#am i gonna regret posting this before i've finished the next chapter? probably

[ghost-proofbaby]

THOUGHT OF CALLING YOU, BUT YOU WON'T PICK UP. ANOTHER FORTNIGHT LOST IN AMERICA.

summary: after three days of radio silence from eddie, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

warnings: strong language, angst, eddie is only mentioned in passing this chapter i apologize, sugar/r is manipulating people, minors dni

wc: 5.3k+

a/n: not an eddie munson in sight this round, but somehow still proud of this chapter? idk. i had a lot of fun exploring and expanding sugar/reader this chapter and where she's at with it all <3

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You try and recall just when, exactly, your weekdays had started to feel like active landmines. When each step about your day had to become feather-light, dancing amongst obstacles only you could apparently see. 

Monday had been tense upon waking up, only to end on a dreary (and boring) note. Tuesday had always been sort of blue to you, but this Tuesday had a particular twang to it that had left your heart uneasy from dawn to dusk. Wednesday had been for the anxieties – worries and memories and the events of the weekends crawling up your spine until you had considered the consequence of tearing your skin away just to let them all go. 

Day, after day, after day. You went through the notions, and you followed the normal script, and you felt it all eat away at you. 

You’re not even quite sure what exactly you were waiting for. A phone call from Eddie? Possibly. A sudden meeting with your boss in which everything unravels from one single pap photo? Certainly. For Eddie’s people to finally contact your people and for that damned contract to finally bite you in the ass? Inevitably. Even if you’re not even sure you have people to begin with. 

It’s not until Thursday, the first day you take a second out of your commute to even feel the morning sun on your face before arriving at work, that something finally happens. 

You’ve hardly sat down at your desk for the day when Romina comes storming over, eyes bright and erratic as she slams a magazine down on your desk, “Care to explain?” 

You focus on her wild smile rather than the flimsy pages that are slow to unstick from her palm, “Explain what?”

“Explain this.” 

“I don’t even know-” you finally let your eyes flicker down to the magazine as her hand slides away, and your heart drops. The same cover that Matt had presented to you and Eddie in the studio. “Oh.”

You’re starting to miss the dreary Monday. Starting to yearn for your blue Tuesday. 

“Oh?” Romina lets out a laugh, a genuine giggle of sorts. She’s not angry; she just seems goddamn ecstatic. “That’s all you have to say for yourself? Young lady, you have some ‘splainin to do-”

“It’s not what it looks like.”

“And what exactly is it supposed to look like?” 

Her sparkling eyes scream that she knows she’s won as you sink back into your chair further, silently begging for it to swallow you whole. 

You take a deep breath, letting the words fall like a sigh, “I just had some private meetings this weekend with him, going over the budget and planning for my contracted work.” 

It’s not entirely a lie, either. Contracted work had certainly been a part of your weekend. 

“You never meet with clients on your weekends,” Romina argues, tapping a pretty and pink fingernail against the glossy paper, “Hell, you won’t even meet with me on the weekends. What gives?” 

As you begin to answer, she’s blindly reaching behind her, tugging her chair over and seating herself as she seemingly decides this is going to be a proper conversation. “What gives is that he’s a high profile client, Ro. If a rockstar demands to meet with you about a project on the weekend, you can’t really say no.” 

“Did he also demand that this meeting be at his pretty boy penthouse?” 

“Yes,” you don’t miss a beat, trying to not give into whatever game she’s playing at. It’s all light-hearted, but your heart feels like it’s actually going to burst. Maybe you should have skinned yourself yesterday; maybe you’d have room, then, for all the pounding that’s shaking your rib cage currently. “He thought it might be a bit more private there, more…. Well, less paparazzi and stuff like this. Clearly, he thought wrong.”

When did you become such a professional liar? You almost wish Eddie was here to witness it – surely he’d be proud. 

Romina grins slowly, beaming face calming a bit, “Sure. And I totally believe you,” you almost sigh in relief before she’s continuing on, “But that doesn’t mean I won’t demand to know everything.” 

You try to recall – did your PR agreement have any subsections regarding an NDA? Maybe the contract in itself, the situation, was enough of an NDA to begin with. 

“What part of contracted work do you not understand?” you sigh, turning towards your computer and clacking away at the keyboard to begin to sign in. Not that you had any intent to do any actual work – you couldn’t even check your emails in fear (and secret hopefulness) that Eddie may have sent you something. “I can’t disclose any private information of any of my clients. That’s something we learn during, like, week one of this job-” 

“Oh, c’mon,” Romina whines, leaning her elbows onto your desk, “Don’t be such a killjoy. Make up a lie. It’s not like I’m running to this sleazy magazine to tell them you said he had a ten inch co-”

“Romina,” you hiss, despite it all being a joke to her, “That’s not funny! Don’t even joke about my client like that – I could lose the account.” 

You still feel your cheeks heat, though. Feel the flush of embarrassment racing through your veins as you stare at your work friend, heart now hammering for an entirely different reason. 

She thinks it’s a joke, and yet you’re very familiar with Eddie. Your head is racing with all your memories of this weekend – of the weight of him between your thighs and the trail of his hot breath down your chest, of his leg slowly sliding to hook beneath the crook of your knee to spread you wide open for him, and his dexterous fingers dancing along your hips. 

You’d be grateful for the fact that mind-readers don’t exist, but you can tell it’s written so plainly across your face when Romina’s eyes widen and her grin is wiped away entirely. 

“Oh my God,” she breathes out in utter shock, “Wait - did you…. Are the two of you…?” 

You never have to answer. The clicking of heels approach, and Romina is swiping away the magazine faster than you can blink. 

Your name is called out from above in a faux-cheery tone, and when you look up, you’re faced with Lydia’s wine-red lips pulled back into a half smile, “Hey, do you have a moment to join me in my office?” 

A look is shared between you and Romina – the kind shared back in school, the type you might have exchanged with Eddie even. Fear, and teasing, and the knowing that someone was about to be in trouble.

That’s what you’ve been reduced back to. Childish glances and secrets stacking upon each other. What joy. 

“Of course,” you agree, standing quickly as Romina pushes herself back to her own desk. 

Lydia doesn’t even lead you to the office. She herds you, motioning for you to walk ahead of her, and following with the haunting echo of her footsteps that can’t be drowned out by the dull chatter around the office. 

The door isn’t even fully clicked shut behind the two of you before you attempt to salvage whatever disaster is about to happen. 

“Listen, if this is about-” you start, but Lydia waves a hand as she rounds her desk.

“Sit, please.” 

I’m fucked. I’m so beyond fucked, it’s unreal. 

You obey as if this might be the principal’s office. As though Lydia has morphed into Higgins and you’re back in the hot seat, having to somehow provide an alibi to get Eddie out of whatever deep shit he’d buried himself in this time. 

Wait.

Wait. 

A light-bulb seemingly goes off for you as you settle into the slightly uncomfortable chair, watching Lydia relax into her leather office throne. The scenery may change, the commander in charge may shift, but you’ve done this before. 

You’ve lied for Eddie a million times before. There’s no harm in one last time. 

Lydia takes a big breath before she looks up at you, but you’re already staring at the magazine on the center of her desk, “Look, it seems you know why I’ve called you in here.” 

How can you spin this in your favor? In Eddie’s favor? He needs this release party planned, and you need to keep your job. How, how, how? 

“A big promotion?” Joke. Throw her off her rhythm. Just like you used to do to Higgins. 

It serves its purpose – a laugh falls from her lips, expression softening, “Not quite, unfortunately.” 

Her perfectly manicured hand pushes the magazine closer to you, even though she had clearly seen you burning holes into it. 

“We need to talk about this, hun,” she’s choosing her words carefully, which is a good sign. It’s why Eddie had always used you as a distraction or alibi when it came to Higgins – authoritative figures were always softer with you. You need to recall how to use this to your advantage, as well, “I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but… well, it doesn’t look good. You know that, right?” 

No, she’s right – it looks terrible. But how can you make it look good? 

You have a crossroads, right here and right now. 

You could go with the story you had told Romina – claim that Eddie had wanted a private meeting, and had tried to offer some help upon finding out you’d been struggling. It wasn’t an entirely novel idea, just outside of how you usually functioned. Plenty of your fellow peers did weekend meetings or would visit with clients outside of the office to discuss planning. It was quick, and it was simple, and it would get you out of trouble for now. 

But you needed to think bigger than just right now, hence your second option. 

Come clean in a strategic way. Soon, the tabloids would be running stories about you and Eddie regardless. You hadn’t memorized the fine-print of your contract – hadn’t even read it to begin with, really – but you had no doubt that public appearances were included in the package. This wouldn’t be the last time you had this difficult conversation now, due to legal obligations outside of these four walls, if you went with your first option. Somehow, you need to get ahead of it. 

Getting involved with clients wasn’t forbidden, but it surely wasn’t smiled upon. Especially when the client was as large as Corroded Coffin. 

So how do you soften the blow? How do you spin a tale that keeps you from sticking within the intricate web? 

“I’m sorry,” you say in a soft tone, a few steady breaths to get into character. Like putting on an old coat, shimmying into a comfortable sweater for the winter. You needed to sell it. Chin down, avoid her gaze just enough, press your lips together. Pick at your nails. Don’t bounce your leg, though – that’s too much. “I… I’ve been trying to figure out a way to come to you about this.” 

You’d laid the bricks for yourself long before Eddie was back in your life. You need to use them to your advantage now. 

The fright of seeing him in the meeting room. The way everyone knew of your supposed distaste for Corroded Coffin. How a year ago, you’d turned down free tickets to a show. 

“Come to me about what?” 

There it is. The soft and sympathetic tone you needed. 

You pause picking at your nail beds long enough to glance up at her, swallowing hard for show, “I mean, I’m sure you knew how I wasn’t a huge fan of Corroded Coffin before all this…” 

“It was why I chose you for the task,” Lydia sighs, starting to look disappointed. Good. Put the worst case scenario in her head, let her spiral a bit, and then offer you an option that will sound golden compared to it. “I figured they’d be more comfortable with someone like yourself rather than a superfan. If I was wrong, by all means, please come clean. I promise you’re not in trouble, yet, but-”

“I’m not a superfan,” you correct with just the right amount of quickness, acting as though you needed to take control of the spiral. As if you hadn’t had the reigns of this entire interaction in your hands this entire time so far, “I just- I…” Pause, sigh, look back down. “It’s hard to be a superfan of your boyfriend when your relationship is meant to be private.” 

Bingo. 

You see a sliver of Lydia’s shock as you look up through your lashes, biting back your small as you put on the act of a lifetime. As though you’ve just had a secret dredged from your soul, whispered of something that was never meant to see the light of day. 

The big B-word. You aren’t sure what sort of public story Matt had wanted to spin for you and Eddie, but you’ve decided to curate one all on your own. 

You and Eddie didn’t start dating due to this project – no, absolutely not. That would be frowned upon, wouldn’t it? But how terrible it would be, for Lydia to realize she had pried your private life right open, exposing you and your beloved partner out of the last shadows of privacy he may have within his grasp these days. A twisted tale of a love just having found its footing, only for unfortunate corporate circumstances to come and shake the foundation of it all. 

It’d make her feel guilty. It’d make the rule-breaking seem insignificant. It’d make all your behavior over the last year simply make sense. 

There was a reason the boys of Corroded Coffin used you as a scapegoat all through high school. You could play people like a violin when you needed to.

When it came to Eddie.

 “I…” Lydia is at a loss for words, just how you wanted her to be, “I had no idea, I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s okay,” you soothe over, having flipped the tables officially. Lydia is no longer waiting on your apologies or your explanations; she’s scrambling to offer up her own, almost as though she’s forgotten the reason for the meeting to begin with. You were in the wrong, but it conveniently slipped her mind, “You asked me at one point, remember?” Bring that up to avoid her weaponizing it, stay several steps ahead. “You gave me a chance to be honest, and I… I wasn’t. We just didn’t know what to do, and thought we might be able to keep it all…. All… separate.”

You wish you could record this interaction for Eddie to witness. It’d probably make him laugh. Or terrify him. Either would be reward enough. 

Every pause in your words, every forcibly shaky breath, is coordinated perfectly within your mind. You wish half your endeavors could go as perfectly as this one is as of right now. Everything was under control; your job was safe and secure, and your legal contract with Eddie was easily being upheld. It was going too perfectly. 

“No, no,” Lydia waves off, face scrunched in deep consideration, “I understand why you didn’t. It’s…. A lot. Relationships like that are always tricky. And we can’t change the past now, only focus on the future.” 

Too easy. Too perfect. 

“Of course,” you nod along in seemingly eager agreement, “Speaking of the future… how do you want me to proceed? I understand if you want to take me off the project.”

And by simply saying that, you’ve secured that that is the exact opposite of what will happen. 

Hook, line, sinker. Eddie Munson owes you his fucking life. 

Predictably, Lydia shakes her head, “That won’t be necessary. There may be some extra paperwork, and possibly another meeting with HR or myself, but it’ll all be technicalities. If you’ve gotten this far in the project and kept it going smoothly considering the… circumstances… you should be able to see it through to the end.”

Lydia will perceive your relaxation into your chair as relief, as a weight finally lifted off your chest. But really, it’s just finally letting go of the character you’d assumed – the character you’d have to continue to play until your PR agreement was through. 

“Thank you,” you lace your voice with unending graciousness, ignoring the small headache beginning to form behind your temples, “And, if it isn’t too much, is there any chance for me to ask for one last favor?” 

“Of course,” Lydia nods ferociously, almost worsening your throbbing temples by proxy, “Anything.” 

You force your sweetest smile, one last huff of the pathetic role you need to perfect over the next few days, “May I have the rest of the day off? To settle this… situation with my boyfriend.”

—

“Pick up your fucking phone, Munson.” 

Your harsh tone earns a couple of side glances from other patrons on the bus, but you couldn’t care less as you reach Eddie’s voicemail again. 

The moment Lydia let you off the hook for the day, you’d gone running for the nearest bus stop. You didn’t have the cash for a taxi right now, and Matt’s office was conveniently right along the path of the bus that ran straight through the city. It would take a bit longer, but getting anywhere in New York took time with the perpetual traffic. 

You consider typing out a text to your fake boyfriend, to your real ex-boyfriend, before sighing and returning to your email. Nothing. No news from Eddie, or from Matt, or from anyone. When Eddie had said his ‘people’ would be in contact, you had assumed that it functioned on a much quicker timeline than an entire week. 

“Where the fuck does a rockstar even vanish to for an entire week?” you grumble under your breath, hearing a scoff from an elderly woman across the aisle at your profanity. You don’t particularly care, but you look up to her with a glare anyways. 

Heading for Matt’s office had felt like the most sensible option, but the closer you get, the more you begin to second-guess yourself. Eddie could be anywhere. The office, the studio, even his own damn home. There’s no guarantee that you’re about to stumble upon Eddie here. It’s entirely possible that your entire afternoon is about to wild goose chase for the world’s sharpest pain in your ass. 

The old lady holds her judgmental gaze against your exhausted one, and you wonder if it would have been better to have taken the subway to 52nd street instead.

Regardless, the bus finally rolls to a stop, and you’re quick to exit the cramped vehicle. You nearly knock over some poor fool who’s taking his time getting up, having sat a few rows ahead of you, and you nearly trip over your shoelaces as you bound down the steps. You should be thanking the Universe, you suppose, that you wore a nice pair of sneakers today rather than heels. 

“Welcome in!” a kind voice greets you as you burst through the double doors facing the street, open windows pouring afternoon light across the minimalist design. Off-white couches, off-white tables, off-white vases holding mostly white flowers and dull green plants – it all feels a bit cold, a bit dull. “How can we help you today?” 

You bound right up to the reception desk, hand flying up to try and fix your hair and face that must have grown messy in your rush, “I, uh, I’m here to see Matt?” 

The receptionist’s head tilts curiously, “Matt?”

At least it isn’t the poor girl from the studio. You don’t know if you’ll ever show your face there again after your meltdown on Sunday. 

“Yeah,” you card through your brain, trying to remember Matt’s last name to no avail, “He- He’s Corroded Coffin’s manager. I’m sorry, I don’t know his last name-”

“Do you have an appointment?” 

“Well, no-”

“Is he expecting you?” 

Another no almost falls from your lips, but you’re growing desperate. 

So you lie. For the second time today. “Yes.”

It’s easier than the studio was, for obvious reasons. All the representatives in this building probably filter through multiple clients a day. Hell, even Matt himself might have more on his plate than just the boys. 

“I see,” she nods, typing at her computer for a few seconds before looking up, “In that case, he should be in his office. Do you know the way up?” 

Should the fact that he’s in his office, likely not in the middle of a meeting, be a sign that Eddie isn’t here?

You can’t afford to think so negatively. 

“I do,” you sort of lie, again, because you do recall at least the floor that his office was on. It shouldn’t take much to jog your memory from there. Hopefully, “Thank you!” 

This time, you’re sure to be polite, enthusiastically friendly to a painful degree. First impressions in the studio may be soiled, but you can at least save face here. 

Your journey upstairs is quiet, monotonous. 

No sign of excitement, no sign of Eddie, even once you’ve exited the elevator on the proper floor. There’s a soft buzz amongst rooms, normal people working normal jobs during their normal days, completely unaware of the day you were having. The week. The month. 

When you make it to the office you believe to be Matt’s, you sigh in relief at the sight of an open door. 

“Matt-” you start, knuckles rapping against his door as you enter the doorway, frantic and optimistic to find Eddie sitting in one of the chairs within. 

No such luck. 

Only Matt sits at his desk, looking up from his computer in surprise at your arrival, “Oh, hello there?” 

Eddie isn’t here. 

“Where’s Eddie?” you breathe out, eyes darting across a fairly barren room as though there’s any chance the man could be hiding amongst the shelves built into the walls. 

“You tell me.”

Your eyes return to Matt, brows furrowing, “Excuse me?” 

“I haven’t heard from Eddie since Sunday,” Matt sighs, leaning back into his chair and disregarded whatever work he’d been attending to. The look on his face spells clear trouble, “I figured you might have. Besides, the radio silence is better than seeing a hundred different headlines about him. Figured you were… well, keeping him under wraps. Like we’d agreed.” 

You stand, stunned in the doorway, milling through a million different emotions as you process what was just said. 

“I’m sorry,” you start in your disbelief, nodding as your eyes survey the room, almost as if looking for an explanation from anyone except the man sitting at the desk before you, “Are you telling me you haven’t heard from your client in nearly four days, and you’ve simply written it off?”

“He gets this way-”

“And?” you take a few brave steps into the office, seemingly on a roll today. Manipulating your boss, lying to your friends, confronting your ex’s manager – your head will surely be spinning by the time it hits your pillow tonight, “He pays you to keep him out of trouble. Your words, not mine.” 

“Yes,” Matt says, suddenly no longer reclining, almost seeming nervous, “But like I said, Eddie will do this from time to time, and radio silence is better than-” 

“If you tell me radio silence is better than headlines for a second time, I’ll put one of your damn chairs through your oversized windows, Matt.” 

That has him startled to his feet, holding up his hands in innocence, “Okay, okay. But I’m not really sure what you want me to do here – he won’t answer my calls, and didn’t answer the door when I stopped by yesterday.”

“What about the rest of the boys?” 

“Have I heard from them?” he laughs, shifting his weight from foot to foot, “Well, yes, but-”

“No – have they heard from Eddie?” 

A grimace crosses his lips, “Erm, no.” 

Maybe it’s residual irritation at Eddie not answering your calls, or the glares from the older woman on the bus. Maybe it’s frustration from the entire situation, this whole predicament, you’ve found yourself in. But words leave your lips faster than you can mull over them. 

“Jesus Christ, what does he even pay you for?” you huff, throwing your hands up, turning in a circle, prepared to leave the office after having your time entirely wasted.

“We don’t even have any events until next week!” Matt tries to defend himself, but you’re no longer listening, “I- Why are you even looking for Eddie now? If anything has gone wrong with the planning of the release party, or with the contract we signed, surely you know you can come straight to me. You are considered my client as well, now.” 

You sort of feel bad for Matt, but you also sort of want to rip him a new one. 

Why would Eddie have gone radio silent? 

“I can solve my own problems well enough without your help,” you snipe, returning to the door frame and turning to face him, “And that includes Eddie.” 

Matt quirks an eyebrow, “Who said that Edie was one of your problems?” 

“You did,” you reach to grab the handle of the door, leveling Matt with an annoyed stare, “The moment you made me sign that stupid fucking contract.” 

He doesn’t get another word out before you’re pulling the door shut with a bit more force than might be necessary. Too closely related to being a slam to even consider saving face now. 

Eddie would be proud of your dramatics. Again.

—

Thank the Universe for top level penthouses without neighbors, it seems. 

And thank the Universe for whatever ice pack you’ll be snatching out of Eddie’s freezer for your sore knuckles once he opens this damn door.

“Eddie!” you call out, pounding on the door three more times for good measure, “I swear to God, I’ll stand out here all night. Just open the door.” 

You’re not even sure how long you’ve wasted knocking on the door at this point. Between that and all your incessant calling of Eddie’s name, you have no doubt that someone is going to hear, even from the level’s below. 

The man behind the door should also hear you, but apparently, that’s not happening. 

“Eddie!” you shout again, slapping an open palm against the door this time. 

Or maybe he’s deliberately ignoring you. 

“I…” you huff, ready to curse again, but not even sure where to begin. You take a few steps back from the door and glance down at your now sore palm, scowling as it throbs from the force of your slap. “This is ridiculous.” 

The elevator dings from behind you, causing you to jump as you glance in that direction. You start to sigh in relief as you see Gareth of all people exit the lift, but all the salvation is overridden with confusion. 

“Hey there, Hellfire,” he greets as if it isn’t odd – you with nearly bruising knuckles and hoarse vocal chords, and him… well, him simply being here. “Heard you might be getting some noise complaints.”

You narrow your eyes at him, “What are you doing here?” 

“What? Can’t I come visit my good old friend?” 

“Last time we spoke, you didn’t seem to be good old friends with Eddie anymore.” 

That shuts him up, almost completely cleaning the friendly smirk off his face. 

You stare a few extra seconds at him before deciding to returning back to the actual battle you cared to win as of right now, fist raised to continue banging on the hollow wood, when Gareth’s hand wraps around your wrist. 

“Hold on,” he urges, tugging your hand down, “Listen-”

“The only person I particularly want to talk to right now is Eddie,” you blandly say, tugging mercilessly back at his hold, refusing to look at him.

“And I get that,” he gives you no choice but to look at him as he twists you all the way around. Facing him, you’re shocked to see him holding a key in his freehand, “Which is why Matt sent me.” 

Your mouth falls slightly agape as you stare at the key, “He’s had a fucking key this entire time?” 

Gareth’s head tilts, eyes scrunched ever so slightly, “What?” 

“Four days,” you slowly enunciate, reaching up to gingerly pluck the key from Gareth’s fingers, “Four goddamn days that no one has heard from Eddie, and you’ve had a key to his literal apartment the entire time.”

“We keep it in case of emergencies,” Gareth shrugs, far too nonchalant for your liking, “Besides, we didn’t have anything scheduled, and this is sort of normal for him-”

“Why does everyone keep saying that?” your voice cracks a bit in your distress, “I- Jesus fucking Christ, when did this become normal? You idiots couldn’t go more than twenty four hours without speaking in high school. What the Hell happened?” 

Gareth’s face falls gravely serious, “A lot.” 

You take a heaving breath, biting back angry words that the boy before you has done nothing to deserve. It’s not his fault that this has become routine – it’s not his fault that Eddie has made this a part of the regular agenda. 

Or maybe it is. Who’s to say? It’s not as though you’ve been present the last two years to witness what was and wasn’t normal, what was and wasn’t deserved, amongst all of them. 

You spin on your heel as Gareth finally drops his hold on you, shaking as you shove the key into the door’s lock. 

“Listen, before you go in there, I need to warn you-”

“Don’t give me some pep talk as if he might be dead behind this door,” you grit out, pausing just as you feel the click of door unlocking, “Especially after claiming this is normal.” 

“He’s not dead,” Gareth quickly reassures, “At least, I don’t think so. But we stopped using this key after the first few times for a reason. It’s not always a pretty scene.” 

There’s no need for anyone to physically stop you from opening the door now – you don’t even think you’re capable of moving enough muscles to breathe as he says those words. 

It’s not always a pretty scene. 

You had seen all the headlines, hadn’t you? You’d heard first hand from Matt just how far from grace Eddie had fallen. You’d seen the damage done between him and the Corroded Coffin boys with your own two eyes. Just because Eddie had seemingly cleaned up his act when around you, doesn’t erase what he had become. 

Were you prepared to see that? 

Lousy or legendary, it still keeps you up, his words from Sunday night flutter about your mind. It had stunned you where you’d stood to hear him say those words. Not because they were untrue, but because he said them with one meaning and you heard them with an entirely different one. 

Since reentering your life, Eddie Munson has been haunting you, leaving you reckless, with every love letter you discover veiled as a song. 

No doubt, whatever you were about to find behind this door was going to frustrate you. Or send you spiraling. Or absolutely shatter whatever image you had been curating of Eddie in your mind during this rekindlement. But he had never meant for you to see him as anything besides his worst – he’d said as much within his songs and their haunting lyrics. 

I need you to see me for what I have become. 

Words he had written – words meant only for you, but cursed to be shared with the world. 

“I don’t care,” you finally breathe out, twisting the doorknob harshly and pushing hard, leaving no room for second guessing yourself. 

Show me what you’ve become, Eddie. 

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[be-my-ally]

Splashing Around Ch. 2.

Chapter one can be found here.

So hello, welcome back to my lil cute, OC inspired a lot by Arlene (but also by my 50s dreams) cute kissing haven. I have to apologise for how short this is - it was taking me forever to finish the next section, so I've decided to break up what was one loooong chapter into two teeny tiny ones so his draft notice, army el, arguments and more kissing (basically all the good stuff I can't wait to share) to come very very soon!!!! 

I am, for those waiting on smut, cooking up a few things but I've been very, very, very, busy the past few weeks and can barely think about like, making a cup of tea, let alone putting words together in a way that makes sense so hang tight, it's coming.

wc: 3k.

sorry it's so short & so late - I think I've been promising *something* for like a month now, @whositmcwhatsit @thatbanditqueen, @ellie-24 @vintageshanny @missmaywemeetagain @from-memphis-with-love but hey, here's something! I'm hoping it'll set me off writing and posting again.

shirtless elvis 1957 inspo pic:

c. July 16th - August/September 1957.

Elvis grabs a covered plate from the kitchen island, still dripping wet, before whisking it up the staircase to the side, depositing them both in his bedroom. Louise hadn’t been up this way yet, she’d briefly been shown around when he’d wanted to show off to her and the other girls; they’d all ended up piled onto his bed, stroking his hair and talking, but somehow the intimacy of going up these stairs, with him alone, made her feel like it was her first time witnessing this private space. 

“Right, it’s uh,” He looks up and down at where she’s dripping onto the carpet, “probably for the  best if you go on through there again.” He points through to the dressing room, “there’s uh, there’s towels and uhh, soap and all of them things in the bathroom there if you want a shower or anything.” 

The storm crackles outside, but in the cushioned sound of the bedroom and dressing room it's almost impossible to tell, and Louise quickly busies herself, uncertain of how long Elvis would be preoccupied, and not wanting to keep him waiting. She does, however, take a little longer in the shower than she usually would - marvelling at the amount of hot water available that meant both of them could shower at the same time.

She’s carefully trying to roll her hair in her fingers, concentrating on her reflection in the mirror,  when Elvis pokes his head in, sidling around the door until she waves him in fully. She immediately regrets it, realising she’s only half-dressed, sat in her underwear and her blouse on but unbuttoned. 

“Oh - uh, Elvis! I’m not, quite, um ready for yo-” She watches him as he looks her over, he’s barely dressed himself, pants slung low on his hips, unbuttoned, and shirtless - but he’s entirely unself-conscious, holding the plate out to her, unlike the blush spreading across her body. She cringes a little, skittish, and he snaps himself out of it when he notices her nerves. He frowns, looking her over, and Louise feels the panic suddenly rising - is she not what he expected? He saw her in her swimsuit earlier…but it just feels different somehow now - maybe now, fresh-faced, she’s just not pretty enough? But he makes no comment on her body other than an attempt to ease her mind. 

“Thought I told you girls to settle, ain’t no-one gonna do anything you don’t want, sweetheart - won’t touch ya, I swear it.” She swallows, she hadn’t been scared quite in that way, but she would be lying if she said his words hadn’t reassured her. Louise nods, slowly, uncertain of what to say next, but Elvis takes care of it - striding over to place the plate on the dressing table, whisking the cover off the top. “There’s cookies there. Help yourself, I’ve already had a dozen waitin’ for you to get outta the shower.” 

“Oh! uh, I didn’t mean to keep you, I mean you could’ve just called - I didn’t mean to take -” She panics all over again, and he holds his hands up in an attempt to calm her,  

“No, no, honey, re-lax, just meant I was waiting for you to be done s’all.” He shakes his head,  “I promised you a blow-dry didn’t I?” He twists a strand of her hair in his fingers, “... how about I do yours and you do mine?” 

“Uh, yeah,” She swallows, “yeah that works.” 

His deft hands style her hair, but the whole time she can hardly breathe feeling his fingers against her scalp, finger-combing and gently twirling and twisting the strands of hair into some semblance of a do. She can’t take her eyes off of him in the mirror, a look of complete concentration on his face; almost a pout, with a slight furrow of his brow and his lips pushing forward as he focuses on his actions. 

The dryer prevents all attempts at conversation - which is lucky, because she wasn’t sure she’d be able to pay attention to a word he said, too focussed on trying to memorise the feel of his rings catching on a tangle - the tug somehow not feeling the same as when she brushes it, the sting making her shift in her seat, a dizzying feeling flooding through her body. 

“There.” Elvis finishes with the blow-dryer, fluffing her hair like she’s at the salon, looking back at her in the mirror. Miraculously, for all the ridiculous ways he was twisting and turning to do it, he’s managed to achieve a fairly respectable blow-out. “There we are. Now, look how pretty you look. Oughta do it for you everyday - could be my new career.” He puffs out his chest, clearly proud of himself and Louise laughs, 

“Hmm, I’m not sure all the other girls in the world would be pleased with that.” 

“Well I ain’t worried ‘bout any of them other girls, only you, baby.” He’s looking a little bashful, folding his arms across his bare chest. She can’t stop the blush, or the grin, from overtaking her face. She takes a second to respond, struggling to think of a reply, something that would make him feel as giddy as she does, when she’s suddenly knocked half off of the bench. Elvis sat down, bumping her with his hip. “Ok, my turn!” Louise obediently hops up, smiling at his playfulness, 

“Uh, ok - but I gotta warn you,” She nervously brings her hands up to touch his still-damp hair, it’s darker wet, but she can see where the dirty blonde is starting to shimmer through, “I haven’t ever dried a boy’s hair before, so, I might not do it very well and -” 

“You’ll do fine, doll,” He shakes his head at her, 

“Well, you might have to direct me,” His own smile grows wider, as if he’d expected she did this every weekend, and the knowledge that it was all new to her pleased him. 

“S’ok honey, I trust you.” She does her best, fingers pulling gently to hold the hair this way and that, as he constantly wiggles around in the chair; but she can’t help but get a little distracted by his expression in the mirror. By the way he seems to be practising posing, as if unaware she’s watching the whole time. His pouty lips going from a half-smile to a scowl to a lip raised in quick succession.

Louise thinks back to it, sat with her legs across Elvis’, on his new couch that he had been oh-so-proud to show off a week or so ago, of how lucky she was to be chosen like this, to be able to have thread her fingers through his hair, or watch him carefully comb it into place after it was dry; to be so close to him that she could see the acne across his neck, the remnants of a shaving rash on his lower jaw. How many girls could say they’d gotten to do this? But with that thought comes the sobering reality that it has to end at some point, and she’d rather not outstay her welcome…it’s probably time for him to get ready for dinner, or for entertaining whoever he’d invited tonight. 

“I’ve had a lovely day…thank you Elvis, it’s been really special…” She’s inching around the subject, she doesn’t want to leave, or for Elvis to say it’s time for her to go, but if he is she wants it to be from her prompting. She wants him to like her, desperately so, but she’s seen enough to know that she also doesn’t want to act too desperate, she wants to seem cool, and older than her years make her, mature about it all - aloof. She’s not though, and the relief she feels when he responds, 

“You ain’t thinkin’ about leavin’ me now are you?” while tucking her further under his arm and against his chest, is immeasurable. She’s safely cocooned against his torso, his freshly showered scent; shaving lotion, laundry detergent, and underneath it all him, the smell of all of it, along with the sound of the rumble of his voice in his chest, his heartbeat all mingling to solidify this memory in her head. Louise knows she won’t ever be able to smell any of the scents again, or hear another’s rumble or heart without picturing this moment in her mind. 

She spends the rest of the evening with his hand on her, on her thigh, her arm, her stomach - curled together and whispering to each other.  Even when some of the boys stop by - albeit briefly, no-one seems to be staying for dinner - he has a hand on her at all times, and no-one seems to blink twice at it. His lack of awareness of personal space, or perhaps of his lack of care about public physical affection completely understood. So, none of them question, even if Louise wasn’t Anita, why she was curled in his lap all evening, 

The other girls hadn’t materialised, some girls had, but not the girls. and Louise worried that it was intentional - that he was ashamed of her or something - was she meant to keep the day a secret? Worse to her than being kept a secret though was the thought that he might not consider her secret-worthy, and the fear that he might laugh her off is enough for her to keep her mouth shut from questioning him. So that night when she leaves, finally, long past midnight, despite her desire to, she doesn’t wait the last few hours until daylight and immediately call them, doesn’t get asked to be dropped off at Frances’ house, or stand beneath Heidi’s window waiting to be let in before crawling into bed with her - girl talk until the sun comes up. She wants to - god she wants to, wants to shout about it - wants to tell everyone that she’s just been on an honest-to-god date with Elvis Presley, that she’d kissed him. With tongues! But despite this desire, she’s almost too nervous to burst the bubble, the special bubble where only she knows; instead having to content herself with whispering the story to the stuffed bear tucked under her pillow - she’s much too old for him to be sat out in the open - or recounting it in as much detail as she dared to her journal.

She’d been sent home with the promise that he’d take her out for dinner the following night - but there’s a call about a change of plans; they’re all going to the cinema instead, Loving You was on the agenda,  and she arrives at Graceland that evening just in time for everyone to be piling into their cars, just barely making it in time for Elvis to smile at her, looking handsome as ever, captain’s hat on his head again and grab her wrist, pulling her into the back of his Cadillac with him. Louise tries her best to enjoy it as she might have done in the past, but she’s so worried about how to behave - if anyone can tell, worried about the other girls’ reaction; is she going to turn into some sort of social pariah? Ruin her chances for friends over a boy? Even if that boy were the only thing any of them truly had in common? And if that boy wasn’t just a boy, but a man, and Elvis at that. She can’t work out if it being Elvis makes it better or worse, so she sits there, primly, worrying her cuticles with her nails and her lips with her teeth. She watches as a tiny well of blood starts to form from where she’d pulled the skin a bit too hard and a bit too far - right to the quick, and she jumps as he covers her hand with his, pulling it out of her lap and onto his. He tuts at her, pulling out a handkerchief to rub at it, 

“Look at the mess you’ve made of that, stop picking at yerself darling. You’ll be sore for days.” She cringes, the desire is only made stronger by his holding of her hand, the worry that the others in the car might notice. They were sitting right there. But she complies, and is eventually soothed by the repetitive motion of his thumb on her palm. He lets go as they pull in, clambering out of the car almost before it’s even fully parked, seemingly anxious to get into the closed theatre. She tries not to be too disappointed at watching him run off with the boys without her, instead waiting for the other girls to climb out of the other cars, joining them in their excited giggling and chatting as they go in. Louise again has to remind herself to act normally, to join in their gossiping about how lucky she was, how excited they were for the film, and pretend she wasn’t a little upset watching him sit three rows ahead of them all. 

By the time the film is over they don’t bother staying for the double feature that had been set up for them, Elvis whisking the group away with the suggestion that even though it was dark out, it was still hot, and did they want to go for a splash in the pool? The night continues in that manner, Louise being seemingly steadfastly ignored, although she succeeds some of the time to forget about it. 

She’s not fretting in the shadows, she was just… taking a minute. He’d paid her no attention in the theatre, and the past half hour had been spent pretending not to be eavesdropping into the boys’ conversation, discussing Anita, singing their praises for her - as much as Elvis would allow - for her figure and face, and very briefly - her personality, before moving onto other girls; who from Hollywood they all wished Elvis would invite over, say, did you hear about that Venetia Stevenson girl coming in a couple of weeks? So on her way back out from the bathroom Louise felt like she was entitled to spend a moment or two in the shadowy corner by the back door. Taking a deep breath as she tried to remind herself not to compare, that maybe they spoke about them like that when they weren’t around. That sure, Anita might be a tiny little thing, but even she probably had to breathe in to button up her skirt - even if it was a smaller size. That, if nothing else, she wasn’t here with them all. 

She wouldn’t deny having had a good time, the film was wonderful, and the night as jolly as any, but still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had gone on that he’d decided to ignore her completely. She’s just getting to the point where she’s ready to return, a smile plastered on her face when suddenly, from the door, an arm reached out and pulled her back against the open door frame. Tugging her against someone’s warm body. She relaxes as soon as she recognises the smell and feel of him and he laughs as she stumbles against him, hands gripping both of her arms. He leans down, pressing a kiss to her cheek, open-mouthed, breathing on her as much as kissing her, before trailing his lips to meet hers. One of the boys shouts for Elvis, something about fireworks, and the next second he’s gone, barely a grin at her dazed expression, before he’s running off again. She can hear the way that the boys tease him about the lipstick smeared across his face, and his tight-lipped response. It makes her smile to herself, the way she has to try and catch her breath, still hidden in her shadowy corner, but no longer feeling invisible. And, though she wishes he’d pull her onto his lap or kiss her in front of everyone, she figures maybe it’s ok to keep it just for herself for the moment too. 

She doesn’t get the chance to see him alone again for a while, there are parties, and gatherings, and then he’s gone again - off on tour and to California for a long couple of months. Louise really tries to accept it all, even though the pictures appearing in the papers, and some of the stories that get relayed back (although never directly by Elvis) makes her heart hurt. It’s difficult, when he seems to look so happy in them, and so do the girls surrounding him - and who is she to judge another girl for feeling herself glow just by standing next to him. A little of his light reflecting onto them. 

One particularly brutal evening, after he’d promised to call but never did, she can’t help but cry into her pillow. This is why he goes for girls like Anita, ones that are a year or two older, they can cope with it. Louise shakes her head to herself - she can cope with it, she’s sure. She can deal. She can be mature, and deal with him out and about and kissing other girls. If Anita can, she can. Accept him inviting the starlets over, that’s fine, they’re only the toy of the moment, and eventually they have to go back to their own glitzy lives. They’re not like her, they don’t have an open invitation to his bedroom or to sit with his mother. But then, they do get private calls with him, and she knows Anita’s been telling anyone who’ll listen about the “just darling notes” he sends her.  Louise doesn’t get notes, sometimes he doesn’t even refer to her by name; simply just as part of the ‘girls’ he seems to always want to talk to as a group - all of them crowded around the receiver at Heidi’s house or Graceland. But then, rarely, sometimes, he slips into the conversation a little check-in, “How’s my lil’ Lou? Bein’ good for me doll?” and it makes Frances look at her in a calculating way, but her heart stutters every-time, every-time she responds

“Of course Elvis! Just waiting for you to come home. I can’t wait to see you.” He never replies the same way, it’s either

“Ah, who could miss this ol’ ugly mug,” or worst of all, “Uh-huh, looking forward to seeing the whole gang again soon.” On one occasion though, it was “Of course, honey, I’ll be seeing you re-eal soon,” and that was enough to give her hope all over again.

[shootingstarpilot]

Fic Writer 20 Questions

Thanks for the tag, @merlyn-bane!

1.) How many works do you have on ao3?

Eight!

2.) What's your ao3 word count?

217,911

3.) What fandoms do you write for?

*sobbing* Star Wars, my beloved. The brainrot is real; I am consumed. When I was still on FF.net, though, I had stuff up in Harry Potter and How to Train Your Dragon.

4.) What are your top five fics by kudos?

back then, i was dauntless

how to bring him home

if i don't make it back (from where i've gone)

though some would harm you

like lightning changing hands

5.) Do you respond to comments? Why or why not?

I absolutely do! I feel bad because I know I've gotten some lovely comments on chapters that aren't the most recent one, and those tend to get lost in the inbox, but I promise I'm working on it- if you get a response from a comment you left a year and a half ago, don't hold it against me 😅

I do it because I want so badly to build community here! I love getting comments from people, responding to something with a wee hint of a tease because I'm AWFUL and then getting a keysmash of a response and then exchanging snippets in the comments, truly, it fills me with delight- and I've met some absolutely wonderful people who I got introduced to by responding to comments-

Anyway. Community. That.

6.) What's the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

Oh. Hm. Hm.

I... guess it would have to be though some would harm you? Although I'm not sure if I feel confident in that designation, because it's very much part of a multi-work series. And I'm too much of a sucker for happy endings to write a stand-alone fic that doesn't have one, I think.

7.) What's the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

Oh, neural plasticity, for sure! Short and sweet <3

8.) Do you get hate on fics?

A bit. I can brush off the "actually the Jedi were the real monsters" assholes easily enough, but honestly, the comments that hit the hardest are the ones that clearly come from people who think they're offering ✨constructive criticism.✨ Not only because I didn't ask for it, but also because saying my work is "fatiguing" or "I'm sure there's a decent story here, but it's being buried under what you're trying to do with it-" there's nothing constructive there.

Side note: the person who left that last comment deleted it about half an hour later, because when I went to reply, it had vanished from my inbox. I don't know if they did that because they didn't want me to be able to reply, or if they realized that what they said was unhelpful and mean, but if they ever happen to see this-

I still got the email, prick.

9.) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Write? No, I haven't quite worked up the panache to try. Reading, on the other hand...

10.) Do you write crossovers? What's the craziest one you've written?

I do have snippets of one crossover that I actually posted in an anonymous collection, ha- an old BBC Merlin/ Good Omens/ Supernatural fic that I dug out of my old documents. Other than that, no- unless you count the Prequels and the Clone Wars as different enough to qualify as a crossover.

11.) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I know of!

12.) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Also not that I know of- very much open to it, though!

13.) Have you ever cowritten a fic before?

Since I don't think taking drabbles in tumblr chats to ridiculous lengths counts, I'd have to say no- I'd like to, though!

14.) What's your all time favorite ship?

Codywan. Fiercely, unwaveringly Codywan.

Just to reinforce this- 292 of my bookmarks consist of Cody/Obi-Wan. The next most common romantic pairing (Aziraphale/Crowley) has less than half that, at 121.

I'm a goner, and I can't even bring myself to regret it.

15.) What's a WIP you'd like to finish, but doubt you ever will?

OKAY SO I've written snippets of a modern AU focusing on Helix, Needle and Stitch, and I'm totally gonna take this opportunity to rage about it. I'm probably never gonna finish it, but it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling, so, hey- what else is fic for, really, if not for indulging yourself?

At first, it's just Needle and Stitch. It's just been the two of them, for as long as Stitch can remember. Needle's only a few years older than him, but he's raised him, kept him in school, kept a roof over their heads and food on the table-

Food on Stitch's plate, at least.

Then, one night, Needle does not come home.

A hit-and-run, the nurse tells him, although the words will not trickle through until much later. A coma.

He will not, they say patiently, come home for some time.

(There is so much that needs doing.)

Helix, meanwhile, is studying physical therapy at the local community college and working part-time at his brother Ace's bakery.

It's during one of these shifts that a skinny little twerp comes in and hands him a job application.

(Rent and bills and Needle Needle Needle-)

It doesn't take Helix long to realize something is... off.

Ace tells him not to push it, but-

The kid's a good worker. Great, as a matter of fact. He's never late. Stays past closing, too, if they've had a rush. He tells Helix about his brother and nothing else.

(His brother hasn't come to visit.)

Everything that's not sold at the end of the day gets packaged up and given out. They only toss in the dumpster what's really, truly inedible- stuff that got dropped in the kitchen, scraps left over from customers-

He thinks it's raccoons, at first, until he peers in and sees Stitch flatten himself against a heap of bags in the corner.

They package up leftovers for him, after that. A bit more than leftovers, maybe. Ace sets aside sandwiches. Helix buys him a thermos and tells him it's been in the lost and found for over a year. They make sure he eats.

(Needle's getting transferred out of the ICU.)

Stitch is trying. He's doing everything he can, and more besides. But Needle's life is too expensive and he's buckling under the weight.

(He hasn't even grieved. Not really. No room. No time.)

Eventually, something has to give.

He does.

(He hadn't expected someone to be there to catch him.)

Featuring:

Helix stumbling into adopting first one, then two idiot kids

Ace being a supportive brother

Needle finding his way home

Mace Windu as Needle's (unfairly attractive, Helix thinks) neurologist

Obi-Wan as a hospital social worker who gets assigned Needle's file

Cody as Obi-Wan's husband, Helix's cousin, and children's book author (Stitch's favorite)

(listen I am WEAK for author!Cody, truly)

(Helix was totally the one who got them together and he regrets it every day of his life.)

Sheev Palpatine as the epitome of the evil of the American healthcare system

The Melidaan crew running a long-term, non-profit care facility that offers both in-patient and out-patient rehab services

16.) What are your writing strengths?

(I'VE PUT TOO MUCH THOUGHT INTO THIS. SHIT.)

17.) What are your writing weaknesses?

I am, apparently, really good at writing breakdowns. >:3

18.) Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

Dialogue does not come easily to me. I have to work a bit to hit my stride. But I think it turns out well enough!

Hm. Coming from a purely technical perspective here, I think the reader should be able to understand everything that's spoken in a fic. If a character says something in another language, then I think the best way to convey that is, "X muttered something Y didn't catch," or, if the listener recognizes that it's at least in another language, "X muttered something in French."

If the reader should understand it, then something along the lines of: "'I knew we shouldn't have trusted him,' X muttered in French."

If the POV character doesn't understand the language, it doesn't make sense to provide the reader with a perfect transliteration of what the other character is saying. The character wouldn't have that knowledge. It can really take me out of the fic when two characters suddenly start conversing in written-out sentences in another language, and I have to scroll all the way down to the footnotes for translations.

19.) First fandom you wrote for?

But then again, that's just my opinion- I'm sure others have their own thoughts on this!

20.) Favorite fic you've ever written?

Harry Potter.

Hell, I have to say like lightning changing hands, if only because whatever fic I'm writing at the moment is my favorite. It's the act of creation that does it for me!

(Also because it's such a good opportunity to explore so many relationship dynamics.)

No-pressure tags for @jedi-enthusiast, @themonopolyhat, @shadow-pixelle, and @foreverchangingfandomsao3!

[chen-chen-chen-again-chen]

Hi, hello, hola, and happy Stab Caesar Day! Tumblr ate my original draft because, um, I guess its hunger is horrible and insatiable? But here I am for take two. Thank you to @artsyunderstudy, @larkral, and @forabeatofadrum, who tagged me today and who continue to craft delightful things.

Updates on My Good Egg (Good morning, good night, good morning): My plan of posting Chapter 4 today ain't gonna happen. I updated the author's notes, but the next posting date is TBD. I need to focus on my health right now, and then I'll be travelling for a bit (March 24-April 7). But hey, if you've been meaning to read this one, now's a great time to catch up? 🤣

In the meanwhile, I'll share a snippet featuring several of my OCs, Baz's queer, chaotic uni friends. Behind the cut for mild spice. 🌶️

Bunce goes off with Simon so that she can pump the American bartender for information, and as soon as they’re out of earshot, Emma leans forward, her eyes glittering. “Well?”

“Well what.”

“I told Liu and Ramesh you got kidnapped,” Emma says, waving her hand dismissively, “and of course we’re all very worried and hope you’re doing okay and acclimating to regular life again, but have. You. Ridden. That.” 

Baz regrets downing a few rats before they left for the pub, because it means he has enough blood in him to blush. “We’ve been figuring out this kidnapping situation,” he says coolly. “It hasn’t left much time for carnal pursuits.” 

“Baz,” Liu says, aghast. “Why haven’t you fucked that nice himbo? He’s clearly gagging for it - he couldn’t stop staring at your arse in those jeans.” 

“Is he a himbo?” Ramesh says. He pulls out a pen and starts to doodle a triple Venn diagram on a napkin. “He seemed like more of a twunk to me. And he’s got a great bear belly.” 

“Ladies,” Emma says, her hands fluttering in mock-distress, “please don’t objectify that sweet boy before Baz gets to objectify him. Baz will eat his fill of the man-meat and then give us a report.” 

(Please put in the comments/tags if you think Simon Snow is a twunk, a himbo, or something else delightful. 🤣)

Hello tags and tagbacks: @whogaveyoupermission, @cutestkilla, @facewithoutheart, @captain-aralias, @fatalfangirl, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @whogaveyoupermission (THE EDGING CONTINUES), @raenestee, @ileadacharmedlife, @shrekgogurt, @hushed-chorus, @shemakesmeforget, @theimpossibledemon, @imagineacoolusername

More about the hiatus for My Good Egg:

(Warning for some hard stuff, Big Feelings, trauma recovery. Feel free to skip and just bask in Ides of March posts instead!)

Okay, so introspective life/writing blather here... I keep meaning to write a post, at some point, about some of the best practices that I follow when I am writing about material that is heavy, like in Baker boxer teacher grief or the Rosethorn girl universe.

A lot of stuff that works for me is probably self-evident: go slow, be gentle, ground yourself, talk to safe people, have a release valve, be able to walk away, offer yourself a lot of self-care and self-compassion, take care of the soft animal of your body. And don't feel like you have to put everything in - some of what you can write can just be for you, and it can be enough to have written it, and not include it in the finished product.

I honestly didn't expect Good morning, good night, good morning to get me where I live. It is, as I've always maintained, a dumb horny rom com (that somehow developed a plot and backstory and plot TWISTS and OCs but ANYWAY). But there was a line in Chapter 3 that kept rattling around in me:

“You were a kid,” Simon says, his voice low and angry. “You were just a kid.” 

This is not the first time I've been triggered by own fic (and probably won't be the last, LOL!), but this one did me a doozy. I've had to take a few steps back, and just focus on recovering from trauma that's been reactivated in my body. It is wild what the body remembers, and how it holds onto pain.

(There is, at the same time, other stuff happening with my family with grief and estrangement and just a whole mischegoss of hard feelings, so that adds another element into the mix.)

To circle back round to My Good Egg: I'm putting it to the side for now while I tend to my health and just recovering from the past few weeks. It's funny - I don't think it's a particularly angsty story or one that does a super deep dive into trauma, but I need to take some pieces off my plate right now, and this fic is one of them.

I will always keep writing - the WIP game has been a delightful brain refresher, and I have a very fun Six Sentence Sunday post that I'm already excited to share. But for now, My Good Egg is gonna have a li'l nap. When I come back to it, I think I'll switch over to writing the second draft in its entirety, and then posting the chapters weekly, whenever that happens. I'm not putting a timeline on it right now.

Anyway, thanks for coming to my TED talk making your way through this personal essay, if you've gotten this far. I am continually blown away and delighted by everyone who engages with the fic, and I am so excited to serve you up some treats in the future.

To end on a lighter note, here is an exchange with my spouse, the inestimable EarlobeGreyTea who continues to offer thoughtful and nuanced feedback on this fic, Exhibit A:

EarlobeGreyTea: Did they fuck in this chapter?

Me: No Me: And they didn't fuck in the previous chapter Me: It's the EROTIC Grope Fest. It doesn't have to have explicit sex (yet) EarlobeGreyTea: Yeah, I guess it isn't the Sloppy Fuck Fest

Love you all. ❤️❤️❤️

[cherrynojutsu]

Awww, thank you, dearest! I am but a puddle on the floor reading this. 🥲🥲🥲 I will say I agree with you on the first few chapters; I feel like I've hit my stride/style more as the story has progressed and that I've become a better writer. Whenever I finish Like Gold (which will probably be a hot minute 😅), I would like to go back and edit the chapters (especially the early ones) stylistically to streamline them more.

With that, I definitely had to laugh like a Disney villain because if you think this is Sasuke suffering, you ain't seen NOTHING yet. I'm trying to have him sort through his feelings on his own throughout the entirety of Arc 1, but there are things that are going to send his anxiety into overdrive before this arc concludes and we move on to Arcs 2 and 3. I intend to put the poor guy through it. He will definitely come out stronger at the end of that arc, mentally wise, and after that things will continue to shift to where he actually does start to talk about it to people. He'll get there; it's just gonna take a while. This whole story is really just a very self-indulgent character study, honestly, but I myself struggle with mental health also (diagnosed + on meds for anxiety disorder + ADHD) so it's very personal to me to explore the concepts of Sasuke's regrets, what he thinks about, what he worries about... It's very therapeutic to write his internal monologue and what sorts of things he might be thinking about as he readjusts.

Anyways, IRL I am an art teacher, so my major was not in English but I have always loved writing! Thank you again for such a sweet review. Posts like these make writing/posting + engaging with the fandom so worthwhile.

Until next time!❤️❤️❤️

Dedicating yet another blogpost to @cherrynojutsu's Like Gold:

It's been awhile since I've been on Tumblr, wow. The last time I reviewed Like Gold was, oh my god, three years ago?! Time flies.

As I took a break from reading this fic, waiting for more chapters to accumulate, as one does, and also because of life and studying... I decided to reread it last week, as I realized the latest chapter Cherry released was 19! My review was at chapter 6!

And oh boy, what have I missed! I have to admit I feel terrible for not reading for so long! T.T

First things first, I have to compliment Cherry's writing style, and how much it has improved since the last time! As she began the fic in June of 2021, and I'm not saying at all that her writing used to be bad, just that now it's absolute perfection! Here's a visual representation of my feelings while reading the first time:

The same gif used as for the first review - but the feelings were the same this time around too. The first couple of chapters of SasuSaku's blooming relationship was the cutest, from the tenative first kisses to the lingering touches ♥

However, the emotional rollercoaster that ensued after the story progresseed - oh my god. Here's another visual representation, this time showing my emotions just after I finished chapter 19:

(tears because of Sasuke's inner turmoil and trauma, and the blushing because of Sasuke's-😳 )

Once again mentioning my initial review, I SPECULATED the turn that this fic will take with Sasuke's mental health, and oh- the turn was so sudden and sharp that it sent me tumbling down the road. I feel so sorry for the poor boy, he deserves nothing but happiness, and I need him SO BADLY to talk to someone about it.

I knew the fic was going to be a huge slowburn (which was right up my alley) but at some point I thought to myself this has been so sweet and innocent for so long, with their sweet pecks and hugs and lunches and book clubs, will the author really have the means of turning this into something more? I was proven wrong after reading the scene on Sakura's balcony, and wintessing their first makeout sesh. I realized, Cherry will be going places. Had no more doubts after that.

I have no energy to describe anything I felt for the couch scene in chapter 19, as I am not quite done processing what I just read... (The blushing on my cheeks still hasn't passed).🥵

However, I wish to appreaciate the authors ability to indulge on the topics of mental health disorders and character analysis. It's soo hard to read Sasuke struggling like that, and believe me I've read my fair share on SS fics, but I've never seen someone delve this deeply into Sasuke's character and mental state. Cherry I don't know what your major is, but hats off to your skills! You must be really empathetic to be able to write this so well, and I truly admire you for it ♥

I'm so happy to see Sasuke finally trying to do something about it - the jasmine, the old district, his cuts and oh the letters break my heart into million pieces! I can't imagine how Sakura must feel when she finds out what Sasuke has been keeping to himself and suffering silently, even though she urged him never to suffer alone. Oh my, I CAN SMELL THE ANGST COMING. Am I bad person because I can't wait for it?

I love the authors humor, transfering onto Sasuke's witty one and also the other characters. I love the subtle details and descriptions this fic has to offer - from the descriptions of mugs, books they read, the teas they drink. It's too sweet. You can truly feel the authors soul through their work!

The chapter when Sasuke was sick was so lovely, but I have to admit that the bed scene and counting heartbeats has to be the sweetest, lovliest thing I have read in awhile! <3

I am so excited for the future chapters now that so many things unfolded, Sasuke's state has probably never been worse so I really need him to start healing T.T Sakura is so sweet and supprotive, hopefully Sasuke will help her too by urging her to work less. Also excited for the smut.

Thank you so much Cherry for sharing your work with us, I am eternally grateful! I will be looking forward to the future chapters!