from his plate of appetizers. To his credit, he made no verbal comment about Crowley's attire. In typical Venetian fashion (if you could call it that), Crowley had adorned himself in a red gown that hugged his corporation tightly. His vibrant red hair was put up in an elaborate updo. He supposed his getup was rather simple compared to some of the ladies in attendance, but he wasn't there to make a scene.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, took in the demons appearance with a grin. He was dressed in a simple but elegant in a navy set with a gold patterned vest.

(Crowley tried really hard not to notice how it made his eyes look.)

"Crowley. how lovely it is to see you." The angel greeted him politely. "Are you here on business?"

Crowley, who really shouldn't be divulging such information to enemy agents (not that he was a stickler to the rules really), shook his head. "Pleasure, I'm afraid." A look crossed the angels face and Crowley grinned. "Though it is rather dull. Wanna get out of here?"

Aziraphale sighed. It was a game they played. They ran the words like a script. Aziraphale said "can't, I'm afraid, I have some business to attend to."

"Oh?" Crowley exclaimed sarcastically, raising his eyebrows for dramatic effect. "And does that business, by chance, involve sulking in the corner?"

Aziraphale fixed him a stare. Another part of the routine. "I'll have you know I'm waiting for the right opportunity." he emphasized the word with a pop of his lips. "To, well, engage my target."

Crowley hummed. It was no use getting more than that out of Aziraphale if he was choosing not to talk about it. After several hundred years, he knew this.

"Well, my dear gentlemen, would you care to join me in the next dance? I've heard it's a rather lively one."

Aziraphale's eyes darted up to meet Crowley's. He didn't look aghast as he normally did at Crowley's attempts at temptations, but something strange crossed his features. After several moments, a hesitant grin spread across his face, and he shook his head.

"I'm afraid, my dear, I shall not. My associate has arrived, it seems." Aziraphale tried not to make it sound too obvious that he was lying. "Though I'm sure there's many other men here who would have the pleasure." and before Crowley could respond, Aziraphale smiled at him shyly, and walked steadily away.

Crowley grimaced. His potential source of entertainment and only source of decent conversation in the whole Mediterranean had abandoned him in a ballroom full of boring, fussy humans. With nothing better to do, he went to fetch another drink.

That was not the last time Crowley would proposition the angel for a dance. That, too, became a part of the routine. So when Crowley arrived in Paris in the 16th Century (minor temptation of a Priest, shouldn't take more than a month but he was prepared to drag his feet, couldn't be too capable or he risked getting extra assignments from Head Office and he did not want that) at the palace where a grand reception was being held for a visiting monarch, it was with some delight that he spotted Aziraphale from across the room.

The Angel, surrounded by other noblewomen, was draped in an elegant white and silver gown that swept the floor around him with its sheer volume. It complimented nicely, Crowley noted, Aziraphale's pale complexion and his long, white hair worn long and tossed, almost like an afterthought over one shoulder, curling just at his bosom. His lips were accented with a soft pink rouge and Crowley couldn't help but think that the angel looked looked beautiful.

Unfortunately, their reacquaint would have to wait. Crowley followed the gaggle of noblemen (like Venice, they were all dressed ridiculously and were just as dull) of which he was supposed to be accompanying for discussions before the main affair, the Ball. And a small part of Crowley, though he would never admit to it, was looking forward to seeing how to evening played out.

These musings were interrupted, however, by the sudden arrival of Aziraphale by his side. Crowley blinked at the angel, who had seized his arm in the manner one might do a friend or a confidant. He nudged his head, and turned. Crowley followed.

Aziraphale miracle the doors shut. The angel had dragged him to an empty room in the Palace, a sitting room probably reserved for the women in the following days. It was quite an event.

Aziraphale watched him. He seemed nervous, his brow creased and complexion drawn. Crowley waited for him to explain.

"I need your help."

"I assumed." Crowley gestured to the space around them. Aziraphale rolled his eyes.

"Please take this seriously, dear. I'm in quite the pickle and I'm afraid you're the only one who can help me." Before Crowley could voice his objections, Aziraphale stepped forward, and grabbed Crowley's hands.

"I need you to teach me how to dance."

Aziraphale, who was usually quite particular during assignments from Head Office, was panicking. When he had taken the disguise of a French nobleman in order to infiltrate the Church and voice his recommendations for a promising young upstart as the position had recently become available (apoplexy, the old one, all that cheese). He had, however, failed to commit fully to the disguise. As a nobleman, he was expected to attend all societal gatherings. In the past, he'd managed to get away with making polite conversation with other partygoers, and, on rare occasion, abandoning the ballroom all together to seek out the empty library.

This was not an option tonight. No, tonight Aziraphale would be expected, required, even, to be as involved in the soirée as he could. Dancer, he was not. But that would not do.

"I am dreadfully sorry about this."

It had been nearly an hour, and they'd made little in the way of progress towards Aziraphale dancing at the skill a noble Frenchwoman of his (admittedly false) station would be expected.

Crowley had performed the steps to the four dances ("Just the basics" He had said. Aziraphale visibly paled.) at first by himself. Aziraphale had stopped him midway through the waltz and asked him to repeat the steps. Then again, then again, until Crowley had sighed and given up demonstrating, offering to teach Aziraphale the steps with him, as opposed to Aziraphale watching and learning.

This was slightly less difficult (emphasis on slightly). Aziraphale noticed with some both that Crowley, of course, was a natural. All lithe and graceful. He turned Aziraphale with all the grace of someone who'd had a millennia of practice. He really could dance with the best of them when he felt like it.

He was also enjoying Aziraphale's distress a bit too much. Crowley had one arm looped around Aziraphale's waist and the other held Aziraphale's hand. It probably didn't help that Aziraphale's skirts, layered in white and silver that seemed to move like the wind and exactly in the way of Aziraphale's steps

"Angel, how is it that you spun in the opposite direction from where I turned you?" There was no menace to his words. Aziraphale sighed heavily. The problem wasn't that Aziraphale was bad. Well, he was, but that was mostly a result of his hesitation. His inability to let go. Aziraphale was highly intelligent and a very quick learner, and he had a good sense of rhythm. Crowley did not doubt that Aziraphale would be able to follow the music. Maybe that could be the solution.

Aziraphale looked up as Crowley begun to hum. It was a slow song, something familiar, a simple orchestral waltz. Aziraphale continued to stare before Crowley stopped.

"Angel," he said softly, seriously. "I need you to relax, otherwise this is pointless." before Aziraphale could respond, he began to hum softly again. Then, moving, he led Aziraphale into the steps again.

Crowley would swear that Aziraphale was a natural.

At the end of their nearly two hour session, Aziraphale could dance. If Crowley hadn't been personally there to witness it, he would swear that it never happened. And yet, Aziraphale, flushed from the exertion, took one look at Crowley and grinned so brightly that Crowley was forced to admit that the angel had done a good job. This earn him an eye-roll, but he didn't regret it. They released each other, and, as Aziraphale stepped, back, hesitation seemed to sweep him once again. But before Crowley could say anything, the angel stepped forward again and placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Aziraphale drew back again, and smiled at Crowley.

"Thank you, my dear." he said softly.

Crowley, like the idiot he is, only nodded.

As Aziraphale swept out of the room, (tea with the ladies, Crowley assumed, or something like that) Crowley called out "Angel, save me a dance" and Aziraphale, grinning, nodded.

The angel would make good on Crowley's request later that evening. He was exhausted, having danced his way through the the men (and, on some occasions, the women) but he would dance with Crowley anyway.

[phocidine]

A Highlight Real of Lea’s Interview.

- A vast majority of people working on the project behind the scenes were young, inexperienced, queer, and female.

- Personal twitter accounts and dms were put under surveillance to make sure no one spoke about Forever or Wilbur.

- Lea was told not to translate Quackity’s statement on xenophobia while the Brazilians were getting mobbed in February.

- The discord rules channel was empty.

- Lea became an “assistant” after applying to be an actor. This position was described to Lea as doing tasks asked of her and also coming up with ideas for a week as a trial. Lea described the position as doing every job without getting paid, and it was not a trial. Lumi/Pomme has also done unpaid assistant work for a “trial”, but was not labeled as an assistant.

- Writers and assistants both wrote lore, but only writers were paid for it.

- Payment was always under 300 euros a month for those who did get paid.

- Lea and Lumi both did translation work (not together, Lea says she had to do all of the French translating by herself when she did that job) and were not paid for it. Both say that some other translators got paid, but only a very tiny amount.

- Lea was told by one of her supervisors that they didn’t want her to become an actor because she was competent and deserved to get paid. This supervisor was unaware she wasn’t getting paid and later helped her to get paid, but also told her her salary was confidential due to her NDA.

- The NDAs were fake. Literally the first result on google.

- There was another French person on the team besides Lea and Lumi that Lea didn’t know about until recently. His name is Louis Diox, he did sound design.

- Louis Diox says in chat that he was on an isolated discord and only ever communicated with the supervisors. Lea says people have come to her since her first statement saying they were also isolated.

- Someone who joined at the same time as Lea got fired because they had to take a week off for finals.

- Things often felt very personal, and there was jealousy. One supervisor seemed to be pitting the girls against each other, but didn’t do so with the guys.

- Lea only became an actor because she was about to leave and the studio didn’t want her to.

- Quackity came up with the prison event idea 5 days before it occurred. He came in and told everyone to completely redo the puzzles the day before the prison escape. He did not help with the work. This one of only two times Lea heard him speak.

- Writers were writing all of Quackity’s lore. As in, they were making scripts for his streams. This was a special case, usually writers create puzzles for streamers when they make lore for them.

- Lea says Quackity often made lore decisions that didn’t make sense, such as kidnapping Dapper when qQuackity could not possibly do that. Lea believes he was trying to get more attention for his streams. She implies higher ups did this too and prioritized big events over better established lore like the codes. This screwed over the writers.

- Pomme was supposed to get kidnapped and killed, but this was dropped because it was 2-3am in France and Lumi needed to sleep. So they came up with egg A1 instead.

- There’s a Boss that’s in charge of everything. Nobody knew who this person was or anything about them.

- Jay handled cybersecurity, but Lea doesn’t think he actually wrote that pdf. She suspects it was the boss, because Jay never spoke to her or her colleagues and the writing style sounded like the boss’s.

- Lea was interrogated on what she did wrong before getting fired. They never told her what she did wrong, she confessed to talking to streamers and her colleagues because she assumed that was it.

- Lumi lost access to the server 3-4 days before Lea came forward. People had been making plans for Pomme to disappear within the lore for weeks. Nobody knows why.

- Messages were sent to Lea’s colleagues defaming her after she was fired. Part of why she came forward was because she was scared when the French streamers went to Quackity they would just get gross lies about her as a response.

- The egg figurines are pre-orders, but are being advertised as “while supplies last”.

- Treatment was not equal between admins. Some got treated really well.

- Something complicated happened with Pol that Lea doesn’t think she’s in a position to talk about

- Lea has been in contact with the union, she was able to meet a lawyer because of them.

Disclaimer: This is a highlights real focusing on the worker abuse. I highly suggest people read the entire interview Pommunist posted if they have the time. There was SO MUCH in this interview.

I also encourage everyone to focus on the mistreatment of the admins here. Whether or not Lea is a good person doesn’t matter, but the worker abuse does.

[whoblewboobear]

DEADLINE: Well beloved actor Jace Stardiamond spotted through cafe window with brunette woman. Could she break him out of his life long bachelor streak?

VARIETY: Mysterious Brunette confirmed to be alternative indie-film darling, Zara Sool. Sool is set to co-star alongside Stardiamond in upcoming steamy period drama

Ruby met Jace 3/17 @jacespurplescarf: “does this mean he’s still single??? 👀”

Reply to @jacespurplescarf

Professor Bitch @elfc0ck27641: “single? look up him n his agent theyre VERY close 🍆🍑”

[Jace]: People r talking about us again.

[Porter]: Let them, I’ll have our pr guy scrub X in a few

[Jace]: stop guzzling Elon’s balls and call it Twitter like the rest of us.

[Porter]: keep talking and I won’t have dinner ready when you get home.

[Porter]: or fuck you.

[Jace]: I hate you 😣

[Porter]: Luv u too, kitten 😌 Look over those scripts I sent you btw I wanna confirm one by EOD

[Jace]: no corporate speak 🤢🤢 say it in English for ur idiot thespian bf

[Porter]: u don’t do theater rmr? 🙄 end of day. Aka 6pm when my day is over.

[Jace]: u can leave whenever u salaried bitch

[Porter]: no dinner + not fucking u + L + ratio

[Jace]: 🤢 HATE whatever that was

[Porter]: Sierra taught me 😋

[Jace]: do we have her this week? Gotta ban her from teaching her weirdo dad anymore slang

[Porter]: not sure yet, Zel says she got invited to a sleepover

[Jace]: should we go on vacay then?

[Porter]: ur in the middle of filming ur staying put 👀

[Jace]: ugh ur no fun

[Porter]: EOD, Jace. I mean it.

[Jace]: 📑📝✅💜🖕🏻

~

Acclaimed actor Jace Stardiamond was known to be perpetually single throughout his lengthy career. In reality he was screwing in five year long committed relationship with, yes, his very own agent, Porter Cliffbreaker. An absolute shark in the industry with a list of star-studded clientele.

Jace was a walking cliche, sue him.

It wasn’t his fault Porter opted for a blazer that barely fit his hulking arms the day they met. It ended in their completely professional conversation turning to Jace catching Porter’s lips in a chaste kiss on the front steps leading up to his mansion in the hills. He apologized and Porter continued on with his pitch like nothing happened, like a fierce blush wasn’t passing over his cheeks and ears. Jace signed the paperwork and Porter kept him at arms reach.

Until he took Jace out for a nice dinner to celebrate acing an audition. It wasn’t a special or memorable one. He wasn’t the lead. That night, Porter peered at him over his champagne flute (filled with ginger ale instead) before saying, “I’ll celebrate your wins, no matter the size. A win for you is a win for us.” Us.. he liked the thought of being an ‘Us.’

In the industry, there hadn’t been much opportunity for dating. Hookups were few and far between with trusted partners; none of them serious enough to commit to but they took care of each other’s needs. Porter took care of his career, but he wouldn’t mind if he took him apart instead. He sat across from the man fantasizing about how easily he could pick him up and pose him into whatever position he saw fit. The idea left him desperate.

When Porter summoned him for a meeting, he definitely wasn’t expecting the best agent he’s had in a decade to drop him. He was always the one trading up, not whatever the hell this was. They’ve only been working together for a year..

“Mr. Stardiamond, I have a conflict of interest and I can no longer be your agent. I apologize.” Jace didn’t make it a habit of screaming at people on his payroll. It was a level of disgusting he didn’t tolerate, but if what he was hearing was true.. Porter was quitting- or? Firing him? He wasn’t exactly sure which suited the situation better, but he knew he wanted to scream.

“What the hell? Don’t Mr. Fucking Stardiamond me. What conflict of interest?”

“I’m attracted to you. I could get fired.” Jace’s mouth goes dry and his heart kicks off into overdrive. Porter.. liked him back?

“We can’t just talk to HR or something?” Porter looks up from his computer screen, realization dawning on him as Jace’s bright, determined eyes peer back at him. “We’d only do that if- oh?”

“Yeah, you fucking idiot. Be my boyfriend, be my agent, be both. Who fucking cares. We don’t have to go public. I don’t like- dating and publicity gets messy.”

“You’re not seeing anyone, I take it?”

“Christ, Porter. No, I jerk off thinking of you in plane bathrooms like a loser. I’ve had more wet dreams about you than I can count. I- can I kiss you again? A real kiss.”

“After I fill out the paperwork for HR.” Jace rolls his eyes, resting his chin on his hand, smiling at Porter across his desk. The walls were glass, he couldn’t do anything now, he knew that. Every inch of him burned to close the distance. To push everything off Porter’s desk and let him drill into him while the corporate jag offs milling about watched.

“Let me take you out tonight.”

~

Porter hadn’t considered that he’d be on a flight later when Jace offered to take him out. But here he was, on a private plane headed across the world for a dinner date. LA had all the food they could ever want, but Jace insisted this Parisian restaurant was the best of the best. He was right and Porter was almost impressed. Almost.

“You don’t have to throw money around, I already like you.” Jace hums, taking a deep sip of the top shelf wine he requested for the both of them. Porter was familiar with it. “Can you just enjoy the nice date thing I’m trying to do with you?”

“I am. But I have to meet with a client at six am and I’d like to go to gym at five without being jet lagged,” he smirks.

He knew provoking Jace like this would only push him to brat territory. He liked when Jace got bratty with him. He’d only seen it in a professional sense- as professional as Jace could manage (not much.) It was like he was allergic to playing the part outside of watchful eyes.

From what he heard, Jace was on his best behavior once he waltzed into a place where he was know, where anyone could be watching. But Porter loved how candid he could be when they were alone. Clients were entitled to their masks, he wore his own to get by, but Jace? He took his off the minute Porter closed his office door. The entire floor could see them, his body language remained tactful, but his words? Blunt, opinionated, and clever.

He was so charming, Porter imagine you had to have that quality to be an actor. Actor charm never quite broke down his walls until Jace. Something about those golden eyes and that bright smile. He was also attractive. Even in the dim restaurant lighting he looked breathtaking.

This was a good first date, but Christ he needed more. He needed to know what Jace sounded like when his fingers explored his body.

“Porter?”

“Yeah- sorry. Wine’s getting to my head a bit.”

“You took one sip,” Jace raises an eyebrow. “I don’t usually drink.” Jace eyed him curiously.

“Do you wanna head to the tarmac? We could fuck on the flight home.”

“You fuck on the first date?”

“I don’t date, remember.”

“Still dunno if I believe you or not.” Jace shrugs at that. “Is it that hard to believe? I’ve been on camera since I was a month old. There isn’t enough time or privacy in the world.”

“And you think this’ll work out?”

“I do. I’m confident.”

Five years later and Jace was still confident, but more importantly, he was right.

[justforbooks]

James Foley

American film director best known for Glengarry Glen Ross and At Close Range

The film director James Foley, who has died from brain cancer aged 71, was a self-effacing and shrewd stylist whose camerawork always served the actors and the psychology of the characters. This thespian focus was best showcased in his 1992 adaptation of David Mamet’s stage play Glengarry Glen Ross; its heavyweight cast, which included Al Pacino, Jack Lemmon, Alec Baldwin, Ed Harris and Kevin Spacey, might have overwhelmed a less purposeful supervisor.

But in his hands this dissection of American capitalism, set in a beleaguered real-estate office, became an actors’ masterclass; the cast would turn up on their days off to watch each other work. Foley had been convinced to direct it by a new version of Mamet’s script that broke down what on stage had been cerebral monologues into pithy, visceral repartee. Accordingly, the director insisted on casting “great actors, people with movie charisma, to give it watchability, especially since the locations were so restricted”.

Recruiting Pacino as Ricky Roma, the star salesman, Foley had the luxury of a three-week rehearsal period. He used it to avoid a pitfall endemic to Mamet: “There was a real danger that actors could get seduced by the superficial level of gratification that comes with saying great dialogue. I was much more interested in getting actors that had an interior, emotional life,” he told the WHYY radio station in Philadelphia.

With many of the stars reducing their salaries to come on board, egos were on hold – a prerequisite for Foley. “My litmus test is I have to be able to make fun of actors, and of who they are, and their fame,” he said.

It paid dividends: the finished Glengarry Glen Ross had a commanding intensity and bite. The “always be closing” pep talk – an added scene with Baldwin in the role of head office’s ball-breaking envoy – later became a staple of acting classes. The film’s prising open of male belligerence and insecurity was a recurrent feature in Foley’s films, which were often noir-inflected, character-focused crime dramas. Its milieu of tawdry salesmanship, and the eternal imperative of the hustle, must surely have resonated with his struggle to rise up Hollywood’s pecking order.

Born in Bay Bridge, Brooklyn, New York, James was the son of Frances and James Sr, a lawyer, and grew up in Staten Island. After graduating in psychology from the State University of New York at Buffalo in 1974, he abruptly switched tack to cinema after taking a six-week course at New York University. He then studied for a master’s degree at the University of Southern California’s School of Cinematic Arts in 1979.

Foley was offered the chance to direct by Hal Ashby, an errant New Hollywood auteur; Ashby was impressed by one of the young man’s films being projected on to a wall at a student party. They never made anything together, but what Foley described as Hollywood’s “weird calculus” meant Ashby’s patronage was enough to earn him the directorial chair on his first feature: a derivative but energetic high-school romance, Reckless (1984).

He followed it up with the crime drama At Close Range (1986), starring his friend Sean Penn as a Pennsylvanian latchkey teenager drawn into the orbit of his psychopathic father, played by Christopher Walken. Not only exhibiting Foley’s way with actors, especially in Walken’s flamboyant but subtly shaded performance, the director also imbued the film with an insistent romanticism. He later summed up his low-key approach to style as: “I like getting the movie inside of the drama as if there was no director involved.”

Foley’s connection to Penn led to him directing the screwball comedy Who’s That Girl (1987), starring the actor’s then wife, Madonna (he was best man at the couple’s wedding, and directed the music videos for Madonna’s Live to Tell, Papa Don’t Preach and True Blue, under the name Peter Percher). Who’s That Girl was a critical and commercial bomb; Foley had to regroup in the wake of this atypical foray into lighter material: “It was a major life experience. That first failure is so shocking,” he told Film Freak Central.

He returned with the fraught and intense desert noir After Dark, My Sweet (1990), adapted from the 1955 Jim Thompson novel, which was Foley’s only feature-writing credit. Although, like many of his films, it was a commercial failure despite critical admiration, it earned him Pacino’s attention for Glengarry Glen Ross.

Foley continued working throughout the 90s and early 2000s, with his two films with Mark Wahlberg – the teen sociopath thriller Fear (1996) and the actioner The Corruptor (1999) – finding moderate commercial success. But the critical lashing and commercial failure of the costly $60m cyberstalking neo-noir Perfect Stranger (2007), starring Halle Berry and Bruce Willis, led to him being consigned to “director jail” for a time.

For much of the 2010s, he worked exclusively in TV, a medium about which he expressed reservations; among other jobs, David Fincher – whose psychological slant he shared – hired him to direct 12 episodes of the Netflix series House of Cards.

For his final features he accepted a franchise gig: directing the two sequels to Fifty Shades of Grey, in 2017 and 2018. Easily the most commercially successful films of his career, he viewed them with a certain pragmatism. “The movie is not going to win Oscars,” he said of Fifty Shades Darker. “But I don’t think it’s going to win Razzies [Golden Raspberry awards]. That’s my goal – to not win a Razzie.”

Having weathered several cycles of fortune within Hollywood, this journeyman took the long view: “I’m interested in studying the history of directors, and why they make a few good films and then fall off the map. You look to the credits of episodic TV and there they are – and I think that it has so much to do with how you respond to failure.”

He is survived by a brother, Kevin, and two sisters, Eileen and Jo Ann.

🔔 James Foley, film director, born 28 December 1953; died 6 May 2025

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[robbno]

"If they talked to us directly" part 1

Me: "Hey there. I'm looking for a new smartphone. I would love one with a stylus if possible"

SW (Service Worker): "Hello! We have this model. Quite a gem. Only for the price of three monthly salaries."

Me: "Look at that. That model has no stylus and it's the most expensive one in here. I'll pass."

SW: "How about one with a screen on both sides? Only twice the price, like we glued two normal smartphones together while sharing one system"

Me: "Again. Not what I asked for. I only see a product with a 100% risk of cracked screens (plural) within the first month. Try again."

SW: "This one can be folded."

Me: "... Huh?"

SW: "Right in the middle. Like a sad little depressed pop tart."

Me: "So basically a phone that turns it's mass to thickness instead of being just tall. Also with a faint, yet ugly folded line across the middle of the screen. Let me guess. It's expensive as hell?"

SW: "Oh yes. Also that one comes with screens on all sides. Even on the charger itself."

Me: "So all that stuff are considered 'practical' features for a phone and having a built in stylus is not?"

SW: "Because 'fuck you.'" *starts sweating nervously and flips the register screen towards me* "No really. It's what the company script is telling me to say at this point."

Me: "Just give me a budget one. One screen, no ice, no umbrella. And hold the branded sparkly paper straw please."