#Part XX

[randomfoggytiger]

The Scully Family In-Depth (Part XX): The Brotherhood of Miscommunication

We left off with Scully agreeing (against her brother and mother's inclination, post here) to give Mulder's treatment a shot; and Mulder stealthily retreating from the family circle, drifting away from Maggie (despite her warm welcome) and Bill to keep company with his guilt.

And that is where Bill Scully finds him, closes the door behind them, and lets Mulder have it.

IF YOU LOVED HER, YOU'D HAVE LEFT HER

Having taken Bill’s words to heart, Mulder sits outside, alone, while the Scully family hover together to discuss the upcoming procedure. 

But he's not solitary for long: Bill comes out, intent on either an errand or a bathroom trip. Mouth screwed up and eyes stoically averted, he starts to lope past his sister's partner, ignoring his submissive, head-down posture.

Mulder, meanwhile, raises his head, prepared for a confrontation.

Bill ignores-- or pretends to ignore-- his gesture, keeping his eyes straight ahead. However, he catches Mulder's screwed-up mouth and “of course" expression with the sixth sense of a heat-seeking missile. It galls him, stoking the fire burning in his chest.

But the opportunity presented is too good-- and Bill, despite his initial intentions to leave well enough alone, slows, mentally assessing whether this interrogation would be worth it.

At this point, Bill can't make out what sort of man Mulder is: is he neglectful and vacant, manipulative and narcissistic, or weak-willed and selfish? Bill knows-- assumes the truth, rather-- that Dana is in love with this man ("Where is he, Dana? Where is he through all this?"); but the key to his interactions and perceptions with her partner is rooted in one aspect: is he aware Mulder loves Scully in return? The answer is, again, that he assumes the answer is yes, which is good enough in his book.

Bill does know Mulder loves her-- saw it the moment he'd first locked eyes on them huddled on Scully's bed, whispering; saw it when Mulder held and kissed her hand as he greeted the family (post here.) But that's not enough for him, an older brother who's already lost a sister to this man's insane, crazy, fanatical quest. To this man's aliens and conspiracy. And in this moment, Bill-- a man restrained by social stigma, not empathetic silence-- can't, absolutely cannot walk away without knowing what sort of love Fox Mulder has for his sister. To judge for himself if that love was worth what she will die from.

Finding he can't pass up this opportunity while Mulder’s actions, their ramifications, and his sister’s pain lies heavily on his shoulders, Bill turns back, slipping his hands into his pockets and staring ahead as he calmly formulates a plan of attack. 

Mulder’s head shoots up, eyebrows wrinkling higher and hands clasping tighter when he realizes Bill is methodically circling back. 

By the time Bill turns around, he has his guard up-- forehead smoothed, hands rubbing against each other.

Bill sags a bit backward, slumpy and jerky in disbelief. He needs to know if Mulder believes what he spouts-- is he a charlatan, Bill thinks, or a fool?

“Yes, I do," Mulder responds, shining with conviction.

Bill softly snorts: disbelief and disgust temporarily overshadowed by an "I shouldn't be surprised" superiority. Nodding along as if some little kid had given the expected wrong answer, he measures how best to follow up Mulder’s childlike belief. 

It’s interesting that Bill's next plan of attack hits directly home: not needing to name Scully, not even bothering to couch his statement under disguise of any sort. Bill has been observing both agents; and he’s come to a few correct conclusions: that Scully is devoted to Mulder, and that Mulder is at least aware of this devotion.

It's also interesting that he is speaking very carefully here, preferring to unspool "the enemy's" motives before outright labeling and dismissing him. It’s a technique to accurately identify and obliterate an opponent, but it’s also a holding back, an opportunity for Mulder to prove himself and correct the record. In short, it's a mark of militaristic fairness Bill would have had instilled in him growing up: that mess-ups require fess-ups; and that terrible outcomes require harsh punishments. Standards are held high, and circumspect behavior is expected, always. Here, he is giving Mulder the chance to absolve himself and be clearly understood, perhaps forgiven; or to confess to his faults; or to double down without remorse.

“You see… she’s your big defender but….” Bill pauses and briefly looks into Mulder’s eyes-- an implication that this used to be an office she gave to her family, to her father and himself. That this is a mark of how much his sister cares for her partner, taking his side over her brother's; and that he'd better be aware of what this means. Swallowing, he continues, “I think the truth of it is she just doesn’t want to disappoint you.”

Mulder looks away then, too, opening his mouth and sucking in more air as he shoves back against the wall and folds his arms protectively together. 

Bill is correct-- Scully has admitted her own struggles with not wanting to let Mulder down to her therapist-- but not completely. He saw his sister’s withdrawal, her lie, and her stonewalling; and he saw her retreat to the job, her bloody shirt after being knocked down, and her solo soldiering act, all in the service of a partner who doesn’t-- to his knowledge-- care to make sure she’s all right. A partner who chases windmills to satisfy his ego and who brings back pseudoscience to shove down her throat. Quite literally, Mulder is peddling a cure for cancer that neither his sister nor her doctor has heard of; and Bill has to stand by, and watch, as she goes through a procedure he sees as another futile, cruel hope dangled before her eyes. Yet still he pauses, and asks, and listens before completely condemning.

Even so, he will ultimately condemn without “having all the facts.” 

Mulder gathers himself, sighs, and turns back to face Bill. “If it works, I don’t care what you think she thinks.”

To Bill, that is direct confirmation that Mulder is crashing through Dana’s life without caution, without consideration, and without regard. He huffs again, so angry his taut, displeased smile tightens even further. Dropping all pretense, voice lowering with disdain, he states, “You’re a real piece of work, Mr. Mulder.”

Mulder fights back against Bill’s insinuation, viewing him as yet another person willing to let the bodies stack in an effort to preserve what they do or don’t believe in. “Why is that? Because I don’t think the way you think?”

Bill stares him down, assuming Mulder is avoiding responsibility by laying the blame at his or the world’s or the aliens’ feet. 

“Because I don’t sit passively back and watch the family tragedy unfold?” Mulder stabs, lowering all pretenses in the face of open distain-- a tactic he adopted with Bill Patterson, with Blevins, with A.D. Skinner, with countless review boards, with countless disbelievers.

Mulder believes Bill is making this moment about him, and Bill believes Mulder is making this moment about himself. In so doing, they communicate past each other until it's too late to course correct.

Bill refuses to let Mulder shirk responsibility for everything that’s happened, quietly insisting, “You’re the reason for it.” He swallows, voice matter of fact with anger. 

Mulder doesn’t respond, his expression delayed a few seconds by paralyzing numbness; and when he opens his mouth, brain scrambling for a response, Bill cuts his efforts short, plowing ahead.

“And I’ve already lost…,” he halts, voice raspy, “...one sister to this quest you’re on.”

Mulder looks down, taking the blow with a tear there-and-gone in his left eye. He knows this pain, knows where Bill is bleeding, knows where this will inevitably leave him. 

“Now I’m losing another.” Bill’s nostril flares, and he looks down with a hauntingly young expression-- the boy who must live without his baby sister.

Convulsively swallowing and craning his head away, he shudders out a sigh, closes his eyes briefly, and forces himself to look Mulder square in the face. 

“Has it been worth it? To you, I mean. Have you found what you’ve been looking for?” he asks, the ultimate question.

“No,” Mulder admits.

“No," Bill repeats, a sheen of tears in his eyes. Snapping his head back, he stresses, "Do you know how that makes me feel?”

“In a way, I think I do," Mulder responds, voice tender and confessional. "I lost someone very close to me. I lost a sister. I lost a father. All because of this thing I’m looking for.”

Mulder finally understands what Bill is doing-- wanting answers for his pain. And Mulder tries his best to give them, not having those answers for himself. However, his response is too late: Bill Scully, Jr. has already judged, and found him lacking.

“'This' what? Little green aliens?” Bill taunts, shoving the other man out of this zone of familiarity. He understands duty, and sacrifice, and sacrifice to (and death in the face of) duty; but aliens and conspiracy fly in the face of everything he knows and believes. He is expecting, demanding, a better answer.

Looking aside and down, Mulder realizes Bill will reject whatever attempt he makes toward a connection. It's another narrative moment that reminds us that, without Scully, he is truly alone. Mulder knows this and has to accept it.

Putting on a brave face, he glances back up with a lopsided smile. “Yeah," he concurs. “Little green aliens.”

The audience knows Mulder no longer believes in aliens in Redux II-- making his statement poignantly ironic and heart wrenching. Scully's brother, however, does not; and Mulder decides the effort to explain himself would be lost in Bill Scully's anger.

He continues to hold the other man's gaze, eyes terribly sad and terribly alone-- the face of a fellow sufferer.

Bill recognizes it; and is repulsed, viewing Mulder's suffering as the torment of a parasite who is pulled, wiggling, from the body of its victim. The epitome, to him, of selfish callousness. Patience gone, he curses Mulder out, refusing to take pity on the other man's anguish.

Mulder breaks eye contact, shaking and turning his head to escape the pain. Finally, he completes the circuit back to Scully's brother, staring at him with the eyes of a child whose father left and whose mother slapped him. 

Bill watches the complete evolution of pain and despair, resolute.

It seems horrifically cruel to those of us who know Mulder; but to Bill, an outsider, Mulder is a dangerous liability to his sister’s peace. He can’t save her, he almost couldn’t be there for her, and his absence (he believes) has been filled by a dysregulated, self-involved force that destroyed her life. His satisfaction in this moment is derived from a belief that Mulder has finally, finally, been put in his place. 

“And I don’t have more to say.”

Bill walks away without another word, leaving Mulder to wallow, once more, alone. 

CONCLUSION

Bill Scully and Fox Mulder royally botched the one moment they had to understand each other.

To Bill, Mulder has become a thorn to put up with until Dana is at rest: he won’t fight with him in front of her, he won’t object to him hanging around like a whimpering animal, and he won’t protest if she listens to her partner’s advice over his own. But he refuses to let Mulder run roughshod over her last days on Earth; and will be there to guard her bedside until she's gone.

Thanks for reading~

Enjoy!

[fadeintoyou1993]

NATALIA DYER as Annie CHESTNUT (2023)

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!eddie

part 2 here | ao3 link here

Eddie chose a career in voice acting to avoid shit like this.

Forced socializing. Schmoozing with hotshot directors who are used to everyone kissing their ass until their lips bleed. And Eddie doesn’t do that shit. 

… Okay yeah sure, Eddie kisses asses. But only in the literal, consensual kind of way. Usually after a few mediocre dinner dates, at least.

But this particular fuckhole of a director is insisting that Eddie attends the production shoot of the commercial that he’ll be narrating for. Which is weird - that’s not how this process typically goes. Eddie gets the script and records it in his studio. Easy peasy.

“I do things a little differently with my projects.” The director sneers into the phone’s speaker. Eddie silently gags at the oozing amounts of ego on this guy. “I want to immerse you into my vision.”

Ew. Eddie would rather immerse himself into a nap, but whatever. A job is a job.

“Understood.” Eddie agrees with minimal teeth-clenching. “I’ll be on set shortly.”

The phone clicks dead with nothing but a chuckle from the guy. No ‘goodbye,’ no ‘thank you.’ Rude… but that’s kind of an industry standard, so why did Eddie expect anything different?

He folds the script into his back pocket, throws on a shirt that screams ‘Los Angeles disaster gay,’ and makes his way to the studio lot.

Fucking yay. 

Upon arrival, the director immediately escorts Eddie into the green room. Rambles on about needing him to meet the lead model for this commercial.

“Isn’t he just posing with the product?” Eddie lets his snarkiness run loose with that question, knows it right away.

Luckily, the guy is too busy snapping at a crew member to notice. “You’ll be voicing his character’s inner narrations.”

“Right.”

“And I want your tone to be seamless with the energy that he’s giving in this shoot. Got it?”

“Loud and clear.” Mostly loud.

The director swings open the door and reveals maybe the most cosmically beautiful person that Eddie has ever seen.

“Eddie, this is Steve.” The director says. “Steve, this is Eddie.”

Models are beautiful people, that’s the goddamn gig. Makeup, no makeup. Photoshop, no photoshop. They just look better than the general population and society accepts that as a fact.

But Eddie is a grubby little voice actor that burrows himself up in his boxy apartment for days. Very little sunlight, very little human interaction, and a shit ton of takeout.

Long story short, he doesn’t get out much. So this? Seeing a biblically hot heartthrob in the flesh? With his own two eyes? It’s knocking him into deep space. Sending him into an astral projection without sticking a tablet on his tongue first.

“Nice to meet you, man.” Steve holds out his hand while someone brushes more powder onto his shiny, glowy skin. God, that’s the best damn skin Eddie has ever seen. Powder be damned, Steve doesn’t need it’s chalky finish.

Eddie shakes himself out of this spell, takes Steve’s hand like he’s somehow worthy of touching him. “Yeah, you too.”

Lame. So lame. On a scale of one to Star Wars prequels, his response is the CGI in Attack of the Clones. ‘Yeah, you too?’ Ugh, what a dumbass.

The director tells them to get acquainted and to be on set in ten minutes. Ten minutes. Eddie has to be convincingly normal for ten whole minutes. Pfft, that’s laughable, but he’ll give it a shot.

“That guy’s a total asshat.” Steve grumbles.

Oh. Eddie could smother him in kisses for saying that. Lick Steve clean of all that stupid powder and probably die of talc poisoning. Death By Licking a Model is one hell of a way to go.

“Yeah.” Find some new words, Munson. “Major asshat. But he happens to be paying my bills this month, so technically, he’s my favorite major asshat.”

“Oh, same.” Steve laughs. It’s fucking glorious too. Eddie kind of wishes he had brought his microphone so that he could capture such a wonderful sound with high quality recording software. Is that creepy? Maybe he should dial it back. 

... As if. This guy’s hair is sculpted with effortless perfection and his shoulder blades could slice through a French baguette. No way Eddie can dial it back or keep it together.

“So you’re doing the voice work on the commercial, right?” Steve asks.

‘Yup.” Eddie shoves both hands into his pockets. “Indeed I am.” 

Okay, that was borderline Yoda. Get a grip.

Steve seems unfazed though. “That’s cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“Thanks.” Eddie smiles warmly. Nerves mellowing out. “And I can’t wait to see you in action out there.”

“Hope I can give you some good inspiration.” And Steve winks, legit winks at Eddie. Does it like it’s normal too, like he winks at everybody. He probably winks at nuns just to see if he can get them to consider conversion.

Eddie is so hopeless. Fucking tragic at this point.

They walk into the studio and are greeted by a somber, archaic set design. There’s a massive throne in the middle that is draped with fur. 

It’s… tacky. That’s the nicest adjective Eddie has to describe it. Tacky bullshit.

“I thought this was for a cologne ad.” Eddie says, eyeing the snowy backdrop.

Steve nods. “It is.”

“So what’s with the secondhand Game of Thrones set?”

“Mr. Asshat thinks this is his cinematic debut.”

Eddie snorts. Loves that he already has inside jokes with this beautiful, beautiful creature. “Someone should tell Mr. Asshat that this is visual plagiarism.”

“Nah.” Steve runs his hand over the tacky fur piece. Smirks to himself as he speaks. “I say we let him suffer.”

Eddie’s legs wobble. “Damn, you’re hot.”

He sounds ridiculously uncool, so breathy and gone. But Steve shrugs in a non-pitying kind of way, so maybe Eddie's uncoolness is excused. Or expected.

While the camera and lighting crew finalize their positions, Steve takes off his robe, revealing his costume.

Torn, muddied pants. Ripped and clawed to shreds. A billowy white top that’s completely unbuttoned. Un-laced? Eddie’s not entirely sure about the mechanics - just knows that Steve’s chest is out, that’s all he can focus on.

There’s a dented crown that the stylist places next to the throne, right at Steve’s feet. It’s shimmery yet tarnished, catches the light in a kaleidoscope effect.

The product is called The Fallen King, so deductive reasoning tells Eddie that Steve is meant to be the physical embodiment of this scent. He recalls something in the script about his title being slandered by promiscuity and forbidden love. Apparently they’ve bottled up that smell into a cologne. 

Do people really want to smell like a dethroned monarch? That’s a thing? Huh.

Just to make the sexual torture even more unbearable, Eddie gets to spectate alongside Mr. Asshat himself. Which also means that Eddie almost has a center view of Steve’s performance.

Cause that’s exactly what he’s giving. A performance. A full display production of his body, his face. His whole godlike essence. 

It’s unfair how fucked Eddie is from watching Steve pose. He can hold the oddest positions without budging a single tendon. So still. Durable. Strong.

Every last thought in Eddie’s head is impure from that observation. He wants to wrap his fingers around Steve’s muscles until he finally moves, twitches. Eddie wants to watch as Steve’s pretty lips part, falling open with sighs. See how long it takes for those sighs to turn into moans.

Steve slumps back into the throne, legs spread obscenely far apart. His gaze droops low and dark, practically eye-fucking the camera. It’s crazy how jealous Eddie is of that stupid inanimate object. The things he would do to get eye-fucked by that golden sex god up there…

His internal porno gets interrupted by a new pose. A wicked one. Steve is on his knees now, looking up into the camera lens. He sinks into the dreamiest expression. Looks dazed, all spaced-out and helpless. Eddie kneads at the growing heat in his pants with the heel of his palm. Hopes it’s not fucking obvious that he’s so horned up right now.

The director clears his throat and yells over the camera’s constant shuttering. “Can you tilt your head back, Steve?”

And Steve does. So obedient, so exceptional at his job. His head rolls back on his neck, shoulders sagging with the shift of weight.

Eddie is chewing the inside of his cheek, nearly ready to take the horny loss and go jack off in his car. Steve is in the most ideal position now, totally vulnerable. Eddie could fuck him so good like that, let Steve melt into his touch. He’d treat him like treasure, spoil him with dick and praise. Eddie would catch him if his legs give out. Would lick Steve’s kiss-bitten lips until the swelling goes down.

God, Eddie is so sick in the head for conjuring up x-rated scenes like this. In public, surrounded by strangers. Literally on the clock. He seriously needs to get his head checked for having such a whorish imagination.

The shoot ends shortly after that last pose, the one that rocked Eddie’s world. He closes his eyes for a minute, takes a few deep breaths. Tries to inhale some goddamn decency.

“How was it?” Steve heads his way, snaking his arms back into the bathrobe.

Eddie blinks hard. “It was… you were…” And the words stop. Nothing else comes out, his throat is strangled and bare.

Steve gives a soft laugh, nudges Eddie’s arm with his elbow. “Guess you do better when there’s a script in front of you, huh?”

Oh. So he’s pretty and darkly playful? This is too good, too delicious.

Eddie wets his bottom lip, recovers quickly. “I do better when there’s not an earthbound angel in my presence.”

“Wow.” Steve raises both eyebrows. “That’s quite the compliment.”

“Oh come on - you must get compliments all the time.”

“Not like that one though.”

“No?”

Steve takes a step into Eddie’s space. “Definitely not.”

They just stare after that - mostly because it’s Eddie’s turn to speak but words are so secondary when there’s this much beauty to behold. Gazing becomes his top priority.

And before the conversation can lead to an exchange of last names or phone numbers, Steve is rushed off by his agent. Maybe his publicist. Maybe his mom, Eddie has no fucking clue. Just someone taking away his shiny new toy. He sort of feels like reenacting that scene in Cast Away when the volleyball drifts into the ocean. Be dramatic as all hell about this ending.

Eddie doesn’t actually jack off in his car, although he really wants to. No, he decides to use all of his adrenaline and pent-up hormones for the voice recording. It gives his vocals this strained, chesty sound. Sinful and corrupt. Cracking with emotion in certain spots, spiking the volume in all the right ways.

It might be too much, a little bit too suggestive for a lousy cologne advertisement.

But as he listens back, Eddie can’t help but picture Steve. Imagining snapshots of him from every angle, especially the unspeakable ones. The recording barely sounds like a script anymore. It almost sounds like Eddie whispering the lines directly into Steve’s ear. A dirty secret between them.

This is it, he thinks. Sends the audio file to his sound mixer without a second read-through, without a retake. This might be the best voiceover Eddie Munson has ever done.

[seagull-scribbles]

Turtles of Time

<prev [2/7] next>

[metroid-fusion]

5p

[yellowloid]

alex turner as paintings of women

the birth of venus - william-adolphe bouguereau (1879) // venus of urbino - tiziano vecellio (1538) // mary magdalene in the cave - jules joseph lefebvre (1876) // ophelia - john everett millais (1851-52) // crying girl on the sofa - peter knudsen (1919)

[leclerrari]

[ask-misconduct]

I'm sorry if this is a bit personal, but what do you think Papyrus is doing now?

ouch these asks are ouch

(keep going)

previous - next

(first)

[allgreekbitch]

I THINK ILL MISS YOU FOREVER😭😭😭😭😭😭😭😭

[daffi-990]

Seven(ish) Sentence Sunday ✍️

Tagged by @diazsdimples @giddyupbuck and @wikiangela. Thank you lovelies mwah 😘

Have a little something from LA Lonely -> this is after the fun and orgasms of Buck and Eddie’s hook up. Still don’t know if I’m going to go full spice 🌶️ or just do a quick little run down of things.

Prev snippet & mood board here

Buck expects him to start pulling his clothes on and to give him the whole “this was fun, but I gotta bounce” speel, but Eddie surprises him by climbing back into bed and nudging Buck to roll onto his side so Eddie can scoot up behind him and hold him.

Buck freezes for a moment because no one does this. They have their fun and then they leave. They don’t stay and they definitely don’t cuddle.

Eddie must feel him go tense because his hold loosens and he moves as if he’s about to pull away. “Is this okay?”

Buck grabs at the arms that are wrapped around him, stopping Eddie’s descent. “Y-yeah. It’s-it’s okay.” He pulls at Eddie’s arms and the man settles back behind him, burrowing his face into the juncture where Buck’s neck meets his shoulder as he shuffles closer.

Soft kisses are pressed into his skin and Buck is helpless but to relax back into Eddie, letting the comfort and warmth of whatever is happening wrap around him.

“Stay?” He whispers, not sure if Eddie can hear him but not being brave enough to say it any louder. He feels like he’s asking too much.

A kiss behind his ear. “Okay.”

No pressure tagging: @hippolotamus @puppyboybuckley @exhuastedpigeon @spotsandsocks @devirnis @wikiangela @hoodie-buck @honestlydarkprincess @homerforsure @monsterrae1 @missmagooglie @mellaithwen @nmcggg @lover-of-mine @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @bekkachaos @wildlife4life @watchyourbuck @weewootruck @elvensorceress @eddiebabygirldiaz @evanbegins @rewritetheending @rainbow-nerdss @captain-hen @jeeyuns @jesuisici33 @glorious-spoon @fortheloveofbuddie @fiona-fififi @disasterbuckdiaz @thewolvesof1998 @try-set-me-on-fire @theotherbuckley @steadfastsaturnsrings @tizniz @athenagranted @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove @spagheddiediaz @sunshinediaz and as always, anyone else who wants to share something -> consider this your tag ☺️

[singforabsoluca]

Hey guys I finally got around to making plug in baby art after having the idea in my brain for like 4 months.

Close ups + references:

For references. Generally was inspired by the plug in baby spin (i specifically looked at the one from ab brussels in 2003)

And his evil pose from the beginning of the MV

[funkily]

in my experience body doubling works great until theres more than like 3 of you and youre all mentally ill because then it all cancels out and your buddies are making presidential tierlists and watching animusic

[harmonictechnicality]

model!steve and voice actor!Eddie (part 2)

part 1 here | ao3 link here | the temp is up on this one so like... dni if under 18 pls

Steve spends a lot of his spare time at the gym. Comes with the territory of modeling or whatever. Gotta keep himself strong, without developing bulging muscles. Gotta keep himself toned, without becoming too lean. Somewhat of a balancing act to this media fuckery circus.

Times are changing, yeah maybe. But not for puffy-lipped preps with killer bone structure. Steve still falls under the category of stereotypical Pretty Boy, and he’s chill with that. Fucking owns it.

Most days…

He’s currently cooling down on the treadmill - brisk walk, almost a jog. It’s a good pace for multitasking some adult shit that he needs to get done. Staying hydrated, keeping his photoshoot calendar up-to-date, answering a few emails. Yada yada.

Steve takes a swig of his seaweed (more like arsenic) smoothie. Opens the top email that reads:

The Fallen King - Final Commercial Cut

Right. Steve almost forgot about this particular shoot. Well, tried to repress the thoughts of that mega-douche director who kept referring to Steve’s ass as ‘prime real estate.’ Fucking creep.

He scrolls down to the attached file and slides his headphones back over his ears.

The ad opens with a wide shot of Steve draped over the throne, fog swelling around the bottom of the screen. The music is an eerie cello solo, set to a heavy bassline. 

Just another oversexualized cologne campaign, he thinks. Probably will barely feature the product because they paid big money for Steve’s body. Gotta get their fill of it (ha, they fucking wish Steve would fill them up).

But then the narration rolls into his ears and the room does a somersault. Practically inverts it’s axis at the sound dripping in Steve’s ears:

‘The mighty will fall from grace…’

“Oh shit.” Steve almost wipes out on the treadmill, has to catch his fall on the side bars. His knees are tingling, calves molten and shaky. Already half hard, which is definitely going to be a problem in these flimsy, mesh gym shorts.

‘Forbidden love and public slander…’

But that voice. That tone. That sinful register set in the minor key of Holy Fuck.

‘Will bring them to their knees.’

Alright, that fucking does it. Steve pauses the video before he’s fully tenting-out in a goddamn fitness center. Packs up his shit, chucks the sludge smoothie in the trash, and finds an empty stall. Emphatically locks it.

“Agh, damnit!” Steve's thumb slips over the screen and exits out of the video. It scrolls back to the top of the email - a new message has been added to the chain.

Seriously, what obnoxious fucker does ‘Reply All’ these days?

The new message reads:

Great work, team. (Sorry for being such a vocal slut.)

(… Not that sorry though.) - Eddie Munson

That’s right - the voice artist. Almost didn’t recognize the voice, but the repressed memory of that day comes flying to the surface when Steve sees the name. 

He recalls the guy being objectively cute too. Not in the California ‘sun-kissed skin’ kind of way. More in the Seattle ‘rain forces me to be a pale homebody’ kind of way. His eyes were something else though. They reminded Steve of the sepia tone filters he used in his early modeling portfolio. No way in hell Steve could ever forget knockout eyes like that.

The locker room is empty. Steve reopens the video, raises the volume high enough to mute out the thin hum from the air conditioning unit. Only wants to hear Eddie’s voice. That’s it. 

He’s already touching himself when the first phrase falls out of the headphones. Can’t even help it now that he’s alone. It’s all too good. Works himself up all stuffy and sensitive by the time the new part comes up:

‘Drenched in their guilt. Soaked in their shame.’

Fucking christ.

‘Choking on worthless confessions…’

Nope. Nope. Absolutely not. Choking? Worthless? What is this, a sado hotline? Steve feels the heat spreading on his neck, flushed over in a non-exercise way. There’s a thump in his dick, has to squeeze his fingers around it. Like his body needs a reminder to calm the fuck down.

‘Until all that is left of them is desolate darkness.’

Pretty sure the raspy exhale after every phrase is going to do Steve in, saturate his last ounce of dignity with want. Eddie’s breathing is taking Steve’s breath away, and that’s an outright mindfuck. Earfuck. 

Something is getting fucked, and somehow, Steve still needs more.

While the song sustains, Steve strokes himself to the percussive rhythm. 

‘The Fallen King. The scent of secrets.’

The hiss on the last syllable fades into the music till everything fizzles out, going dead silent.

Well, everything goes silent except for Steve, who is utterly rattled. Can hear his dense breath and it’s way too noisy for a public space. The pulse in his neck is irregular, hitched the fuck up. His smartwatch is buzzing, alerting him that his heart rate is elevated, which duh. His whole body feels like it underwent some sexual awakening in the middle of a fitness center. 

And, sure. That’s a common place for people to realize how gay and desperate they are, but not like this. Not with zero visuals of sweaty bodies. 

Before he starts the video over to… finish the job, a phone call lights up his screen. Because of course it does.

He reads the name and swipes it open. “What’s up, Buckley?”

“I need coffee.” Robin whines, already pouting into the phone speaker no doubt. 

“You always need coffee.”

“Yeah but like… it tastes better when you buy me coffee.”

“Oh, so you want to mooch off of your own client?” Steve teases because he can. They can annoy the shit out of each other and write it off as endearment. “Pretty unprofessional of you, Ms. Manager.”

Robin groans. Makes it a long one too - probably to show off both her annoyance and lung capacity. “Fuck all the way off, you were my friend first. Always friends first.”

“Always friends first.” Steve agrees. She’s right, usually is about most things. Robin has been his manager since his last agency went bankrupt from pouring their funds into promoting Fyre Fest. And everyone knows that turned out to be an entire fuckshow.

Honestly, it’s easier this way - Robin being his manager. They get to hang out more, he has more input on gigs that he’s interested in…

Interested in. Huh. The metaphorical lightbulb flicks on in Steve’s voice-drunk brain. Having his best friend as his manager is also convenient when Steve needs the phone number of a certain co-worker.

“Alright, fine.” Steve has a sly grin on as he talks. “I’ll bring over some coffee.”

“Thank god.”

“If!”

“Ugh.”

He huffs out a laugh. “If you can send me the cast and crew contact sheet from the Fallen King commercial.”

“Ew, why?” Robin asks, sounds totally repulsed. Valid, that shoot was Objectification Station.

But truly, Steve’s not in the mood to make up an excuse. He’s sore and sweaty and half-hard. So he just gets to the damn point. “Look, do you want coffee or not?”

“Okay okay.” That’s one way to speed up the process. Caffeine threats - works every time. “Dropping the file to you now.” 

“You’re the best.” Steve sings.

“I know, I know.” And the line clicks dead.

Okay. This is not a booty call, it’s not.

Steve is just texting a semi-stranger to tell him that his voice is potentially the hottest thing he’s ever heard. Okay, he’ll definitely phrase it better than that, maybe throw a few emojis in there to normalize the tone. Soften it up to sound very un-stalkery.

Yeah. Not a booty call. And if Eddie happens to send an audio message, and Steve happens to jerk off to it… still not a booty call, right?

Pathetic, maybe. But not basic, thank fuck.

He types, then re-types the message out way too many times before settling on this:

Steve: Great work on the commercial voiceover! Got ur number from the call sheet. hope that’s cool.

Steve hits send before realizing he didn’t have the goddamn common sense to introduce himself. He’s not even a rookie at hookups, why is he suddenly so frazzled by this guy?

“This is Steve by the way…” he mumbles into an audio message. Hits send, then quickly makes another:

“The… model guy.”

The model guy? What in the flustered hell is going on with him?

A chime notification goes off maybe two minutes after Steve sends the last message. Which is like… hot. Shameless fast texters are a millennial turn-on, for sure.

It’s a voice text, so Steve takes thirty seconds to calm down whatever involuntary throb just happened in his sweatpants. He sucks in some air and presses play:

“Pretty sure all the kids these days just send a ‘u up’ message to people they wanna dick down at midnight.”

Damn. Eddie’s voice sounds totally different, but just as sexy. Like amateur porn sexy. Is amateur audio porn a thing? It should be.

Steve quickly saves the audio file and types back.

Steve:  Ok pls don’t mention ‘kids’ while I’m trying to flirt with u

Eddie: Waitwaitwait So we're definitely flirting right now? I actually interpreted that correctly?

Steve: Like u said It’s midnight So… *shrug emoji*

And a phone call comes through. Eddie’s contact name flashing in a harsh light, too blinding and too unexpected. Steve’s heart is hammering at his rib cage, suddenly so fucking nervous. He waits until the last ring to answer, buys himself some time cause god knows, he needs it.

Steve takes a breath and swallows. “He-”

“Okay, so you do realize this is the sewer rat voice actor guy from the commercial shoot, right?” Eddie interrupts, sounds out of breath. “And not like… a fellow model or Timothee Chalamet’s cousin or something?”

That earns a hearty laugh and eye-roll from Steve. “He is so not my type.”

“Thought he was everyone’s type.”

“Nah.” Steve rolls onto his belly, very giddy and disarmed by the ease of the exchange. His nerves are set aside, replaced with his usual confidence. “More into sewer rat voice actor guys.”

“That… is some very specific criteria.” Eddie coughs or maybe it's just a dry laugh. He sounds pleased as hell, so laugh seems more likely. “Holy shit, I’m flirting with a model!”

“You’re cute." Steve should not be so charmed right now, but the impulsive honesty is really doing it for him. "Dorky, but cute.” 

Eddie mumbles something incoherent, then clears his throat. Speaks quieter this time. “So why’d you text?”

“So why’d you call?”

“Just, uh… needed confirmation that this is real life.”

Steve lets out a ‘hmm,’ thinks of a proper response to that. “If I was there, I could pinch you. Ya know... so you’d know it’s real.” Okay. Maybe not proper, but whatever. It’s late. His brain is half scrambled from hormones and exhaustion, cut him some slack.

“Would do a lot more than pinch you if you were actually here.” And sure, Eddie might have mumbled that, but Steve clearly heard it. He heard exactly what Eddie just suggested.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Fuck, we’re doing this?” Eddie whispers.

Steve turns onto his back again, lets his hand wander down. “If you’re into that. Like hearing your voice, Eddie.”

“Like hearing you say my name like that.” And Eddie sounds like he means it. His tone is smoothing over, the same way it did in the narration. “You sound so worked up already.”

Steve moans, chest falling hard enough that the phone slips. Has to reposition it to get all that good vocal seduction back in his ear.

“God, wish I could see what you look like right now.” Eddie exhales, getting that nice rasp that Steve likes so much. It’s sultry and rich. Breathless at just the right moments. “Bet you’re lying down, aren’t you? Phone wedged between your neck and ear cause your hands are too busy to hold it properly. Am I right?”

“Yeah.” Steve pushes past the waistband of his sweatpants, then his boxers.

Eddie hums. Growls. “The things I’d do to you like that. Lying down, looking so eager to please. Saw how good you are at taking direction that day of the shoot. Does that apply in the bedroom too, baby?”

“It… fuck.” Steve strokes himself slowly. Can barely get the words out cause it feels like he's chewing on Eddie's voice. Swallowing every syllable. “Yeah, it does.”

“See - that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

“Problem?”

“That I don’t know what you’re into. How you like it.”

“Pretty open to… trying things.” Steve reassures, eyes closing to soak in every sensation. “Just keep talking.”

And thank all that is holy, Eddie does just that. He keeps talking. “Can’t stop thinking about that pretty neck of yours. How I’d kiss it, suck on it till your skin goes tender and soft under my lips. Till your head rolls back like it did in that video.”

Eddie's words are syrup. Heavy and tempting. “I’d let you rest it on my shoulder while I get my hands all over you. See what sweet spots drive you wild, get you to squirm for me.”

Steve's grip tightens, pumping at a pace that’s close to getting fucked. A pace that makes it easier to pretend that it’s Eddie’s hand wrapped around him, making his vision blurred and spotty - even with his eyes screwed shut.

“Eddie, you’re… oh my god.” Steve whines, knows it must be pretty fucking loud with the speaker smushed against his cheek. “You’re so good at this.”

Eddie shushes him, sounds like he’s snickering a bit. “I’d tease you like that until your thighs start to tremble. Until you beg me to go further. End the torture.”

“Fucking christ…please.” Guess Steve really is that good at taking direction. Or maybe he’s extra easy for guys that turn his brain into liquor. Too busy begging to know which one it might be. “Keep going.”

Eddie’s laugh is dark and rough. “Sounds nice hearing you beg like that. Like sin.”

Feels like sin too. 

Steve’s fingers are slicked nicely with precome. The friction of his palm is making everything warmer, better. And stirring all of those feelings up with Eddie’s voice? Fucking hell, Steve is close. He’s so damn- “Okay, okay. If we don’t stop, I’m gonna-”

“I know.” Eddie purrs, sweetly mean. “Thought that was the point.”

“Cannot believe I'm about to say this, but maybe…” Steve has to dig his hand out from his boxers to complete the sentence. Knocks his head against the wall because his behavior is totally batshit right now. “Maybe I want to see you again first? Is that weird?”

His skin sort of tingles from going this long without finishing. Never solved the blue-balling issue back at the gym either, so Steve’s on the verge of climax insanity right now. Didn’t think he’d discover an edging kink at the ripe age of twenty-five, but eureka. Here it is.

“Not weird.” Eddie’s voice returns back to a calmer one. The one that doesn’t make Steve want to bend over and get fucked so hard that his organs shift around. “I mean, I’m weird, sure. But wanting to complete this in person is not weird. Very un-weird, in fact.”

“You talk a lot.”

“Yeah well… voice actor.” Eddie says, sort of deadpan. “You couldn’t see that, but I just did ‘razzle dazzle’ hands.”

Shit, Steve really likes this guy. He just used the phrase ‘razzle dazzle hands,’ and Steve is still horny for him. Wow.

“Is tomorrow too soon?” Steve manages to say before overthinking it.

“Tomorrow-tomorrow, or like today-tomorrow?” Eddie asks. “Cause it’s past midnight.”

Right. Booty call time moves at an entirely different pace than normal time does. “Today-tomorrow. If you’re free.”

“Free as a dead composer’s anthology of music.” Eddie answers happily.

Steve opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it because what? What does that even mean? Is that a yes or a no? Goddamnit, his head hurts. Too many questions, not enough orgasms.

“Most classical music is royalty-free.” Eddie clears his throat, sounds like he’s tapping on something. “… So yeah. I’m free.”

“Right.” Steve chuckles, hard to believe he’s unapologetically gushing. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, Eddie.”

“Great. See you today, Steve.” Eddie is still snorting at his own joke while the call ends.

They haven’t sorted out any of the details yet, but it doesn’t matter. It’s happening. It’s real.

So real, that he wants an actual date with Eddie before steamy phone sex. He wants to make Eddie laugh before making him come. That's like... unheard of for Steve. Uncharted.

Damn.

Today-tomorrow can’t come soon enough.

[literallymikewheeler]

i have been thinking about this for a while, but there was literally no reason at ALL to add the part in grave digging scene where mike looks at will, then immediately looks away once they make eye contact, before quickly repeating that process again UNLESS it was to hint at byler

like... what was the point duffers ??? are u trying to show us something perhaps ???? something that rhymes with "jyler" maybe ????

[vonlipvig]

we tell you, tapping on our brows,

the story as it should be,---

as if the story of a house

were told, or ever could be.

[lesbiangiratina]

Never not having a crisis over how much i should allow things only present in localized media inform my perception of it yes this is about testament