#I would ask where the editor was but I think we all know there was none

[percontaion-points]

The Chemist chapter 4

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Chapter 4

Two mornings ago, she’d followed his exercise route as best she could from a safe distance. He held a strong, fast pace—obviously an experienced runner. As she watched, she found herself wishing that she had more time to run. She didn’t love running the way others seemed to—she always felt so exposed on the side of a road, no car to escape in—but it was important.

So you see about Julie infodumping about running? Yeah. Now imagine a 16 and a half page chapter of nothing but that.

Yes, these chapters are on the longer side. But holy fucking shit, literally not one single word of most of this is in any way relevant. 

“Hi, Daniel.��� 

“Hi…” He raised his eyebrows. 

“Um, Alex.” Whoops, that was a few names back. Oh, well.

HOW ARE YOU THIS BAD AT YOUR JOB?! 

I’m convinced that Julie wasn’t so much burnt as she was going to be fired. 

He nodded, then pulled an old BlackBerry out of his pocket and fumbled with the buttons. 

Nothing quite like some awkwardly dated references. 

If he hadn’t been drugged, he would have heard the edge in her voice and seen the ice in her eyes.

Chapter 4 summary: The chapter opens up on the aforementioned tedious infodump that lasts for way longer than it should. Julie tells the readers about how Dr. B got her startled with really solid fake identities. One of them was burnt not too long after she herself was burnt. The other two are still good. She complains a lot about how much money that this gig is costing her, but she feels that it’ll be worth it if she can free herself from her terrible situation. 

And then she takes a left turn and starts talking about how she’d been in with a mafia leader for a while. He’d wanted her to set up permanently, but she’d ditched that identity and fled. She knows that they’re probably still looking for her, but she doesn’t care. 

Then, she does like… a day of surveillance on the target, Daniel. She figures that the guy has a solid routine down, and tries to determine when the best time to grab him would be. She eventually decides that it needs to be on the subway. So then we have a tedious scene where she’s riding the subway and fails to find him. It goes on for ages without actually going anywhere. 

Then finally, FINALLY, she finds Daniel. Because this is actually a romance novel wrapped in a spy thriller, he starts chatting her up. She accidentally introduces herself as Alex, and says that she’s a doctor. She jabs him real quick with what she calls “truth serum”, and he starts getting all woozy from it. 

She guides him out from the train, and makes him call the school secretary to say that he’s sick, and going to see a doctor. He then starts going on about his ex-wife, and how she loved money. And Julie is kind of like “WTF are you doing, girl? Stop flirting with him!” 

[docholligay]

Do you think authors sometimes don't realize how their, uh, interests creep into their writing? I'm talking about stuff like Robert Jordan's obvious femdom kink, or Anne Rice's preoccupation with inc*st and p*dophilia. Did their editors ever gently ask them if they've ever actually read what they've written?

Firstly, a reminder: This is not tiktok and we just say the words incest and pedophilia here.

Secondly, I don't know if I would call them 'interests' so much as fixations or even concerns. There are monstrous things that people think about, and I think writing is a place to engage with those monstrous things. It doesn't bother me that people engage with those things. I exist somewhere within the whump scale, and I would hope no one would think less of me just because sooner or later I like to rough a good character up a bit, you know? It's fun to torture characters, as a treat!

But, anyway, assuming this question isn't, "Do writers know they're gross when I think they are gross" which I'm going to take the kind road and assume it isn't, but is instead, "Do you think authors are aware of the things they constantly come back to?"

Sometimes. It can be jarring to read your own writing and realize that there are things you CLEARLY are preoccupied with. (mm, I like that word more than concerns). There are things you think about over and over, your run your mind over them and they keep working their way back in. I think this is true of most authors, when you read enough of them. Where you almost want to ask, "So...what's up with that?" or sometimes I read enough of someone's work that I have a PRETTY good idea what's up with that.

I've never read Robert Jordan and I don't intend to start (I think it would bore me this is not a moral stance) and I've really never read Rice's erotica. In erotica especially I think you have all the right in the world to get fucking weird about it! But so, when I was young I read the whole Vampire Chronicles series. I don't remember it perfectly, but there's plenty in it to reveal VERY plainly that Anne Rice has issues with God but deeply believes in God, and Anne Rice has a preoccupation with the idea of what should stay dead, and what it means to become. So, when i found out her daughter died at the age of six, before Rice wrote all of this, and she grew up very very Catholic' I said, 'yeah, that fucking checks out'.

Was Rice herself aware of how those things formed her writing? I think at a certain point probably yes. The character of Claudia is in every way too on the nose for her not to have SOME idea unless she was REAL REAL dense about her own inner workings. But, sometimes I know where something I write about comes from, that doesn't mean I'm interested in sharing it with the class. I would never ever fucking say, 'The reasons I seem to write so much of x as y is that z happened to me years ago' ahaha FUCK THAT NOISE. NYET. RIDE ON, COWBOY.

But I've known some people in fandom works who clearly have something going on and don't seem to realize it. Or they're very good at hiding it. Based on the people I'm talking about I would say it's more a lack of self-knowledge, and I don't even mean that unkindly. I have, in many ways, taken myself down to the studs and rebuilt it all, so I unfortunately am very aware of why I do and write the things I do most of the time. It's extremely annoying not to be able to blame something. I imagine it must be very freeing. But it ain't me, babe.

Anyway, a lot of words to say: Maybe! But that might not stop them from writing it, it might be a useful thing for them to engage with, and you can always just not read it.

Also, we don't censor words here.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Perfect Life || CL16 {3}

Summary: Charles is beginning to see the cracks in your facade and it only leads to more questions than answers in his quest to get to know you. Warnings: angst, swearing, sarcasm, abusive parents, flashback to Jules WC: 2.1k

One || Two || Three || Four

Ten Years Ago The nurses greeted you by name as you walked into the ICU ward with a book in your hands and your school backpack slung over one shoulder. For the last six months you had visited your friend twice a week and learned the names of all the staff while you sat at his side. 

“I have the new, unreleased, Jack Reacher,” you said as you took your seat between the bed and the window. The only other sounds in the room were the quiet whoosh of the ventilator and the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor. “Father knows the Editor at Bantam Press.”

You dumped your bag on the floor and opened the novel. The action thriller wasn’t something you would choose yourself but Jules had liked the series so you read it aloud. The neurologists seemed to think it could help him and the psychiatrists seemed to think it could help you.

“Moving a guy as big as Keever wasn’t easy,” you began the story. Time slipped away as you turned each page and you were so engrossed in the words that you didn’t notice your phone vibrating in your bag. You were late to your piano lesson, but more importantly someone else was arriving for his weekly visit.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Charles snapped as he breezed into the room and crossed his arms. 

“Same as you, visiting,” you murmured as you packed your bag up, leaving the novel on the table that had a vase of fresh flowers. You touched Jules’ hand with a silent farewell and kept your eyes low as you made your escape. 

You were almost to the door when an arm blocked your way. “Don’t come back again,” Charles growled. 

Your fists clenched at your sides as you dared to lift your head and meet his glare. “He is my friend too.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re just a stupid little girl. He avoids you because he finds you annoying.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know he wouldn’t want you here.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded because he was probably right. That was the last time you visited Jules, and the first time you truly hated Charles. 

“That was harsh,” Lorenzo stated as you passed by on your way out of the room. 

Charles waited for the door to close before he asked his eldest brother, “Were they friends?”

Lorenzo chewed his lip and shrugged. “They weren’t friends,” he admitted and Charles turned his back with a scoff as he made his way to Jules, missing the quiet confession tacked on to the end, “They were closer than that.” 

You had been so furious when you left the hospital that you smashed your fist into a wall in the car park where your driver was waiting. 

“Phew, that’s quite the punch you pack, little lady,” a stranger had chuckled between the drags he took on his cigarette. “With a bit of training you could do some serious damage.”

You looked at the blood running over your knuckles but you were numb to the pain. “I like damage,” you commented quietly. “Do you know any trainers?”

Present Day Charles drove along the scenic coastal road towards Saint Tropez rather than the faster highways. He lowered the windows and donned a pair of sunglasses as the breeze whipped his dark hair back. Everything about his ostentatious image screamed old money until he smiled and it was too carefree. Old money didn’t show such emotion, your mother said it was uncouth to feel anything except superiority. Those weren’t her exact words but it was the gist of the conversation.

“You frown too much,” he commented as he handed you his phone. 

“I hardly have anything to smile about.”

“For starters, we escaped that - whatever that was, because it certainly wasn’t charitable. And now you are in control of the music. I think that is enough for a little smile.”

You tossed his phone back on his lap and turned your attention back to the waves breaking against the rocks. “I don’t listen to music.”

“Everyone listens to music.” 

He fiddled with the stereo and the slow melodic beginning to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the car. Each note sent echoes of pain shooting through your fingertips and you closed your hands as they began to shake. Your knuckles throbbed with the memory of sitting before your mother and reciting the classical greats you had been made to learn. You were constantly showcased to her friends, placed on a pedestal to flaunt skills that had no real purpose other than to illustrate the other families' mediocrities.

Until you made a mistake. 

You flinched as the allegretto movement began and your hands snapped close to your chest as you felt the piano lid come slamming down on them again. It was like falling in a dream and startling as you woke up. Charles was watching carefully as you found yourself back in the leather seat and not the velvet bench.

“Turn it off.”

He hit a button on his steering wheel and silence descended in the small space. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

Charles thankfully let it go and concentrated on driving to Monaco. You didn’t even bother to argue with him when he passed around the outskirts of Nice without stopping, you had found a small distraction by making shapes out of the clouds. It was only when he slowed to drive through the signature winding street that passed the casino that you looked down at your chiffon gown and frowned. “I am overdressed, even for this place.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“No thanks,” you said, quickly shutting down the offer with a shake of your head. You grabbed your phone from your clutch and sent a quick message to Arthur. “I have some spare clothes at your brother’s place, we can just pick them up.”

Charles’ brow lifted. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to stay in this dress all afternoon?”

“No, why do you have clothes at Arthur’s?”

“For when I stay there, obviously. Do you think I stay in a hotel here?” You rolled your eyes. “No, wait, you probably thought ‘Daddy bought me a penthouse’.”

He had the good sense to look guilty but it also confirmed your suspicion. 

You knew the small city almost as well as Nice and found your bearings as he made his way to Arthur’s apartment complex. It wasn’t far from Charles’ but you had never been there, Arthur had just pointed it out on one of the many outings into the city. 

“You have a key too?” Charles asked as you unlocked Arthur’s door instead of knocking.

“You’re starting to sound a little jealous now.” The door swung open and Arthur waved as you shot past the sofa he was relaxing on and ducked into his bedroom to change into a pair of leggings and one of his old Prema shirts.

“Who’s jealous?” he asked as you flopped down beside him and used his thighs as a pillow. 

You draped a hand over your forehead and sighed dramatically. “Your brother is madly in love with me, but he can’t get over how close we are, Tur. There may be a duel at dawn, ready your pistols and kiss your mother in case it is the last time.”

“You really need a nap don’t you,” Arthur teased. His fingers carefully plucked the bobby pins from your hair and Charles watched on silently as the haunted look that had been in your eyes the entire ride faded away. “Dare I ask why you are here? You didn’t kidnap her did you?”

“I’d probably be floating facedown in the riviera if I tried that,” Charles replied with an indignant snort. “She voluntarily got into my car.”

“Ah, that’s progress, I suppose.”

“It was the lesser of two evils,” you corrected as you closed your eyes. The late night was beginning to catch up with you and a yawn cracked your jaw before a soft blanket fell over you. “Mm, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Your brain hadn’t realised Arthur’s hands were still busy and the voice came from the blanket box where Charles had stood. Rather than question the goodwill, it was easier to pretend he hadn’t been nice because it was starting to really confuse you. 

“Did your genius brother tell you his plan?” you asked as you shifted around until you were comfy and looked up at your best friend. 

“He may have mentioned it on the drive home last night,” Arthur said. “Honestly, it was all he talked about.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.” Arthur turned his attention back to you. “Are you actually considering it?”

You barked a laugh that was a big enough ‘no’ but followed it up with, “Absolutely not. It wouldn’t even work anyway.”

“Why not?” Charles asked, taking a seat in the armchair opposite.

“No offence, but what do you bring to the table? Outside of F1 your name doesn’t mean anything.”

Growing up in Monaco where one in three people were millionaires, Charles wasn’t blind to reality, he knew first hand how elitist the ‘old money’ families were. “So why marry Jules?” 

You heard the pain that one question held and sighed as you sat up, woefully abandoning the idea of sleep. Charles didn’t like how the question made him sound petulant, or that he was somehow a better choice than Jules was - he didn’t think that at all, he just couldn’t understand why the plan wouldn’t work.

“It wasn’t about Jules. You forget that while he raced under the French flag the Bianchi’s came from Milan. The Italian market is one Father wants to break into.” You got up and went to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of Prosecco from the fridge. It was a little flat after being open a few days and you swirled the drink around, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. “Father’s five year plan was for Jules to win a championship with Ferrari, cementing the name back into Italian households, and then train his new son-in-law to join the family business.” 

The silence was heavy but Charles eventually recovered from staring out the window deep in thought. “Did Jules know this?”

“He knew enough.”

“What does that even mean?”

“He knew he was important enough to blackmail my father, kind of ballsy if you ask me, but it worked. Jules threatened to quit racing if he revoked the funding for your driving academy.” You drank down the Prosecco in a few unladylike gulps before refilling it as the bitterness in your belly grew. “Must have been nice to have someone fight all your battles.”

“I’m trying to help you now, but you’re being stubborn,” Charles said as he crossed the room and took the bottle away. “I don’t understand why.”

“You don’t understand? Maybe it’s because you treated me like shit for years and I can’t trust you.”

“I thought Jules didn’t like you, I figured it had to be for a good reason.”

“No, you figured you could judge me without even trying to get to know me. That’s pretty fucking shitty, but you know what? I’ve come to expect it from everyone. The only person that’s ever treated me like a fucking human being is sitting right there.”

Charles followed the angry point of your finger to his brother and sighed. “I can’t change the past, okay, but I am trying to make up for it now. Please, just let me help you, it’s the least I can do - for you and for Jules. It’s just a job.”

You crossed your arms and tipped your chin back to look him in the eyes. “What makes you think I would even protect you? I could let you get mobbed and point them in the right direction.”

Charles smiled and you realised you were no longer impervious to the fact he was quite handsome but it was his words that shocked you more. “Because I believe you’re better than that.”

“That might be your biggest mistake.”

Charles held his hand out. “We will have to test it and see. Deal?”

You looked at Arthur and so much hope filled his face it was impossible to stomach the idea of watching it fall away. So, you shook Charles’ hand and swore you heard Jules’ laugh in the seagulls' cries. Yeah, he would probably be laughing, he always laughed when you made a mistake. 

“There’s no use crying, lapinette, might as well laugh and learn,” Jules would say.

You only wondered just how bad this latest lesson in the school of hard-knocks would be.

Part Four.

[simp-ly-writes]

Gentle-Fellow's

─────── · · A Smosh Fanfic

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x gn!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You, Spencer and your fellow cast mates Angela and Shayne all star in yet another Don't Win Mario Party, Gentlemen addition!

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, part social media au, use of dated terms as comedy, swearing, smoking, fluff, attempt at humour, cute.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,463

─ · · A/N: thank you so much for the ask, anon! sorry it took so long, had to brainstorm some jokes and scenarios but it was a load of fun! 😄

─────── · ·

"Oi! 'ello Chaps, I'm here with my fellow gentle-lads and t'day we'll be playing some good old fashion mario party, just how I like my liquor-" you began to intro to the camera before Spencer was slapping you gently on the shoulder, his body acting out more impact than you actually received but you still fell off the couch for comedic benefit as he put his shoes up on your supposed 'corpse' in good taste.

"Well enough with what that fellow was going on about, I must say we shall play. This game is better suited for a trio rather than a quartet- the same philosophy can also be said for working in the navy. Was much better to night-watch with a trio-"

"Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount. I have yet to try four but it sounds you would not recommend?" Shayne leans forwards on the couch to fully face Spencer who adjusts his tophat while looking down at you, silently asking if you were okay while laying down off camera. You shot him a smile upwards, rolling over and returning back to the couch.

"Yes, I would not recommend such activities. Too many men with not enough places to go and scope out. Much better to have three, did you not serve to learn this?" Spencer asks with a tilt to his head, his top hat already falling off again as you hold back a chuckle to his playful glare in your direction.

"I in fact did serve! I was a leader, and I good one at that too. Took my whole group to one of the colonies, we had to strip ourselves of layers from how humid the climate was," Shayne clarified, pretending to light his cigar as Spencer lit his own, passing his lighter towards you.

"Thank you, gentleman," you responded, lighting your two cigarettes, wearing them like vampire fangs that had Angela near tears at the end of the couch. "I do remember being down to my undergarments at multiple points with my men, I'll have you know we were all in position within the ama-zone. Quite the discoveries we made there, so uncivilized."

"AYE!" Angela corrected, pointing a finger, her moustache slipping down her face, "I'll have you know my third mistress is from those parts, and she is the best. You mustn't make such hastily claims gentlemen, it is unbecoming of you!"

You nod your head, "yes, yes, very unbecoming. What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work," you continue as Angela agrees with a huff, the game seemingly long forgotten as you all carry through conversation, trying your darnedest not to break character.

"Ah yes, I think I have a son or two, I can't quite remember. I think to name them all William, a strong English name," Shanye comments once you all get... gently reminded to play the game you intro-ed over half an hour ago, you hoped that the editors would be able to find something distinguishable in these files.

─────── · ·

"I do believe it is your turn, gentleman," Spencer comments, casting you a wink. "My, I have seen to misplaced that powered-device. Does anyone see it?" Everyone starts to feel around the dips in the couch, Spencer was the first to stand, walking closer to the cameras from where you rolled to during the introduction bit and comes back with your controller, dipping it towards you with a bow.

"Thank you, my, you must be quite the bachelor, charming a fellow like me, oh my," you add with heated cheeks as Spencer returns to your side, his leg nocking against your own as you shout out in disbelief to obtaining a star you DID NOT want. "This is outrageous, I demand a re-play of my turn! I did not intend-"

"We must play by the rules," Shayne cuts you off, tilting his hat down as you stick out your tongue. Angela is focused on not winning the next mini game as you and Shayne continue your staring contest in the following two rounds before you claim victory. "Haha! I have trained with only the best, you can read a lot about another man through his eyes. Have you been hunting before? I love that wild look." Spencer jumps to respond.

"Yes, I must say, you really can tell a lot..." and in that moment you both look at one another. Shayne and Angela are both screaming over something on the screen but you both sound it out, lost in this little moment before realizing your both won... or well lost.

"It appear we have lost," Spencer says, emitting a sigh. "No, I would say we have won," you tease loving the way his cheeks heat up to his ears before you both return to the game more driven then ever to not win.

─────── · ·

Jokes have you all toppling the couch at some point from your rambunctious laughter, Angela is struggling to breathe through her sentence much similar to you over just how funny Spencer manages to be wearing sweatpants and a cheap half tux.

Spencer immediately went to protect your head with his arm as you all fell backwards with a large crash, the crew all gasped out in shock before your laughter only grew more boisterous. "I think I hear a little man again," Shayne comments, forcing himself upright to look over the couch as stars begun to be distributed.

Like snipers at position you all kneeled, your eyes only visible from the turned over couch. Top hats giving away your cover and you had placed second, falling back to the ground in fake shock and relief. Spencer teased mouth to mouth that had you pressing a hand to his mouth and narrowed your eyes at his large ones filled with glee and adoration.

─────── · ·

Angela had lost in the end in first place. you second place. Shayne in third and Spencer being the ultimate winner in fourth.

"FUCK!" and the video ended abruptly to quickly cute to her wearing a dog cone while trying to light a cigarette, only for them to keep collecting down by her neck.

"Thank you all for viewing our game time today, I have had the most splendid time today with you chaps, as I hope you all have ventured the same?" Shayne asks the now upright couch and cast.

"Yes, I was quite filled with delight," you replied, nodding your head and tipping your hat to everyone on the sofa.

"I do agree with my fellow gentleman, here" Spencer replies, clapping you on the wrist this time, very much close to holding your hand, your fingers interlacing while watching Angelas 'winning' speech.

"I hate you all-"

"Why that id not very gentlemanly of you, do you wish to handle these matters outside in more space for our thoughts?" Shayne rebuttles.

"Yes, I rather have a few thoughts to show you," Angela challenged, brow raised as she begins to roll up her sleeves, Shayne doing the same. Alex closes the video by panning upwards and the screen fades to black.

─────── · ·

🔔 Smosh Games just posted! watch now?

─────── · ·

Gentleman's Rules: Don't Win Mario Party (Again!)

Smosh Games ✓ [Subscribed] 👍 67k | 👎 7.78M subscribers 300k views 1 week ago only the politest of games... click to read more

1,110 Comments

username01 (name) and Spencer out here being the cutest even while cosplaying as colonizers, iconic behaviour you two!

username88 09:45 "Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount" - Shayne Topp 2024

↳ username70 OMG why did I not catch this earlier LMAO 🤣 ↳ username91 or what about 20:01 " What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work..." - (name) was UNREAL for sayin' this XD ↳ username70 OMG YES! 🙌😂

username22 I don't know about you but I'm feeling like I'm ready for a whole series of just this cast and just this game. I have had this video and repeat since it's come out! Please. Make. More. 🙏

username14 Literally so in love with how gentle Spencer was being with (name), dropping the persona to held them find their controller and even making sure they didn't fall hard?? 😭

↳ username91 and did anyone notice those little winks? UGH 😩

username40 this is not good material to be eating to, almost choked from laughing so hard, would not recommend.

userame66 That little exchange about seeing into one another's eyes was so poetic, like that bit did not need to go that hard 💗

─────── · ·

─ · · SPENCER AGNEW TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @little-stitious-studios @thejourneyneverendsx @sibsteria @lizzylynch1 @babble2 @delaneyburghardt @thevintagefangirl @uniquely-haunting @maricarorp

[venus-haze]

You're My Best Friend (Homelander x Reader)

Summary: Homelander was a test tube baby, raised in isolation in a cold, clinical lab. But that doesn’t inspire America, does it? Vought tasks you with creating the idyllic backstory for its hero, and what starts as a limited comic run spirals out of control when Homelander himself demands your help in making the story a reality.

Note: Gender neutral reader, but no other descriptors are used. Based on a request by @crash-and-cure as well as a bastardization of one of the sweetest love songs ever written (sorry, John Deacon!) This got kinda meta? Do not interact if you’re under 18 or post thinspo/ED content.

Word count: 2k

Warnings: Emotional manipulation, I guess some gaslighting on Homelander’s part? Do not interact if you’re under 18.

When Vought hired you to create their long-awaited Homelander origin comic series, you were thrilled—until they gave you so little information about his childhood to work with, you weren’t even sure you could come up with one comic, let alone the ten they requested. The details about his childhood were minimal, not even a full printed page—a loving mom and dad, played baseball, did well in school, strong sense of justice from a young age, his friends called him “Johnny.” Your requests to meet with Homelander so you could get some stories from the man himself were constantly denied.

You almost considered dropping the project, until you decided to throw caution to the wind and pull from your own childhood and set it in good ol’ generic suburbia. Some of the storylines were based on your own experiences or things that had happened to people you’d grown up with, though you changed enough names and details to not link it to anyone in particular. Except yourself, of course. Using a pseudonym professionally meant you felt no need to change your own name in the comics. Sure, making your cooler fictionalized self Homelander’s childhood best friend was a bit self-indulgent, but no one would know, really.

To your relief, the editors at Vought loved your ideas, making minor changes before bringing the storylines to their comic artists to bring it to life. The result was Finding Homelander: A Boy’s Journey To Be a Hero. The issues flew off shelves when they were first released, ironically praised for their relatability and authenticity. Vought extended your contract, asking you to produce the cartoon adaptation and another ten issues.

Still, in all of that, you’d never met Homelander. A representative from Vought emailed you to let you know to tune in to his interview on a talk show one day, saying that he’d be talking more about the cartoon project on it. You recognized the host, Tracey, always chipper and having some extravagant giveaway for her audience members. Daytime TV was never your thing, though.

“I think what resonates with so many people is how relatable your childhood is,” Tracey said, holding up a copy of Finding Homelander issue #3, where he saved ‘you’ from getting hit in the face with a baseball at one of his games, catching it with ease. It’d been the happy ending to a short storyline of him struggling to find his place on the team and you encouraging him to not give up. “You and Y/N were pretty close, do you still keep in touch?”

“You know, Tracey, not as much as I’d like, unfortunately. Adulthood can be so busy, you need to cherish those childhood memories,” Homelander said. “I did give them a call when the comics first came out, and wow, the laughs we had over those old antics of ours. Talk about a walk down memory lane!”

You guessed the bullshitting was all part of the promotional circuit for Homelander. Knowing this childhood of his was your own fabrication, you couldn’t help but wonder what else about him was fake. Maybe he wanted to maintain his privacy, you could certainly understand that. You couldn’t shake the voice in the back of your mind that said it wasn’t so simple, that the narrative Vought pushed was a cover to hide something in Homelander’s past.

“Now, I’ve heard rumors of a cartoon show based on the comics in the making, is this true?”

“It is! I’m excited for this project, getting back to my ‘roots’ so to speak. I’ll be voicing myself, of course, but it’s funny you’d bring up Y/N, because they’ve agreed to voice themself, too.”

“How fun!” Tracey exclaimed over the roar of the talk show crowd’s applause and cheers. “I guess this is the hopeless romantic in me, but I hope this reconnection leads to something a little more. I’m just a sucker for childhood sweethearts!” 

Homelander laughed along with the host’s giggles, “Well, you never know.”

You balked at the television, mouth agape. Surely he couldn’t be talking about you. ‘Y/N’ could be anyone with your same features. Vought had probably hired a professional voice actor for the role and were pushing the authenticity angle. The whole situation felt odd. 

When you checked your work email again on your phone, you nearly dropped it on the floor. 

SUBJECT: Meeting with Homelander This Week

The email contained a list of days and times throughout the week wherein Homelander would be free, apparently wanting to meet you to thank you for the success of the comic series and discuss upcoming work. Yeah. That last part you sure as hell wanted to discuss too. You responded with the soonest time available, in a meeting room in Vought Tower the following evening. As soon as you hit ‘send’, you wondered what exactly you were getting yourself into.

Anticipation filled your gut as you went about your day leading up to meeting the supe himself. What would he be like, really be like? Was there even a version of Homelander that wasn’t hopelessly manufactured for the masses? You knew then that his upbringing was a lie, and thus stood the probability that so much else was, too. 

When you stepped into that meeting room, you hadn’t been expecting his face to light up at the sight of you. 

“Homelander, hi, it’s great to—“

“No need to be so formal, Y/N! You can call me Johnny, just like old times,” he said cheerfully, in on a joke you clearly hadn’t been aware of.

“Sorry, Johnny,” you said, playing along. “It’s great to see you again.”

He pulled you in for an unexpected hug that you returned. “Figured we should catch up before things really start getting crazy, don’t you think?”

You nodded, your nose brushing against him as you did so. Just as your lips parted to offer an apology, he smiled, shooing away the assistant who’d accompanied him out of the room. 

He sat down, motioning for you to do the same.

“Gotta say, I’m a fan of your work,” he said.

“Thank you,” you said. “I’m not sure I understand exactly what’s going on, though.”

“What’s there to understand? I’m not allowed to know more about my best friend, our lives together growing up?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“Wasn’t hard for me to put two and two together, but considering everyone else around here has their head up their asses, they have no idea,” he said, before lowering his voice conspiratorially and giving you a charming smile. “I haven’t told anyone. What’s a secret between friends?”

You nodded, overwhelmed by the intensity of his attention on you. “What do you want to know?”

He sighed, resting his head on his hand. “Everything.”

So you told him. Not quite everything, of course, but enough to abate his curiosity. At least for the time being. His interviews were sharper, more specific with details rather than rattling off whatever had been in the comics. You watched in shock as convincing photos of his Little League days were posted to his social media accounts, anecdotes provided by his increasingly frequent conversations–or more like interrogation sessions–with you, but in his style, of course. It was almost scary what the graphic design team at Vought could accomplish, not that you’d ever know how, exactly, as they were all under the same strict NDA that you were.

He started spending more time with you, too, and after a while, it did seem like you were old friends. Part of you flinched whenever you called him Johnny, because Johnny wasn’t even real, but with your complacency, this fabrication was slowly morphing into a strikingly tangible memory. With each conversation, he drew you deeper into the world you’d been paid to create for him until you found yourself slipping up.

You’d been showing him a goofy stuffed monkey on your desk, a cute little thing with big sparkling eyes. A prize for getting two out of three at the ring toss. Probably spent more money winning it than it was actually worth, but it was about the effort, the memories made.

“You remember, don’t you? You won it for me at the county fair,” you said without thinking.

He laughed in agreement, as if he actually had. Except he hadn’t. Your high school boyfriend won it for you a week before graduation. Sensing the mood shift, he set down your prize and looked at you with the same intensity he had when you first met.

“It’s been a while since we were there, huh?” he said. “Why don’t we go back?”

You furrowed your eyebrows. “Go where?”

“Home.”

With a strong arm around your waist, he took off for your hometown. You could hardly tell which way was up or down, he was flying so high, but he didn’t seem to mind the way you clung to him at all. When he finally landed, you recognized the community baseball field where all of his fictional games were set. 

“Geez, it’s like nothing’s changed,” he said cheerfully.

You looked at him in disbelief. How long was he going to expect you to go along with it? Or maybe the question you should have been asking was, how long were you going to enable him? The end wasn’t anywhere in sight as he took your hand, and you walked him through your childhood, further enmeshing him in it until you arrived at the house you grew up in. 

The middle of the day, no one was home, and so you let yourselves in like you owned the place. Suddenly, the house seemed too small for a man like Homelander to occupy, but he was engrossed in the details of it. He scanned the kitchen, no doubt inspecting the contents of the fridge and cabinets with his x-ray vision. Moving onto the living room, he stared at photos on the wall, the magazines and DVDs that were strewn on the coffee table, giving away your parents’ taste in entertainment.

“Which one was your room again?” he asked.

You swore you could feel his breath on the back of your neck as you wordlessly led him to your room. Each step down the hall felt dangerous, as if you were about to walk into a trap. Face-to-face with the closed door, you opened it, standing aside while Homelander looked around, from what you had hanging on the walls to the knick-knacks you’d left behind.

An uncomfortable tension settled over the room when Homelander closed the door of your childhood bedroom. An odd blend of hurt and amusement spread across his face as he observed the way you were eyeing him, body ready to fruitlessly run from him the way a rabbit would a hawk.

“C’mon, after how long we’ve been friends, I would never hurt you,” he said, as if reading your mind. “We’ve been through so much together. I mean, we were each other’s first kiss.”

You froze. Issue #9. That was something Vought’s editors had added, claiming a romance angle would make the series appeal to the younger female demographic. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

He slyly backed you into the wall, leaning over you as you slinked down the slightest bit.

“Show me how we did it,” he whispered, his hand caressing your cheek. “So clumsy and nervous, I can even feel you…quivering.”

“Homelander, I don’t know what you’re—“

He tsked. “Y/N.”

You let out a shaky breath, “Johnny—“

He hummed in satisfaction. “It’s alright. I know it’s been a while.”

You let him kiss you, sweetly in a way that put your actual first kiss to shame. His lips were soft against yours, his tender movements intentional as he cradled your face, pulling you the slightest bit closer to him when you kissed him back. 

A sense of familiarity settled over you, warm and comforting like pulling a blanket out of the dryer on a chilly evening. Every time it seemed like you were beginning to overthink the situation with Homelander, he drew you back in with the kiss, a more than effective distraction until you pulled away with a dazed smile on your face.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Age gap!Bruce is so in love with his wife, I’m sure that he believes she can’t do nothing wrog. Like, he’s the type to brag about how amazing she’s to everybody.

I love your writing and this scenario in particular has me very interested bc I think is so original. Usually, I don’t like age gap bc writers tend to make reader a little childlike or with no personality, but age gap!reader is so unique that I love her so much.

I like to imagine one of Bruce’s exes, like Selina (I’m sorry, but I always remember how she left him at the altar. I love her but my heart breaks for Bruce) comes back to Gotham and everything is kinda awkward bc yes, they have this weird off and on relationship (they haven’t seen each other for more than a year), not string attached but serious at the same time. And suddenly, he’s married to a fucking pop-star and actress??

Even a one night stand seeing Bruce “the playboy” marrying reader.

I can see this with anyone who used to be in love or having feelings either for Bruce or reader. “That should be me” by Justin Bieber will be in their spotify wrapped

I think it was the hard launch of the YEAR. Everyone will be so shocked by it that it becomes an iconic and part of Gotham’s pop culture. They did an interview and suddenly, the next thing they knew?? They got married at a private ceremony where only close family and friends knew.

"This is a stunt even for you, Bruce," Lois scolded tapping her foot. "Honestly-"

Bruce held his hands up, "The only reason it's public now is because we got caught in public. She was perfectly happy to be a private thing."

"Bruce," she scoffed giving him a look, "I know she's an adult but still. You're old enough to be her dad-"

"Not unless I was 16 when she was born," Bruce snorted, "she's the same age Dick is. Damian is 9-"

Lois rolled her eyes and took a seat, "So what did your kids say?"

"Over all, they were fine with it. If not happy about it. But Jason had to make a scene about me dating his childhood crush and betraying him all over again for dramatic effect. And Damian had to lecture me about the security risk."

"Naturally," Lois said smiling. "Jon said Damian had a lot to say about it. That's how we heard about it."

This time it was Bruce's turn to roll his eyes. "Be nice to her-"

"Are you kidding?" Lois asked, slightly incredulous.

"No-"

"Why would I not be? She's Iconic, honestly."

"And better at managing her image than I am," Bruce chuckled.

"Sad, really," Lois observed dryly. "But also impressive."

"No one knows who she dates, where she donates, no one knows her net worth for sure... honestly if she didn't volunteer the information I'm not even sure I'd know her favorite color."

"I'm not surprised," Lois mused, "After watching her get ripped apart a few years ago."

"I don't-"

"You wouldn't," Loid allowed, "You didn't have editors that wanted you to write think pieces about it. And you didn't work in an office that had a betting pool to her inevitable suicide or addiction spiral."

Bruce winced. He didn't remember it. Not directly, but you'd talked about it. It was part of why he agreed to letting you keep things private. You liked keeping things quiet. A separation between your public face and your private one. It fucked you up. And no one protected you. You'd had to handle it alone- Sure, you had your team but that wasn't the same as having PEOPLE to fall back on.

"I'll be nice," Lois assured him, "Just don't be a creep or I'll sic Clark on you later."

[venusacrossthestars]

Carnival

Summary: You love your boyfriend and you love the edits of your boyfriend that are all over TikTok, however your dirty little secret is soon shared.

Pairing- Charles Leclerc x fem!reader

wc-923

warnings- not proofread, at all. Carnival by Kayne West is the song in question, one sexual innuendo at the end, swearing and FLUFF

f1 masterlist

You were no stranger to TikTok and the editing trends that made their rounds. You have seen your fair share of edits or both real and fictional men. You have even come across a few of your boyfriend and they were, well a sight to see. The first time you liked one with your main account, that had sent the comments and the poor editor into a frenzy. 

You wanted to interact with the fan base, especially the ones on TikTok without acting liked a crazed girlfriend who thirsted over her boyfriend publicly. So you did what any sane person would do and you made a fan account for your own boyfriend, you never posted anything just liking edits and commenting on how wonderful the edit was. 

Charles had no idea and to be honest you didn’t really want him finding out. This was your dirty little secret, something you only looked at when Charles wasn’t home. How was it that these editors were so talented. Putting together a bunch of random clips, the coloring, the transitions, the song choice, all of it was beautiful. 

The song of choice at the moment was Carnival and you weren’t complaining. Your entire saves was filled with edits of Charles to this song. You have probably seen hundreds and you ate it up everytime. 

It was a random wednesday and Charles was off doing his workout and you had thought that there was no better time than to open TikTok and go scroll through your saves. Too lost in your own little world you failed to notice the front door open a close, signaling that Charles was home. 

The only thing that Charles could hear throughout the apartment was a song he wasn’t familiar with. ‘Go Go, go, go, go Head so good, she a honor roll She'll ride the dick like a carnival’. What the hell were you watching? 

Coming up behind you Charles could see his own pictures flash across the screen to the song. He watched as you scrolled down and to his surprise it was another video of himself to the same song. 

“What are you watching?” Charles ask. 

You nearly screamed at Charles’ voice, not expecting him to be back so soon. You turned off your phone and flung it across the couch, “You’re home early!” 

“No, No, No. We aren’t changing the subject. What were you watching?” 

“Nothing…” you say sheepishly. 

Charles raises an eyebrow at your tone, “Are you sure?” 

“Mhmm,” you hum out, “Absolutely sure.” 

Charles moves next to you on the couch and grabs your phone. You go to reach for it but Charles is quick to grab it back. “I think I know what you were doing.” 

“Charles,” you groan out “Give me my phone please.” 

Charles continues to hold it out of reach, no matter how you move or where you move to, he is one step ahead. “Not until you tell me who that handsome man was on your screen.” 

“Charlie, stopppp.” You groan out, “It’s embarrassing.” 

“Then I’ll just have to keep this,” he says, pocketing your phone. 

“Fine! I was watching edits of you!” 

Charles giggles out at your admission and you hide your face in your hands, heat creeping up your neck. 

“I want to see,” Charles says, “show me your favorites.” 

“Wow, someones is a little vain.” 

“I’m not the one who was watching edits of their significant other.” Charles teases. 

“Well now I don’t want to.” 

“Mon amour, please.” Charles begs and you turn away from him. You won’t fall victim to his pleading eyes this time.

“Mon amour. Mon cheri. Please my love. I’m not making fun of you I swear.” 

You could never hold your resolve to Charles’ pleading, “Fine, can I have my phone?” 

Charles hands you your phone and you are quick to unlock it. You exit the edit you were currently watching to scroll back up to the top of your saves. 

“I made a separate account to like and comment. One time I liked with my personal account and I think I nearly sent the editor into a early grave. I wanted to interact with the fans but I thought you might think its strange for your girlfriend to be liking thirst edits of you.” 

“I think it’s adorable,” Charles says, pinching your cheeks. You swat his hands away in embarrassment. “But y’know you can thirst over me anytime, right?” 

“Of course I do, it’s just these edits do something to me. I can’t explain it.” 

“Well let me see.” 

“Fine,” you scroll down to where you know the edit is, “This one has been real popular lately. There are more to this song, the one that was playing when you walked in earlier, I really like them.” 

You hold your phone to at an angle so that Charles can see the edit play out. He sits in silence for the whole thing and once it loops you pause it and wait Charles reaction. 

“Wow,” he pauses, trying to think of what to say next, “people really make edits of me to songs like this.” 

“Yes and I don’t blame them. You are very sexy.” 

“I can see why you watch them. If there were edits of you I’d be watching them all the time. Can I see another?” 

“Sure.” You scroll down to another Carnival edit and you watch as Charles is encaptured by himself. 

“Well the song got one thing right-you do ride dick like a carnival.” Charles chuckles out. 

“CHARLES!” 

taglist- (crossed out names mean I couldn't tag you)

@arieslost @spookystitchery @tpwkstiles @oliveswiftly @morgonjinn @herondalism @softieekayy @deprxssed-loser @noreri @boiohboii @im-on-a-hellavator @captainchickadee @whatever7justchillin @outerudeth @jscircuit @loveyatopluto @saiteliites @asparklysoul @missmontiopath @helanahaadock @froggybij @slaygirlbossworld @vee2004dee @tennisloversblog @slvtforredheads @senna13sworld @hellobeauty-06 @jaxx-7 @anastasiamoony @reguluscrystals @gr1mes-cc @yoooooooogiiiiiiii @sharlsworld @janeholt3 @valtkitty @wondergirl101ks @georgeparisole @m4dyl @janegxi @amberpanda99 @itsmeimthedissapointment @jah0700 @non-binaryandy @sarahskomal @anedpev @xqwiser @apllo-axolotl @h34rts4maisey @anonymousjo @megsmclaren @charizznorizz @decadentlightchaos @adelinemack @bwormie @bonbonvz @hoodshair @bunbun9396 @fangirlika @vex-et-soleil @sillylittlegooselings @hlhclh @stvrlec16 @omgsuperstarg @luanasrta @its-cat-eyes @taytaythirteen @marekmybeloved @rqlstefanny @nickxcorpse @olivyamarvelgirl @violyn20 @emisaxols @thesouistone @hangmandruigandmav @embonbon

[pjo-tvs-version]

I know that no one asked but I just wanted to add my two cents to the current pjo era we are having right now...

First off, I love Rick and the books he has written but honestly tsast and wottg aren't some of his best works. That's not the problem because yeah not all books can be amazing but the problem is that they are his most recent ones. Cotg was better than these 2 but it too had it's drawbacks. Now I have this thing where if I like something then however bad it it, I try to make myself enjoy it. It's like a coping mechanism- delusion. But with wottg, I actually sat back and thought. Since when did I take a week to finish a pjo book? I am the person who finished Hoo in like less than a week and I took a week to finish wottg which took me aback. The characters were very oc. Grover was perhaps the only character close to his actual well character. I don't usually nitpick but like I had said in a post earlier, continuity and callbacks in a book series are what make them extremely enjoyable and small textual errors are like pricking needles to me.

My main issue was Annabeth and then Percy. Look in know in this fandom there are many Annabeth antis and that's fine, I accept that. But now the worst part is that what they have said about Annabeth is to some extent true in this current Annabeth version we have. Look Leah is great and I love her with all my heart but Rick please don't mingle both of them together. Let show cannon be separate and book cannon to itself. Let Annabeth in wottg be her book character like please. She has friends? Great! The main thing we know about her friends are that they think Percy isn't GOOD ENOUGH for her? Awful! She is the mom friend? Okay(though I personally believe it should be Grover but fine if people are okay with it this is just a personal opinion guys)! BUT that should not make Percy 'alley boy.'

This brings me to the second part. We love Percy and love his humor. Well I recently reread the Battle of the Labyrinth (don't ask why I don't know I just had the sudden urge to read it). He isn't very confident and does underestimate himself often but it wasn't taken this FAR. Every single next line was describing how Percy sucks at everything while Annabeth is here in all her perfect glory and believe it or not this is coming from me, who loves Annabeth. I love Percabeth because it's a balance. They balance off each other soo well. They both comfort each other. They both know that they are smart. They both know that the other person has flaws. But in wottg it's just downright annoying because the dynamic is just "ooh look my gf is soo amazing, totally flawless with no error and here is me who sucks at any and every thing possible." This isn't the Percy we know nor Annabeth nor Percabeth.

LET ANNABETH BE IMPERFECT! AND PLEASE GIVE PERCY THERAPY because he needs it. For the next book Rick please just hire a better editor because I am not going into the MISTAKES in these books. You can hire me if you want because I swear I can do a better job than your editor. Seriously literally any pjo fan would do a better job. Wottg felt like maybe the second draft of the work which required maybe 3 more drafts to be published. It felt like an unchecked fanfiction and believe me that I have seen better fanfictions on AO3. The pjo fandom is an extremely loyal fanbase which is an extremely cool thing. But the problem here is that people like m even though I didn't really enjoy wottg, I would still hope for a better sequel because gaaahhhh optimism. I am actually wary of the sequel to tsast but that's for another post.

Whew! Talking so negatively about something was a new experience for me because I absolutely love pjo and will always keep it close to my heart. Rick please for the sake of advertisement please don't publish uncooked gibberish because it actually breaks my heart too see the hate and for once I understand it. Anyway, wottg wasn't all that bad. To balance out this post, I'll make one on the portions I liked because there were a few moments that were worth reading. Extremely sorry for the scattered thoughts and the rant but thank you and have a great day everyone !

[kanmom51]

Jikook in bed - Part 3

Are you sure?! Episodes 4 and 5

Before we get started, a little reminder of parts 1 & 2.

Let me start by saying that the occurrences in this post directly follow the whole ramen convo saga.

After speaking ramen and showering (notice how I haven't added the word "separately" there?🤣 ), and spending some time together downstairs all cozy and everything, they both decide to go to bed.

Let's talk about the pre-sleep coziness for a sec before moving on.

Watching the SNTY choreo and talking about it. JM loving the choreo.

Nothing new here folks.

We also got to learn, once again, just how 'informed' they are of each other's business. That's a nice way of saying they know shit about each other even if we don't tell us they do. Like, JM knowing that JK hasn't slept since NY, including on the flight. And if we're on the sleep talk already then funny how JK didn't know his 'husband' 'is struggling with sleeping lately.

And then, as we got to learn throughout the show, the two, once again, make a joint decision to go to bed.

Enough of that.

Let's get to the juicy part of this post, why don't we?

We start it off the two entangled.

JK has zero issue with JM's feet basically in his face.

Well, he did say JM's toes are cute, so...

Do we notice how JK goes for JM's ankle?

Now holding on to JM's foot with both hands (his mobile in his left hand).

And then letting go.

Reminded me of this moment.

And this one too.

JM going for the hug and JK pulling his hand in.

And they stay like that.

We don't know for just how long.

Discussing sleeping together.

It's not about "are you sleeping with me here?" or "where are you sleeping?"

It's "don't hit my nose today... if you do I'll hit you too..."

No questions asked.

Just facts!!!

How long were they just laying like that, calm, intertwined, BEING?

And they clearly do fall asleep together both laying over the covers.

The editors making sure to let us know that the two were sleeping on that one bed.

That angle of the lone empty third bed. Was it really necessary?

But you'll say: JK moved at some point to the third bed. Yes he did. And why? He already fell asleep on the bed with JM.

There is a purposeful omitting of JK waking up and moving to the third bed. They cameras were rolling, and they clearly could have shown us what happened. Makes you wonder why they didn't show us.

My uneducated guess would be that he moved to the bed on the floor because he was cold at night, and didn't want to wake up JM (they fell asleep over the covers and getting under the cover might have woken JM up). We do see JK covered in the morning. A guess, no more.

That was night 1 of Jeju.

Night 2 is a little different. This time they automatically split into 2 beds. Question I ask is why? Were they told to? Did they think it was better that way?

Either way, we see how JK insists on taking the bed on the floor.

And no, that flimsy excuse of preferring the less soft bed doesn't stand with me. I'm going to go with JK not wanting JM to sleep on the floor. Where Tae was supposed to be sleeping, btw. Funny how that worked out...

And yes, they didn't share a bed for the night, but JM sure couldn't go without his morning cuddles.

Understandable.

Notice how we never see JM getting up? We have zero idea just how much time they lay on JK like that cuddling him. Sob sob. I'm going to go with it not being short lived, which is why they cut the footage.

Ok, so that basically wraps up the 4 nights. 2 in CT (the actual night they spent together in bed the whole night we got zero footage of) and 2 in Jeju.

But how can I end this post without JM's wake up alarm for JK? Waking up is still about bed, right?

When I first saw this I didn't get what was going on... and why JM thought it was so funny.

Well, until I saw this.

Those two...

🤣🤣

[hidden-poet]

Commander Snow; 7

Commander Snow

Summary; Under the advice of Dr Gaul Coriolanus returns back to district 12 where without blinding light of lucy-grey he could see you.

Warnings; dead dove to do not eat, stalking, unrequited love, breeding kink, violence, possessive!Snow, unco/dubco, sexual content, she/her pronouns, explicit, violence, death.

Editor: @hotline-to-hell

chapter one

Chapter two

Chapter three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

chapter 8

Coriolanus threw himself back into his work upon returning to the compound. It meant he was gone early before you woke up but he made an effort to return home for dinner. He was adamant that at least one meal had to be eaten together. 

You would take walks often together to get some fresh air, leaving the dishes to soak in the sink after dinner. 

There was not much to look at in the Compound. Makeshift tents and metal sheds with big locks. Everything was dull, with the colors matching the small gray rocks that formed the roads amongst it.  

Only the men running around in their light blue peacekeeper uniforms offered a break from the monotone of it all. 

You watched them as Coriolanus led you through the compound by your hand. They would never make eye contact as they went about their work. But it didn't bother you. The isolation imposed by Coriolanus grew on you. You had gotten so used to only ever talking to Coriolanus, that you weren't sure you could hold a conversation with anyone else. 

He pulls you gently out of the way of an oncoming truck and takes you down a quitter path. 

"You never ask about your mother," he comments as the noise quietens.  

You remain quiet as if you didn't hear him. 

''She never visits," he continues, "You never ask to visit her." 

You feel your heart rate rise. Surely that has not tipped him off that your mother was safe out of his reach. 

"Why would she visit? She thinks you want to kill her. And I know she is fine and even if she wasn't, you would lie." 

A loud clanging sound turns his attention behind him, to where a large metal sheet had slipped off a pile onto the ground. 

"Would you let me visit her if I asked?" 

He turns his attention back to you as the embarrassed Peacekeepers scramble to put the metal sheet back on the bed of the truck.  

You wondered if this was your chance to escape. A pass for a day trip to see your mother turning into your disappearance. 

"We could go tonight if you wanted," he offered, but the choice of “we” made you reconsider your plan. He wouldn't let you go alone, and you couldn't let him see the empty house.

"No," you state, "I’m tired tonight." 

He hums in response. "Let's turn back." 

You circle back to your starting place. The walk was halved by your comment. The water in the sink would still be warm. 

As you walk up the steps to the apartment you turn back to gaze at the far bins. Your freedom was just behind them but despite only being half a yard away, you were stuck in your chains. 

With Coriolanus so close and so fast, you enter back into your prison willingly.  

You start the dishes, scrubbing the pans free from their grease while making plans for your escape. Edmund would return tomorrow night if you weren't at the house. But the keys seemed impossible to get. 

Coriolanus was clingy. He seemed hyper-aware of your movements. He somehow knew when you were faking sleep and when you had actually succumbed to it.  The only way he would sleep was when he knew you were. 

You would wake too late to an empty bed and a bedside table void of any keys. Even if you got the keys, it would take ages for you to figure out which one it was. They all looked the same. 

As if he could sense your thoughts, Coriolanus came up behind you, taking your throat into his large hand, keeping you from moving as he grazed and nipped at your neck. 

"I have to do the dishes," you complain. 

''So do them." The hand from your hip reaches between your legs and slides up your dress. 

You jolt but his firm hold keeps you still. 

His hand goes to where you presumed they would, under the elastic band of your underwear. 

"Stop," you command, wrapping your wet hands around his assaulting arm. 

He bites harshly at your neck from your rejection, causing you to wince at the pain. 

"Worry about the dishes." 

He only inserts one finger as he tries to elicit a response from you.

"Dishes," he repeats as you don't move. 

You obey and pick up the sponge again, attempting to distract yourself with them. 

His lips continue to suck and bite as you scrub the cutting board. It's uncomfortable at first as his dry finger intrudes upon your dryness. 

He kicks your feet apart to get better access. The feeling intensifies between your legs and you feel yourself unintentionally getting wet. 

He inserts two fingers, feeling you pool, twisting and curling his fingers inside you. You throw the chopping board on the drying rack and pick up a plate. When his index finger drags your wetness up, it drops from your hands.  

"I think you missed a spot," he taunts. You don't pick it up again, distracted by the tingling sensation, but he reinserts his finger and curls it harshly to tell you to continue. 

Once the plate was clean and you were beginning on your second, he rewards you by coming up and massaging your pearl. 

You yelp, gripping the counter of the sink as you try and move your hips away. 

The hand gripping your throat moved to your wrist forcing them back into the water, before returning to ensure that he still had free access to your throat. The water from his hands dripped down over you. 

You washed the dish but your focus wasn't enough to tell if it was clean enough. 

He stops his circling and uses the two fingers to rub along your wet lips. The lack of friction was an unwelcome change. 

You pick up a kitchen knife, attempting to wash it but it is yanked out of your grip and thrown back onto the counter. His hand returns to your neck with a tightened hold as he focuses on leaving red and sore marks, all while his fingers run up and down. 

"Coriolanus. Stop." You choke out. 

He inserts the two fingers but refuses to move them. 

You cry out as he bites into your flesh, sucking and grazing the spot just where your neck ends and your collarbone begins. 

It gave him a sense of satisfaction as you try and wiggle your neck away. 

Your wet hands wrap around the wrist that encircles your neck. You could feel him hard against you as he took a step back, taking you with him. 

It was a mercy when he moved his fingers once more, pumping in and out. His lips were no longer at your neck but ghosting behind your ear as you stood, locking your own hands around his wrist. 

You could feel your stomach form the same knots that you felt the first night he came for dinner. Half of you didn't want him to stop, knowing the release that was about to occur. 

His fingers push harshly up and with force, he circles your pearl once more. A strangled moan makes its way from your throat as the knots from your stomach loosen out. 

He pushes you back towards the sink and you grip the edges of it as you pulse around his fingers. 

The moment passes and you are left breathing heavily, leaning over the sink. You take the sponge back and begin to wash the same dish as if his actions meant nothing. But your head spun, and you felt so spent the sponge was weak in your hand. 

His fingers intertwine with yours under the water and he presses them against the side of the sink together as he rests his head against your back. 

You were grateful for the moment of silence to collect yourself. 

"I am going to take a shower." He states, releasing you. 

You retain your composure until you hear the bathroom door shut, immediately slumping over the sink.

--------------------------

Coriolanus wanted to fuck you, that was no secret. But he hadn't earned it yet.  A woman such as you deserved to be laid in more than just a Commander's bed. It was old and reused from the last Commander. 

He wanted you surrounded by riches, in the comfort of a brand-new Capitol bed. He wanted to be more than a Commander of this scummy district. When he fucked you, he wanted you to have a sense of pride about who was above you. President of Pamen, or just about. 

He had not earned the right in any manner. But one day soon, he would. 

Coriolanus was a man of restraint and strategy. But as he watched you make beds and iron clothes, he yearned for that intimacy that only sex could offer.   

He wanted to lay naked in your arms and be held by you. It felt as if only then would all the thoughts in his head stop. 

You were stingy with your love. Coriolanus had not earned it. But when he became 

President, how could you deny him his reward then? He would have exceeded everyone's expectations of him: Dr. Gaul, Grandma'am, Tigris, all of his Academy classmates. 

The goal was good for him, it motivated him to work harder and longer. It reminds him of his Academy days when the only thing on his mind was the Plinth Prize. 

His mind needed a goal to fixate on. The presidency was all well and good but came with its own problems. The reward laid in the long awaited esteem from those who doubted him, or in your case, ran from him. 

He would prove to them all that Snow always lands on the very top. 

He would prove to you that he is a man worthy of your attention and care.

But he had pressing matters to deal with. He felt as if you teased him all day long. He went to sleep hard as a rock most nights. He offered you release anytime you wanted it, but you never gave him the same courtesy. 

It interfered with his work. He thought about visiting the District call girls but the thought made him sick. Why should he do that when he had you? He had you. Tucked away in his apartment. Ready for him. He just needed to take.

He grabbed the letter that came for you days ago from his desk and made his way back to his apartment. He was self-conscious of his hard-on as he walked through the compound and readjusted his pants. 

The sight of the apartment felt like water after a long day in the sun. He took the steps two at a time before regaining himself at the doorway. He couldn't look desperate. 

You jump up from the couch as he enters, surprised to see him. 

"What are you doing home?" you ask. 

His heart flutters at the usage of 'home'. 

"Delivering mail."

He holds the letter up in the air, tempting you. 

“From your brother.”

You hold your hand out for it but he keeps it high. 

“I’ll trade you for it.” 

You doubted he would want any personal keepsake of yours. You could see the hunger in his eyes. 

You turn back away from him to the couch but he grabs your wrist to keep you. It was an act of desperation that he scolded himself for. 

“We can trade the letter for dinner.” 

He places your caught hand upon his belt. And your hand stills. 

You wondered if you really had a choice. He would just keep taking things away until you submitted. But Edmund would be here tonight to release you. Could you get away with resisting? 

You wondered what the letter would say. You were sure it was full of written anxieties from your brother. Could you use the Commander's desperation to your advantage? Your fingers curl around the belt buckle as you think. 

He leans back against the counter with the letter still in his hand. 

He was desperate. You could see it from the way he clenched the countertop. 

“I want to write a letter back.” You demand as you undo his belt. 

Coriolanus nods hastily. It gave you a thrill of power. 

With the belt unbuckled, you weren't sure what to do next. 

He helps you by pulling his pants down to his ankles. 

"On your knees,” he instructs. 

It gives you a direction on what he wants, so you sink down and open your mouth. 

You pull back at first but will yourself to give it another go.

His taste was nothing new to you. He lets out a shaky breath as you finally put him in your mouth. 

“Go slow,’’ he demands and you try your best to accommodate. 

His length hits the back of your throat causing you to pull off. He grunts in dissatisfaction but allows you to come back at your own pace. His face reads of his annoyance. His features turned to stone, and his jaw locked in place.

But he showed mercy by not forcing you back and keeping his hands wound around the counter. 

Now knowing your limit, you go as far as you can before coming back again. It was enough for Coriolanus, who threw his head back and allowed you to take charge. His hips bucked slightly the more worked up he got, but with free movement of your head, you could adjust to his movements. Compared to your other experiences, this one was slightly bearable. 

Having been pent up for weeks, the feeling of your wet mouth upon him had him coming quickly. He slaps the countertop with his hand as he comes into your mouth, only stopping when you have stopped moving completely, having taken his full load. You spit it out on the ground that you had just washed. 

He remains leaning against the counter as he catches his breath. In no rush to give you what was promised. 

You yank the letter from his hand, seeing that it was already open. It read angry. The pen was pressed harshly into the paper, the ink spilled all over the page. 

The letter was not addressed to you. It opened with “bastard”. 

Archie had promised to kill Snow. You had only called him Coriolanus in your correspondence, so you knew it wasn't only your letter that was delivered. 

‘Don't take anything from him,’ the letter read to you. ‘I am coming home to you. I am so sorry. I never should have left. I'll be there soon, stay hidden with Mum.’ 

You turn to Coriolanus with anger, "What did you do?"

He stood in the kitchen, fully dressed again. 

"I introduced myself." 

"As Commander Snow?" you seethe. 

''As your man. Your letter made it seem as if I was a friendly neighbor."

“You son of a bitch. Archie-"

"He'll kill me, yes I know. I read it." 

"Archie will kill himself! And it will be your fault!" 

"His life or his death, I can't imagine which is worse." 

You slapped him for the way he spoke about your brother and instantly regretted it. 

Within a second, he had you slammed against the fridge with his hands around your throat. The hold presses against the bites from the previous day. 

"Get off of me,” you demand. The bites upon your neck felt like fire as he pressed on them. 

He doesn’t move and you bring your hand across his face once more. He remains unmoved by your action and you attempt again. This time he catches it in a painful hold and twists your wrist away from his face. 

You shout from the pain but he doesn’t release you. 

With a harsh shove against the countertop, the strain on your wrist is gone. 

He looks at you as you nurse your wrist and feels a pang of guilt. He thinks of someone saying something about Tigris. He surely would have killed them.  

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that about your brother. I didn’t mean it.” 

He did mean it, but he loved your devotion to your family. You both shared the same values, he shouldn’t be training you out of them.

It wasn’t Archie’s fault he was born District, but to die District would be beyond pathetic.

Even the Plinths made it out, and when Coriolanus was stripped of his Capitol-born rights, he too fought to make it out of District 12. Archie had only swapped one district for another. It was pitiful at the very least and embarrassing at the most. 

But he was your brother, whom you loved, so Coriolanus will watch his tongue around you. 

“Are you alright? Do you need some ice?” He reaches out to inspect your wrist but you yank yourself away from him. 

“Don’t touch me.” 

“I want to help you.” It was the first time he had hurt you for something that wasn’t your fault. It made him feel terrible. He wasn’t a violent man, only a man capable of violence. He didn’t want you to think he was against you. 

“Go away.” You push past him to get to the bedroom, where you slam the door behind you. 

He goes back to his office to let you cool down. He apologized, what more did you want? 

—------------

You wait by the window for Edmund. You felt foolish that you failed to get the keys. But since the Cabin, Coriolanus has harbored a quiet distrust of you. Every extra precaution was taken. You had learned that a 15-minute window of time opened just before Coriolanus normally finished for the day. Everyone was trying to avoid the path of the Commander as he made his way to his apartment. It was a blessing that he was so avoided, it gave Edmund a chance to appear. 

You saw his shadow approaching with something large in his hands. 

He calls out to you and you are quick to answer. 

"Are you okay?" he asks. 

"I'll be better once you open the door," you admit. Your wrist still hurts from the afternoon. 

He asks you to stand back away from the door, and you take three steps back. 

You hear a loud banging noise, the sound of wood cracking but no spring of the door. 

You felt as if you might throw up from the anxiety. He was causing so much noise, surely someone was going to hear it. 

He curses but tries again. 

You place yourself by the window to see what he was doing. He was trying to pry open the door with a large crowbar. It cracked the wood and left enough damage that the door would jiggle but not open. 

A building light flicks on down the road. You can see a shadow of a man as he searches for something before his body appears in front of the doorway. 

A flash of light jiggled as it made its way across from the Compound. 

"Edmund, someone is coming," you warn. 

He ignores you, continuing with the door. 

"Edmund, you have to leave!"

"We won't get another chance." With more force, he tries to pry open the door. 

You can see the light getting brighter as it approaches. 

"He'll move me. So long as I am not trapped here, I can make my way through the fence". 

"You were wrong last time." 

"Edmund if you die, I'll never get out of here. Wait for me at home. I can make it, I know it". 

He grunts as the crowbar slips from the door. Looking over his shoulder, he realizes that he isn't going to get it open in time. 

"I won't know where you are!" he cries. 

"Don't come back. Just wait for me. There will be an opportunity". 

Edmund could hear the footsteps on the gravel. He had to leave now. 

"Go," you encourage him. 

He climbs down the railing, dropping to his feet and hiding in the darkness before the man reaches the steps. 

A Peacekeeper examines the door before speaking into his communicator. A large siren sounded through the compound filling you with dread. They were locking the place down with Edmund inside. 

"Miss?" the Peacekeeper knocks on the window, "Are you okay?"

You knew as soon as that man spoke into his communicator, Coriolanus knew of the events. 

Could you take cover for Edmund? Tell Coriolanus that it was you who did the damage. No. The damage was on the outside. 

Could you start a fire and tell him that it was a peacekeeper trying to break down the door to release you? But why would the peacekeeper run? He would surely press to find out who it was. 

You wished that sound would stop so you could think. All you could hear was the siren, ringing through your head. 

"Miss?" the Peacekeeper asks again. 

“Yes. Fine.” you dismiss. You could feel your heart in your throat. 

The Peacekeepers were quick on their feet. In two minutes, swarms of them combed through with their guns raised. Coriolanus was close behind, you could hear him running up the steps past the Peacekeeper. 

He unlocks the broken door, leaving the keys in the keyhole as he rushes over to you. 

He takes the back of your neck and presses it into his chest, using the other hand to press against your back. 

"What happened? Are you alright?" 

"She's fine, sir. I was ensuring the assailant didn't come back." the Peacekeeper spoke out of turn. 

Coriolanus let go of you to take hold of the man's shirt and pushed him against the wall. 

"What was he doing here in the first place? Where were you?" 

"I don't know, sir. I was in my office. It's really the patrolls fault." The man looked like all the blood had rushed from his face. 

Coriolanus throws the man out the door by his shirt. He lands harshly on the ground.

"I want him found," he demands. 

The peacekeeper nods his head and rushes to get up and away. 

Coriolanus turns back to you and you expect harsh treatment but his hands softly cup your face. 

"Did you see what he looked like?"

You knew it wouldn't take much for Coriolanus to figure out it was Edmund, so you lie and pray it doesn't get anyone into trouble. 

"He was short. Long dark hair. I don't know, it was dark and I was scared." 

He pulls you back to his chest, resting his cheek on the top of your head. 

"If you're ever in danger, you hide, okay?" 

You had tried that but he found you within days. 

"I didn't know if you were okay, " he spoke softly. You almost didn’t hear him.

Peacekeepers shout and you jump thinking that they have caught Edmund. You tear free of Coriolanus and rush out to see that the men are fighting over a flashlight. 

Your relief came out in a sob. You silently beg for Edmund to be okay. The anxiety of him being found poured out from your eyes in the form of tears. 

It was a good display for Coriolanus, who thought you were crying out of trauma from your supposed break-in. 

He takes you by the shoulders and leads you back inside. 

"You're safe. We'll find him," he promises. 

With his hold, he presses you back against his chest. 

He kisses you and you sob against him.  Your lips part against his as you croak out a cry. 

"Shh, it's okay,", he presses your face back against his shoulder to collect the tears. 

You will yourself to stop. Edmund was safe, they hadn't caught him, he must be beyond the fence line by now. 

You settle with three big breaths and Coriolanus pulls away to look at you. 

"Okay?" he asks softly brushing away your tears. 

"Yeah," you sigh, bringing your hands up to rub your eyes. 

You pull away from Coriolanus as three Peacekeepers arrive at your door. They carried large cases and were dressed in protective gear. 

Coriolanus takes your hand in his and gives a nod to his Peacekeepers, giving them the go-ahead to begin their work. 

“Who are they?” You ask, watching one man run a blue light across the surface. 

“Forensic crew.” 

Panic rushes back up but you shove it down. Edmund hadn’t touched the door. Only the railing as he jumped but many others had covered his prints with their own since then. 

You feel his hand take yours in a possessive hold. 

He leads you down the steps and through the sea of Peacekeepers.

Officers with sniffer dogs pass you. You reassured yourself, it was nothing Edmund couldn’t handle. 

He leads you to his office. It was dark and soulless. 

Closing the door behind you, he turns to you once more, trapping your head between his hands, and forces a kiss upon your lips. 

The kiss spoke of his anxiety; it was needy and possessive. 

You try to pull back but he follows the distance you try to separate. 

You try to speak his name to warn him to get off you, he sees it as an opportunity to capture your tongue. 

When he does pull off, you turn your head quickly.

“You’re okay,” he comments. 

“I am okay.” Wrapping your hands around his wrists you gently pull him off from around your head. 

He goes to kiss you again but you are too quick for him. 

“Do you have any water?” you direct. 

He pauses with his head half-bent to your height. 

“Yes. I’ll go get some.” 

With a gentle touch to your shoulder, he leaves you in his office alone. 

You think about making a run for it while the coast was clear but with the Peacekeepers searching, you wouldn't make it to the fence without detection. Tonight you had little chance of escaping, tomorrow was the better option. 

The large office was eerie. The paper he was working on was thrown to the ground in his hurry. You asked yourself why you were picking it up but your nature just called for it. You looked after people. You never thought it would become your downfall.

He returns as you straighten his desk. The sight causes him to smile. 

“I thought you might be hungry.” He holds up a military packet of savory biscuits. They were used for long journeys where fresh food was hard to come by. 

Unscrewing the lid, he passes you the bottle and places the biscuits on the desk.

“I am not. Thank you.” The anxiety of the night ate away at your stomach. Even if Edmund got beyond the fence you were sure that Peacekeepers had been sent beyond the compound. Still, you had faith. He was smart and knew District 12 well. He would be okay, but only if you could manage not to blow his cover. 

Coriolanus unbuttons his Commander's coat with his long fingers. 

“Of all the places I thought you would have been safe, the Commander's apartment was my first choice.” 

“I was safe,” you contend, “He didn’t get through the door.” 

“How did he get in?” Coriolanus sighs, “Another hole in the fence?” 

He was talking to himself but you felt the need to interject. 

“His clothes looked torn. Maybe he climbed over top.”

He looks at you like you said something incredibly stupid. With the fence being 12 feet tall and wrapped in barbed wire, it properly was.

Coriolanus takes your shoulders into his hands, bending down slightly to your height. 

“I don’t want you to worry about this. It won’t happen again.”

You place the water bottle down on the desk too hard, “I am not worried, and I am not hungry. I am fine.” 

He takes your hand in his and pulls you along to the couch. 

“We’ll sleep here tonight. They won’t be done until late.”

You couldn’t escape anyway. It didn’t matter where you slept. 

You sink into the soft material of the couch. Another one sat directly opposite against the wall. Given the small space, it would be logical that you take one and Coriolanus would take the other but you knew he was going to want to share. 

He bends down and begins to unlace your boots for you.

“Do you often wear boots in the apartment?” He throws the boot over his shoulder, eyeing you suspiciously. You knew the answer was no, you don’t wear your boots in the apartment. They hurt your feet after long periods of use. Coriolanus also knew this. He would trip on them coming home, or accidentally step on your bare toes with his big boots as you maneuvered away from him.

“I wanted to be ready for our walk,’’ you lie. 

He seems to buy it, rising from his spot with no harsh motions. 

Instead, he rubs his hand across his face. 

“I didn’t mean to hurt you this afternoon, and I didn’t mean for you to be bait for zealous rebels.” 

“Coriolanus, I don’t want to talk about this right now.” 

“I want to talk about this. When I got the alert today, all I knew was the door had been broken, I didn’t know if they had gotten in. If you were safe.” 

“Well, I am so…”  

“And if you weren’t?” He pauses for a second before continuing, 

“I’ve lost many things in my life, I won’t lose you.” 

The promise sounded like a threat upon your ears. 

Edmund had emasculated Coriolanus today. Made him feel as if he looked inadequate in your eyes. He was determined to prove himself to you. That he could and would, protect you better from now on. 

“Nothing happened,” you spoke slowly and softly to him. 

“I don’t want you to think I can’t protect you.” 

“I don’t.” 

Coriolanus sits down beside you on the couch. 

“There’s paper on my desk you could use if you wanted to write that letter to your brother. Write one to your mother too.  I’ll mail them tomorrow with a few panems. Would you like that?”

Protecting you meant protecting your family too. 

Nodding your head, you take his invitation and take a blank piece of paper off his desk. He follows you off the couch and offers his office chair to sit in. Several pens were thrown around the desk, you pick up the black pen closest to you and begin to write as Coriolanus puts away files that he was done with. 

The paper had the national Panem letterhead, it distracted you while you penned your letters. You wrote the first one to your brother, telling him to keep a cool head. Everything was under control. He must be grateful to be out of the mines. People disappeared all the time up in the mountains. You heard news that two miners went missing and were yet to be found. You were happy he was in District 8. He must stay there. Your family was always worried when he went to work in the morning, now everyone knew where he was: Safe in District 8. There was no need to come back, only to remain where you knew he was safe. All his friends from the mine wish him well and take turns in looking after mother. You finish by telling him to stop being so stubborn and take the money to look after himself. 

The second letter to your mother was shorter and superficial. She wasn’t home to collect it. It just needed to appear like she was.

Coriolanus reads over your letters before sealing them with an official seal and a few coins. He leaves them on his desk to mail tomorrow. 

You could still hear the Peacekeepers outside the window. Their vans and heavy boots and hard way of talking. 

They still hadn’t found Edmund. You could sleep now knowing they weren’t going to. 

For a few more hours, you remain up with Coriolanus. He talks of his family back home. How Tigris quit her job and now could focus on her designs. She was going to send you a few new dresses. You learned he called his grandma, ‘Grandma’am’ due to her upper-class upbringing. He talked about how she would dress Coriolanus like a doll, pre-war, and show him off to her friends. She grew roses of all colors. He was surprised to learn that you had never seen a rose. 

“I suppose you wouldn’t have.” District 12 was bare and colorless. There was no place for fine roses amongst the suffering. The Snow penthouse is full of them, he says. Replaced daily with fresh ones. 

When there was a lapse in his talking, you suggest that perhaps it was a good idea to catch a few hours of sleep before he was woken with news of the capture. In framing the suggestion for his benefit, he was much more agreeable. 

He takes off his white t-shirt and pants, leaving him in his underwear before joining you on the couch. He needed to feel your warm skin against his after today. Despite not deserving it. 

You are pressed between the back of the couch and Coriolanus. He looked to be sleeping but you could tell from his breathing he wasn’t. 

The silence shared between you was interrupted by your gnawing question.

“Did you find what you were looking for out in the woods?”

“No. But the trip did give me closure.” 

“Will we have to go again?” you wonder. 

“No. It’s in the past now. The future is all that matters.” 

The future for him was the Capitol. Where he would prosper and you would wither. 

“I can’t go to the Capitol, Coriolanus,” you whisper. You were hoping he would realize it and set you free of his own accord. You could part as estranged friends.

His eyes shoot open to look at you. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers back, “Everything is going to be okay. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

You could appreciate that his words were supposed to be comforting but what good were his promises? They were nothing you could truly trust. 

His lips hit the bottom of your chin in a quick peck. 

You wondered if he could feel the wetness of your cheeks from where he lay. 

“You’re my girl, I wouldn’t let any harm come to you. You’ll see, you’ll love the Capitol.” 

Your answer was given when he wiped away a running tear from your cheek. 

“We will turn our back on District 12. The Capitol is our future.” 

You nod in the hope of getting him to stop talking. It works, and the silence returns.

He wraps his arms around you as you sleep. You wrap your hand around his dog tags. It felt as if your brother's courage was radiating off it. You would survive Commander Snow. 

 You wake the next day with Coriolanus’s Commander coat on top of you. Coriolanus sat at his desk writing a letter. His ears pick up on your movement. And he rises himself to see you sit up on the couch. 

“Good morning.” he greets, getting up himself. 

He flicks the leftover coffee from his cup into his waste bin and refills it from the streaming pot. 

You watch him walk over to you with it in his hands.

 “Here,” he says, carefully passing you the cup. 

“Did they find him?” You take the cup but not a sip. 

“No. But they are still searching.” 

Your heart bounced up from its anxiety. 

“Honestly, it’s not that big of a deal. It was probably a young boy searching for food. I had dinner ready, he could properly smell it.” 

Coriolanus begins to pace in front of you. 

“I am going to make an example out of him. Make sure everyone in the Districts thinks about starving to death before entering the Compound.”

“A hungry child is no need for alarm.” 

“What if he had gotten through the door? These Districts are animals. He would have hurt you.” 

Coriolanus cringes at his words, “I didn’t mean you. You are not an animal.” 

“Yes, you did.” You rise from the mattress. 

“No. I didn’t.” he grits. 

“You treat me like an animal. Sit, eat, stay.” 

“I don’t want to fight with you.” he dismisses you with a wave of his hand. 

You had no interest in arguing with him either. Time was of the essence. You had to get back before the door was fixed and you were locked back up. 

He returns to sit at his desk. He had work to do.

“I’ll go home and make breakfast. Bring something back for you.” 

Goodbye Coriolanus, you thought. 

“No.” he looked at you like you were crazy and you stared back similarly. 

“No. You’ll stay here with me until he is caught.” He sits back down at his desk but you remain frozen in the middle of the room, “Or maybe you’ll just stay here forever, seeing as no one in this District seems to have a clue where he is.” 

You had thought that the broken door would offer you freedom but it seems to have just caused Coriolanus to tighten his grip. 

“I can’t, I have to, I have to-” your panic interrupted your sentence. 

“You have to do, what? The dishes?” he mocks, “They can wait until we go home.”

He returned to his work, the conversation was over for him. 

“I want to go back and take a shower and-”

He pushes his heavy folder over the edge of his desk. 

“I’ve had a District break into the compound, new of which will makes its way back to the Capitol, I’ve got recruits coming and nowhere to put them, and lieutenants who can’t read. I just need you to be perfect today.”

He shuts his eyes and sighs, pausing for a moment. “Please, I just need to know where you are today. That you're safe. If you’re here, you’re not another thing on my mind.”

You wanted to kick and scream but it would only end with a bruised cheek. He wasn’t asking you to stay, he was telling you. District scum were only animals for him to herd. You just so happen to be his favorite sheep. 

 So you sit back on the couch and he reaches for his work and not your throat. Maybe he would send you to get something. A cup of tea for him, deliver a message, you would take any opportunity. 

You lay down on the couch, back under his coat to keep warm, and he goes back to his work.

An hour later, his receptionist appears holding two metal trays of food. He greets her as she enters, and she offers the same back. You don’t exist. She doesn’t look at you once while she is in the room. You pass her as you make your way to the desk. She deliberately checks her red nails. 

A gray-looking porridge, a slice of jam toast cut in half, and a cup of broth sat on the tray.

“I can see why you glorify my cooking.”

“I used to eat boiled cabbage and potato peels every day back home. When I came to District 12, I thought these meals were just great. Now I have you, and these meals make my stomach turn.” He pokes at the porridge with his spoon, “You’ve spoiled me.” 

“I can still go and make you something.” you offer. The second you were out of view you were going to bolt to the fence. 

He shakes his head ‘no’ and you sink into your chair. He felt clingy today, almost as if he could sense your plan to leave him. 

“I need a reminder of the dangers of complacency.” He shovels a spoonful into his mouth. You choose half of the jam toast. 

“How are you feeling after last night?” he takes the toast from your hand despite having his own in front of him.

“Fine.” You wished he would stop bringing it up. 

“I am sorry he got so close.” 

“These animals are my people. He wouldn’t have hurt me even if he got in.” 

“I told you I wasn’t calling you an animal, and yes, he would have hurt you if he got a chance. You don’t know what people are capable of.” 

The whole world is an arena and you are prey, he wanted to say. 

“People are good.” you refute, although you are unsure if you believe that anymore.

Coriolanus definitely didn’t believe it. People were animals that needed the threat of violence to keep order. He thought back to a day during the war when he had collapsed in the street with swine flu.  No one stopped to help a young child. Only Tigris, sick with the chills herself, picked Coriolanus up and nursed him back to health. He was sure you would too. You had picked up the child with the scraped knee while others walked around him. 

“You are good. You are kind. The people around you were using you for their own benefit.” 

“And you’re not?” you bite. 

“What benefit would that be? A bruised eye? A fight every time I try to connect with you?”

You groan, rubbing your face aggressively with your palms. At this rate, he was likely to throw you in the compound jail. A fight with him would only derail your plans. He said it himself, complacency blinded him. 

“I am sorry,” you sigh, “I didn’t sleep well on that couch. I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

He reaches across the table to intertwine with your hand. 

“It’s okay. Why don’t you finish your breakfast and go lie down again.” 

You do finish your breakfast in a comfortable silence. Coriolanus was happy to be apologized to, and you were happy not to further the conversation that would surely turn into a fight. 

You lay looking at the roof while Coriolanus tries to be as quiet as he can.

You barely hear him as he works. A stroke of a pen here, a shuffle of a paper there. 

You think of Edmund and your mother. They would both be worried sick. But how could you get to them with Coriolanus breathing down your neck? By the time you broke free, would the Peacekeepers have found the hole in the fence? 

The phone rang once before he could get to it. He speaks in a low, hush, tone. Seemingly calm he hangs up. 

You hear his footsteps as he walks over to you causing you to sit up to see him come into view. 

When Coriolanus raises his hand and brings it down upon your cheek with enough force to knock you to the ground, it surprises you. 

“Edmund’s hair was found between the hinges of the door.”

He stood above you tall and angry. 

“He and his family are nowhere to be found, along with your mother. But I suspect you already knew that.” 

He crouches down and takes a harsh hold of your chin, “Where is he?” 

“I don’t know.” Your answer earns you another smack to the face. 

“I don’t know,” you cry, “I honestly don’t know.” 

“Short with long dark hair, you said,” he laughs humorlessly, “I should have known it was him.”

“He came to say goodbye. I wasn’t going to leave, I swear.”  

“Why should I believe you? Every chance you get you betray me.” He shoves your head out of his hold. 

You shake your head ‘no’, and cautiously test how far he was willing to allow you to get up. You managed to a sitting position on the floor before you saw his body flex. You were level with his face. The proximity puts you on edge.

“He broke the door to say goodbye. You honestly expect me to believe that?”

“I meant what I said in the cabin about one more chance. I wasn’t going to leave. I told him I wasn’t going.” 

“Why not tell me that? Why lie?” 

“I didn’t want to upset you. Coriolanus, I didn’t betray you.” 

“You’re a filthy liar.” 

You shake your head ‘no’ frantically. 

“Where has he gone to?” he asks again. 

“Coriolanus, I wasn't going to betray you. I was going to stay!”

“Where is he!” he shouts in your face.

“I don’t know. Please-” 

 Your shaky hands take his face between them. 

“I wasn't leaving you. I swear.”

He looks at you with soft, unsure eyes. You could tell he wanted to believe you. You just had to push him a bit further. 

You bring his head towards your collarbone and he willingly follows, bringing the whole force of his body against you. The weight knocks you down on the floor, where he rests on top. You leave a hand on the back of his neck and the other pressed down on his shoulder blade to keep him there. In this position, you had the power. He positions his body on top of you, his leg over your hip and left arm over your shoulders.

He felt like a little boy pressed against your side. Nevertheless, it was the Commander. 

Your face pounds from earlier assaults as a reminder. 

You eye the door from where you lay on the floor.

“You were going to leave,” he sounded almost to be crying.

“I wasn’t. I was going to stay.” 

“It was a mistake. I am going to find him and hang him up.” 

He goes to get up in his anger but you clamp down on your hold. 

“I didn’t leave you. Don’t leave me. Stay.” 

He breaks free enough to raise his head over you.

“You would have if he got the door open.” 

“No.” 

“The doors open now. You could leave. I wouldn’t stop you.” He rolls his body off yours and onto the floor beside you. 

He seemed earnest. You would at least get a head start. But you couldn’t be fooled by your eagerness. 

“Go.” he offers. 

You sit up beside him and look at the door. His violent temper made him poor company, but you could control it. Manipulate it until the opportunity arises, where you could get more than a 30-second head start. 

“I heard there was a drink in the Capitol that tastes like apple pie.”

“There is,” he replies indifferently. 

“Do you think I could try it when we get there?” 

He turns his head towards you with a curious gaze.

“It can be the first thing you have.” 

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[percontaion-points]

The Chemist chapter 3

Click to see the rest of the snark & image descriptions

Chapter 3

Tonight, her name was Alex.

I’m literally on the third chapter, and I already want to punch her in the face. 

And the author, for subjecting us to this shit. 

She had a greasy burger, onion rings, and a chocolate malt. All were delicious.

This book is so fucking tedious. I’m literally in chapter three and this is what it is that I’ve been dealing with. 

If she didn’t agree to the job, they would do their best without her.

I’m sorry, but if multiple police agencies fail to stop one deranged school teacher and Mexican drug lord with an unknown super-virus without Julie’s help… Then they probably deserve to see the complete collapse of society. 

She would have to go around them, so to speak. Only five days. She had so much work to do.

Chapter 3 summary: After leaving the meeting, Carston sent over a box of files to the hotel that Julie had laid her trap in. She told the manager that the box was full of recovered items from her abusive ex, and had him send them down to the laundry, then sneak them up to her room in a maid’s cart. From there, a bike messenger took custody of the box, zig-zagged around town, where it was dropped off at another location. Julie then copied everything, and burnt the original files. 

She then checked into another hotel, where she slept before reading the files. Daniel Beach, a school teacher who often went on Habitat For Humanity missions to Mexico after his divorce. (There was so much info given about him. I wonder why anybody cares about that shit.) However, money began to “mysteriously” appear in his bank account. Then it was moved into a bank in the Caymans. Then it bounced around a lot, and was difficult to follow. 

Enter a wanna-be Mexican drug lord. To make a super long and tedious info dump short, this man recruited Daniel to be the carrier for a mystery substance the files call TCX-1 (Julie does not know what that is). She can see Daniel is scheduled to head to 4 different cities as a pre-emptive step for his Habitat for Humanity school trip soon; it wouldn’t be hard for him to dab a bit of TCX-1 onto a few door knobs and let it spread from there. 

After reading the files, Julie goes out to eat, where she doesn’t think about any of this. But back in her car, as she drives around, she thinks about what this could possibly mean for her. Yes, it’s bad. But as I said, if the government agencies can’t take this operation down without Julie, then they probably deserve to fail anyway. 

If she wants to grab Daniel, it needs to be within the next day or two, since the mysterious (unnamed) agency she worked for plans to grab him that weekend. 

[tavolgisvist]

Paul and drums

Our kid was first in a group with John called Quarrymen, and apparently, I’d forgotten the set of drums fell off the back of a lorry, as we say in Liverpool, and landed up in our house. So I was learning drums, and one of the Quarrymen came back and said, ‘I remember you’re coming down the house, and it was great when you played drums for us.’ I said, ‘Did I?’ I’d totally forgotten. But then I realized why I forgot. It’s because I broke my arm in a scout camp, and this hand dropped. It was dead, paralyzed. So it took several years to get it back, and at that time, those drums that I was learning on, first of all, my brother, no wonder the drums on the band on the road are good. That’s where he learned it from my drums. But I couldn’t play anything then. So I’d forgotten that I was even the drummer, and Ringo got the job.

(Mike McCartney)

Mersey Beat Founder and Editor, Bill Harry wrote a guest column for Beatle Fan Magazine in 2019. He stated “For their August 7, 1961 gig, the Litherland Town Hall classified advertisement in the Liverpool Echo carried the message: ‘Hear Pete Best Sing Tonight.’ Best had been talked into performing the song “Pinwheel Twist,” which Paul had written for him to sing. Pete recalled in a conversation with Spencer Leigh: ‘Paul wrote the song and asked me to do it. He coupled it with Joey Dee’s hit “The Peppermint Twist.’ I used to get up and do the twist onstage and Paul played my drums. It was a little novelty act and it went down well with the fans. When The Beatles performed it, Paul took over on drums, George played Paul’s left-handed bass right-handed and Pete sang.”

(Source)

I used to get on Pete’s case a bit. He’d often stay out all night. He got to know a stripper and they were boyfriend and girlfriend. She didn’t finish work until four in the morning, so he’d stay up with her and roll back at about ten in the morning and be going to bed when we were starting work…

(Paul McCartney, Anthology, 2001)

Q: When did you first play drums? A: My first recollection is in Hamburg. You’d get behind the kit to try and show the drummer what you wanted. That gradually grew to messing around on other people’s kits, which were lying around because there were a lot of groups playing in the places we played. You picked up the simplest beats very naturally. I remember one evening when Tony Sheridan’s drummer didn’t show up, so Tony said, “Come on, man, sit in!” I said, “No way! I can’t do this.” And he said, “Yeah, you can.” So I did it and then I was thinking, “Well! I’ve actually done a professional drumming gig!” Later, with The Beatles, there was a period where John, George, and I operated as a trio and picked up little bits of work. I remember playing in an illegal club in somebody’s basement on Upper Parliament Street in Liverpool’s Caribbean Quarter. One day this guy called Lord Woodbine, who ran the club, asked if we’d come in and accompany this stripper called Janine. We said, “Wow! Yeah, man! There’s a job.” He even paid us money. Q: It sounds like you would have paid him for that gig. A: Exactly [laughs]. So she came in and said, “Okay, I need you to play Ravel’s Bolero.” We said, “Oh, gee. Sorry, luv. We don’t read music. But we’ve got ’Raunchy.’ That might do.” I had somebody’s old drum kit, and I sat there with a broomstick between my legs, with a microphone tied to it so I could do a bit of vocals and drum at the same time. It was hilarious.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

Q: When Ringo joined the band, that must have interrupted your emerging career on drums. A: Yeah, I was completely redundant. We loved Ringo so much. He was our favorite drummer in Liverpool, and when he joined the band, it was an explosion: Every song sounded new and fresh. He could pass what we felt was the true test for drummers, which was to be able to play “What’d I Say” — the cymbal work and the toms.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

We did do a few little bits and pieces together before we all went our separate ways. John and I and Yoko did ‘The Ballad of John and Yoko’. He enlisted me for that because he knew it was a great way to make a record. ‘We’ll go round to Abbey Road Studios. Who lives near there? Paul. Who’s going to drum on this record? Paul. Who can play bass? Paul. And who’ll do it if I ask him nicely? Paul.’ He wasn’t at all sheepish about asking. He probably said something like, ‘Oh, I’ve got this song I want to record. Would you come round?’ And I probably said, ‘Yeah, why not?’

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, 2021, about Dear Friend)

Steve Miller happened to be there recording, late at night, and he just breezed in. ‘Hey, what’s happening, man? Can I use the studio?’ ‘Yeah!’ I said. ‘Can I drum for you? I just had a fucking unholy argument with the guys there.’ I explained it to him, took ten minutes to get it off my chest. So I did a track, he and I stayed that night and did a track of his called My Dark Hour. I thrashed everything out on the drums. There’s a surfeit of aggressive drum fills, that’s all I can say about that. We stayed up until late. I played bass, guitar and drums and sang backing vocals. It’s actually a pretty good track. It was a very strange time in my life and I swear I got my first grey hairs that month. I saw them appearing. I looked in the mirror, I thought, I can see you. You’re all coming now. Welcome.

(Paul McCartney in Many Years From Now by Barry Miles, 1997)

I really had to ask myself, “Do I want to give up music, or keep going?” I got a four-track Studer recording machine, like the Beatles used for Sgt. Pepper, put it in the corner of the living-room at my house in London and tried a very simple technique of just plugging directly into the back, not going through a mixing desk. It’s a cool way to record because it’s pure. If, say, I was doing a drum track, I’d play the drums, record it with one microphone, listen to it back, move the mike a little if there wasn’t enough hi-hat or cymbal, and then re-record. Then I’d add bass by plugging the mike into track two and overdubbing while listening to track one through headphones. I’d do that with all with four tracks. It was very hands-on, primitive way of working. <…> It was funky, and still sounds good to me.

(Paul McCartney, “Wingspan” documentary, 2001)

We did not see Ringo until the next night when he arrived at the session. He walked in and went straight to his drums…fiddled with them, then fiddled with them some more. “Somebody did something to my snare drum,” he said irritably. “Paul was here last night. He played them,” explained John. “He’s always fucking around with me things!” It sounded as though Ringo were back in Liverpool and all of them were still teenagers and nothing in their lives had changed. I realized then, that no matter what might happen among them, this was the way they would always relate to each other.

(May Pang, Loving John, 1983)

(Krla Beat, pic by lisamarie-vee)

So, I got into my studio in Scotland and started working, doing the drum track. I normally start with the drums. I sometimes use drum machines, but I like to redo it with real drums. I enjoy drumming. Then I put some bass on it. I was just doing an experimental thing. I was messing around and experimenting. Slowing down tapes, or speeding them up.

(Paul McCartney, The Lyrics, 2021, about Coming Up)

Paul and I were in England, having dinner together [along with our wives]. I told him I was making an EP, and I said, “Why don’t you write me a song?” He wrote the song [Feeling the Sunlight] and put bass on it, he put piano, he put the drums on — and I had to take the drums off. [Laughs.]

(Ringo Starr, interview with Rob Tannenbaum for AARP, Nov 2023)

George was the first one to make a solo album [Wonderwall Music], and I was the drummer. John started the Plastic Ono Band, and I was the drummer. Paul likes to play drums himself, or I would’ve been on his albums too.

(Ringo Starr, interview with Rob Tannenbaum for AARP, Nov 2023)

Q: As strong as you are on bass, keyboards, guitar, and as a singer and writer, is it frustrating to play your drum parts at a more limited level? A: That never intimidates me, though it probably should. I just have so much enthusiasm when I do things that I don’t even consider it. I’m lucky, because some people would wrack themselves with doubt, but when I came to this project I was like, “Man, let’s just have a bit of fun!” It didn’t occur to me that I was some idiot jumping on the kit. I know that a lot of drummers can play rings around me, but as long as I keep it simple and don’t get too flash, I can play with a steady, swampy feel, and that’ll do the job.

(Paul McCartney, interview with Robert L. Doerschuk for Drum!Magazine, 2005)

@i-am-the-oyster, I hope you will enjoy :)

+ this

[lovecla]

© property of lovecla, nhl masterlist, nico hischier x you.

FAKE IT ‘TILL YOU MAKE IT, phase two:

<last chapter>

➴ chapter warnings: shitty ex boyfriend, mentions of cheating.

➴ word count: 2.5k

💌 from me to you: i just realised i was supposed to post this yesterday im sorry u guys i’m just dumb af. also, did you know it’s almost impossible finding a country music singer who isn’t an awful person or racist? i know zach bryan isn’t exactly a ray of sunshine but it fits the story so i apologise :( i hope u like it either way! ♡

𖧷

NICO OPENED the door for you after the second knock, which was a blessing— it usually took him more than ten knocks to actually hear that someone was on the other side of the door.

“Hey, there, fake girlfriend,” he kisses your cheeks three times, like he used to do in Switzerland, and you smile at the feathery touch on your skin. “Come in, I made soup.”

“I already ate, but thank you.” You place your purse on his couch, sitting down almost immediately. It had been a long day at work. Jeffrey, the section editor, was being a pain in your ass and spent the entire day trying to convince you to go out with him, claiming that he would take you somewhere to participate in a hot dog eating competition.

The issue here wasn’t the hot dog competition but the company. He was annoying and whenever he spoke, the spit coming from his mouth made you feel like you were in the middle of a rainstorm.

“Are you okay?” Nico asks, sitting by your side after grabbing a bowl of what must be soup for himself. “You look…”

You smile tiredly. “Tired, I know. I’m fine, it’s just work.”

“We can reschedule our meeting for another day, I don’t mind. You can also nap in my bed.” He offers, and you almost melt with how sweet he sounds.

“This is not a meeting and I’m fine, I swear,” you cross your legs, cracking your knuckles mindlessly. “So… we have the Zach Bryan concert coming up.”

Nico sighs, like what you just said was the worst thing in the entire world and you chuckle, finding his reaction cute.

“Do we really have to go?” he pouts and you want to coo.

“Usually, I’d tell you no and move on. You know I’m not a country music girl either but… I was thinking,” you run your fingers through your hair, braiding it while you speak. “It would be a great thing for us. There will be a lot of people there and, I mean… one of them has to know you. And one of them has to post something about us online.”

“And you think Nora will see it?” he asks, eyes full of hope, making your heart ache for a second. You wanted Nico to be happy so fucking bad, that the thought of Nora hurting him made you see red.

“I think… I think there’s a high chance of that happening, yeah,” you whisper, hoping that you were at least fifty percent right. “We’ll just be… y’know. A couple. Jack and the other guys are going to be there so we’d have to fake it anyway.”

“Mhm, you’re right,” he swallows a spoonful of carrot soup, licking his lips afterwards. “We’re fine, then. Instagram posting and all?”

You nod. “I’ll do the posting today. Maybe a picture of you with the guys, so it’s not too obvious.”

“Alright, cap,” he mockingly salutes you, and you laugh, throwing a pillow on his hips. “I’ll do my best.”

𖧷

THE ARENA where the concert was going to happen was full of people, and you caught yourself holding Nico’s hand tighter.

“Everything okay, baby?” Nico shouts over the music, and even though you’re surprised at how used he sounds whenever he calls you that, you nod at him, shaking your head up and down. “If you want to leave we can—”

“The hell you can!” Jack emerges from behind you both, shaking his head. “You promised me months ago that you’d come with me.”

You smile at him. “We did, yeah. Don’t worry, we’re not leaving.”

This time, Nico’s the one squeezing your hand and you give him an angry, yet playful look, while he looks absolutely adorable.

Jack convinced you and Nico to buy these tickets months ago, and when you bought them, you didn’t give it much thought— you knew you’d end up creating some random excuse and not going to the concert anyway.

Little did you know that when the concert day came, you’d be fake dating your long-time friend and trying to fool not only his friends, family and fans, but also Nora, a girl you despised.

Life is too confusing for you sometimes.

Fortunately, Jack also forced you all to pay for the VIP ticket, which meant that you didn’t have to be in the pit with people squeezing you and risking getting hurt, or something like that.

The VIP area was, in fact, just a huge room with a balcony view and snacks, all you can drink beer and some other fancy people who were just sitting there and taking pictures of themselves with their big, cowboy hats. Couples, friends, family— it looked like everyone and their mothers decided that it would be great to watch a man sing about love and broken hearts.

You were people watching— something you liked to do whenever you were in a place with too many people— when you felt one large yet gentle hand on your bare waist, making you jump slightly with how cold it was.

“Sorry,” Nico whispers in your ear, and the tiny yet present accent in his voice makes you smile. “You good?”

You had every intention to reply right away, but when you realized Nico had trapped your body between the balcony glass and his body, you froze. You knew you had to get used to being physically close to him, hell, you’d been the one who told him to keep touching you whenever you were in public so why were you feeling like this?

Sure, Nico’s attractive, always has been. But he’s also your friend. And in love with someone else.

You nod your head, grabbing the beer he bought for you and taking a long sip. Thankfully, the singer, Zach, decides that that was a good time to start singing so the lights are almost immediately off and the shouting covers your awkwardness.

Even though you’re not a fan, you have to admit that his songs are good. Swinging your body side to side to the country beat, you enjoy the show in Nico’s arms, laughing as you watch Jack dancing while holding Bastian’s hands and pretending to cry over Zach’s songs.

“D’you think we should do that?” Nico shouts over the music and you smile at him, confused.

“Do what?” you ask, also trying to make yourself heard over thousands of people singing and loud music.

“Dance,” he explains. “I’m the worst dancer ever but all of the couples are doing it.”

You look around for the first time since the concert started and you confirm that Nico’s right. The few couples in the room were animatedly dancing with each other, laughing and kissing like people in love are constantly doing.

You take a deep breath and finish your beer in one go, leaving your now empty cup on the table next to you. You turn your body around, laughing when Nico offers you his hand like a gentleman would, and you grab it, twirling afterwards.

We're havin' an all-night revival

Someone call the women and someone steal the Bible

For the sake of my survival

Baptize me in a bottle of Beam, put Johnny on the vinyl

Nico told the truth when he said he didn’t know how to dance, but his enthusiasm for sure made up for it. You both laughed hard as you danced around each other, laughing even harder when Jack tried to join the two of you just to have Bastian pulling him back like he was a ragdoll.

Well, the Devil can scrap, but the Lord has won

And I'll talk to him on the rising sun

His son rose and mine did too

I was coming down, but now I'm talking to you

“He ‘talking about you!” You shout over the song, and he leans closer to you, holding you in place while his stubble scratches your temple.

“What?” he grins.

“‘The Devil’. He’s talking about you,” you joke, praying he’ll understand the pun.

“Oh, sure, baby, he ‘talking about me.”

Suddenly, he pulls you a little bit too hard and you stumble, putting your hands on his chest, looking for some kind of support while he keeps your feet on the ground with his hands on your waist.

You’re breathing hard, all the dancing exercises are finally catching up on you. You’re staring at his coffee-colored eyes, feeling his chest go up and down underneath your hands, his breathing hitting your forehead with how close you both were.

You’re so… close. And even though your heart is beating frantically inside your chest, you cannot help but feel some sort of rightness in the place you’re at right now. And it’s so wrong.

So, so wrong. So terribly wrong and hideous yet—

The clapping and shouts bring you back to where you’re supposed to be, reminding you of how you’re supposed to act, of what you’re supposed to be doing. And that definitely isn’t having your hands all over Nico’s chest and standing inches away from his mouth.

“Em—”

“I’m thirsty,” you interrupt him, wiping a non-exist drop of sweat from your forehead. “I’m gonna go grab a drink, okay?”

“I can go.” He starts moving, but you’re faster. Placing a light kiss on his cheek you tell him you’ll be right back and start walking towards the bar.

Thankfully, it was almost empty since the majority of the people in the room were enjoying the concert in the area closer to the stage, so when you ask for another beer you get it shortly after paying. You decide to sit on one of the stools before going back to where Nico and the rest of the boys were.

The cold, bitter drink sits perfectly on your tongue before you swallow, and you hum to one of the few songs you knew, taking the opportunity to organize your thoughts inside your head.

You didn’t know what the things you were feeling for Nico Hischier meant.

Well. Actually, you did.

But it couldn’t be it, right? He’s your friend. Also, he’s in love with another woman. Also, he’s Nina’s, your friend’s brother. Isn’t it against the friend's law to hook up with their family? Or anyone related to them in any way?

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t my favorite ex.”

You mutter a quiet ‘fuck’ before turning your head around, sighing because of course that, at a twenty thousand people, sold-out concert, you’d end up in the same room as your shitty ex from two years ago.

“Hi, Carl.” You don’t even try to sound nice, because in reality, you don’t want to.

“Hi, Emma. Didn’t expect to see you here,” he leans on the counter, his brown hair falling over his face, long and ugly. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Why is that any of your business?” You roll your eyes at him, getting off the stool and resuming your walk back. Sure, that’s what you would’ve done if Carl hadn’t grabbed your wrist, forcing you to stay in place. “What—”

“Come on, Emma, don’t play difficult,” he smiles widely and it makes you sick. “Look, I know it’s been a couple of years but… I miss you. I miss us.”

You scoff. “You should’ve thought about that before you screwed my fucking boss.”

“Oh, you’re still hurt about that,” he says like you’re someone who keeps talking about the same things over and over again and he’s the friend that has to keep listening to you. “I get it, it was wrong of me. But at least you have a better job now, right? Heard you’re working for the NHL now.”

You don’t try to hide your disgust.

“Where the hell did you ‘hear that’?” you try to remove your arm from his grip, unsuccessful. “Carl, let go of me.”

“Not until you hear me out—”

“Hear you out? You cheated on me—”

“—and understand that I was grieving my grandma’s death—”

“Your grandmother died when you were twelve!” you yell, pulling your wrist. “Carl, let go of my arm—”

“Is everything okay here?” Nico’s voice makes you turn your head around fast, watching as he frowns as he looks to where you and Carl were connected. “Baby?”

“Oh, so he’s why?” Carl hisses, forcing you to look back at him. “You’re his bitch now? That’s why you don’t want me back?”

“Carl—”

“Excuse me?” Nico steps closer to you, putting his hand on top of Carl’s and pulling it away from your arm in seconds, so effortlessly you have to keep the gasp that wants to leave your mouth safe inside. “Get your hands off my girlfriend right fucking now, who the fuck do you think you are?”

“I’m her ex-boyfriend—”

“Then I’ll ask again: who the fuck do you think you are?” Nico gently grabs your hand and moves your body until you stand behind him, his large body blocking almost entirely Carl’s frame. “Don’t fucking piss me off and leave right now.”

“Not until I talk to Emma.”

“Do not fucking say her name, you lost the right to do so. So, how is it going to be? You leave willingly or I punch you in the face?”

“Nico, no—” you whisper, placing your hand on his shoulder.

“Man, you know what? I’m gonna leave. She’s gonna come back crawling to me, and you’ll have to get your dick wet somewhere else.”

You only have time to place your cup on the counter before grabbing Nico’s hand and keeping him away from punching Carl’s face.

“He’s not worth it, baby,” the pet name left your mouth so naturally you don’t even notice it, but Nico definitely does. “Let’s go back, he’s just another asshole.”

Nico turns away and runs his eyes all over you, looking for something. Whatever he is, he doesn’t find it, so he just nods and mutters:

“Du arschloch.”

It makes you laugh, finally feeling all the tension leaving your body. “Yeah. That too.”

𖧷

“ARE YOU sure you’re okay?” Nico asks for the nth time, and you stop walking to look him in the eye.

“I already told you I’m fine. And all thanks to you.”

“I didn’t mean to make a scene,” he pouts, and you smile, cooing at him, wondering how good those lips must feel when—

No.

“You didn’t cause a scene, captain,” you playfully punch his shoulder. “And even if you did, it’s good, okay? Imagine the posts on Twitter: Nico Hischier, the captain of the New Jersey Devils, protects his little, defenseless girlfriend, Emma Roberts.”

“You’re not defenseless.” He laughs.

And I’m also not your girlfriend.

You laugh too.

“It was a fun night,” you sigh, walking towards your apartment door again. He walks by your side, and you hate the way it makes you feel safe. “Not doing it again though.”

“Yeah, me neither. One country music concert is enough for a lifetime.”

“Agreed.”

𖧷

emmaroberts

liked by jackhughes, jesperbratt, _connorbedard and 2,936 others

emmaroberts got to be a cowgirl for one night with these fellas right here

View all 130 comments

elladavis you’re so pretty!! miss the boys!

emmaroberts elladavis luke wasn’t with us tho

elladavis emmaroberts emma.

brooksnatalie you look so cute with your little hat baby :(

emmaroberts brooksnatalie can u move to new jersey already like i promise u it’s better than vancouver

_quinnhughes emmaroberts No. it’s not.

emmaroberts _quinnhughes shut up what are you? the mayor of vancouver city?

user2 YOU KNOW WHAT THEY SAY SAVE A HORSE RIDE A COWBOY

nicohischier hat looks good on you

emmaroberts nicohischier thanks cap 🩷

jackhughes glad to say i was the best dancer in the arena

emmaroberts jackhughes grandma its okay go back to bed

user5 emma congrats you just caused world war 3 with this post on twt

user6 user5 I DONT HAVE TWITTER WHATS GOING ON

user5 user6 people are going crazy over some photo of emma and nico together at the concert like they’re hugging and shit and now they’ve been analyzing every interaction they’ve ever had to prove they’re together

user8 ARE YOU AND NICO A THING

𖧷

<next chapter>

[skyfallscotland]

Ok so Rebecca did a one hour panel today in Sydney with Lynette Noni hosting, where she asked questions and then they opened it to fans. I've kind of summarised the things I haven't seen mentioned over and over, but I don't frequent the subreddit anymore or use TikTok, so there might be overlap. In any case, it's long. Settle in. I've sectioned it into plot/character relevant first, then themes and interesting facts about her and her writing. Basically, you all came with me. 💗

• In book three (and every book thereafter) we'll be going to more and more new places. She specifically worded it as "watching the map expand" whether that's significant or not, I don't know. (I was thinking Isle Kingdoms for OS, but maybe that's just my wishful thinking).

• She implied Jack will have a reason (explained) for uh...being a power-hungry prick? lol

• She's hella defensive of Dain, which I love. #DainApologistsClub 😌 Some highlights include:

"You guys give Dain so much shit for the same thing Xaden does. You really do and you're so fast to forgive Xaden and not Dain. Why? Is it because he's hot?"

And, "when push comes to shove, all Dain did—yes he violated her boundaries, as does Xaden—but all he did was trust his dad when his best friend no longer spoke to him. That's it."

"When Dain looks at her (in the interrogation chamber) and says 'if you had just told me, none of this would have happened', he's not just talking about the interrogation, he's talking about Liam, he's talking about if she had just trusted him (in Fourth Wing) it never would have happened." 😢

• She was asked about Liam's appearance in the interrogation chamber and definitively put to rest any signet theories involving that. "She's so alone in that moment and...I don't read fan theories but sometimes they reach my ears; she's completely disconnected from her magic in that moment, she can't even reach out for Tairn or Andarna, which are the bonds that are actually most important to her. She can't reach out for Xaden. And that's the one person who would have prevented that from happening the last year, so it's natural that's who her mind would summon."

• She's thought about a spin-off series, but she's just trying to survive this series.

• Someone asked her if there'd be any redemption and romance for Jack Barlowe and honestly, thanks guys, I don't think she's ever coming back to this country 💀 ("Are you getting enough sleep? Uh...I mean, from his prison cell maybe? No.")

• Someone asked "what is Garrick's signet and why hasn't it been shown yet?" (shoutout to this girl, she's the real MVP) to which Rebecca said "it's very much in book three, I love it."

• Someone asked about the orange dragons and unpredictability re: Amber, Jack, Varrish and then Imogen and Brennan. Rebecca said some dragons might look for traits like their own and some look for balance because it's a partnership; and that Brennan as a strategist needed that little bit of unpredictability in his life (lol, I think he got it).

• She didn't always plan for Violet to have two dragons. Originally it was going to be one (Tairn) and the editor had hoped that she would sway towards a weaker, smaller dragon and she thought that was a little too close to Abraxos in ToG, and so they compromised and gave her both. She also went on to say she doesn't like overpowered heroines and since Tairn is extremely powerful, Andarna balanced that out. (I'm not...I'm not sure how that works out? But that's what was said.)

• We are definitely going to find out more about the original six (and Lynette asked if that was a spin-off possibility and was shushed, so she's thought about it at least, but I get the idea she's thought about a lot of possibilities 😂)

• There's no timeframe for the release of the final two books.

• Someone asked if Violet's dad was Malek to which she was kind of shocked. He's not a god, guys. And low-key I JUST WANT TO KNOW HIS NAME. 😤

• On Sgaeyl: "You do (get more of her) but holy crap is she pissed. So—I'll tell you that about Onyx Storm—she is really, really mad at Xaden and she's not exactly speaking to him at the moment. So it's hard for her to speak into that bond when she's not speaking to him." 💔

• She was asked about the Violet dated Halden theory (which was fucking hilarious because the poor girl misspoke and asked if Xaden dated the prince and we were all really confused about which TikToks the poor thing had seen (note to self: consider cam/xaden), anyway after we got to the bottom of that, Rebecca replied, "I think you should read the third book." Which I'm taking to mean, the man is making a damn appearance and we're gonna find out for ourselves 👀 Hey, if I'm lucky maybe we'll even find out his surname

• Finally she said she has EP on the Amazon series, they've all been exceptionally protective of it and that she's happy with how it's going (they're not near casting yet and she doesn't want to really comment on that ever, to leave each role open to as diverse a cast as possible). She said the production team has come to the signings in LA to meet readers and see what they love and are passionate about when it comes to the series to make sure that's honoured.

"Like I mean, I've seen certain...like what can I say without getting tackled to the ground? Let's just say they've already taken steps to make sure that what you guys love about the story is envisioned and that it's not run amok. And I'm very happy with it, they're super protective of it." Which could just be me reading into it, but the first place my brain went was the dragons 👀🐉 and the CGI or whatever.

• She was asked about where the inspiration for the universe came from and she said that when her Entangled decided they were going to do romantasy they asked her for five pitches and Fourth Wing was one of them (she won't say what the others were because she might still write them someday). She said she likes the fated mates trope but she wondered what that would look like if the dragons were the ones mated, not the humans and the humans who couldn't stand each other were forced to be around each other because of this. 

• Her first ever book was romantasy but it didn't sell

• She's never really written enemies to lovers before.

• She likes found family themes because she was raised in a military family and moved around a lot, so that makes it hard to keep in touch with your extended family, and after she married her husband and became a military wife, it was their found family that was there for her—it was her found family who helped her move her house, who sat with her when her husband was injured in Iraq, etc, so she thinks it's very important to show that your family is also the people you choose and that can be just as strong as any blood tie.

• She was asked (by Lynette) why she wanted to show death and the reality of war and she said, "I've been surrounded by it. My husband's been at war since 2003, he spent 22 years in the army, first as a 19 Delta cavalry scout and then ten years as an apache pilot and we buried our friends. And I saw what it did to him, and I saw what it did to our friends, I saw what it did to our children, to us, and I love being able to examine it from a fantasy perspective just because I think fantasy gives us a unique environment from which to critique our own world by viewing it through the lens of another. And I've always delved into those themes as to why we do this to each other and where is there hope to stop it?"

• As an author her favourite scenes in Fourth Wing were the dagger stealing scene (very important to their chemistry and romantic development—"she's the only person he's taught ever, how to actually kill him") and the first kiss scene.

In Iron Flame it was the interrogation scene and how that ends with Dain and Xaden and everything coming together.

When asked about a similar scene from Onyx Storm that elicited the same strong emotion from her she said "you're not gonna like it" and that's it 💀

• She would consider writing fantasy again after she's done with the Empyrean world, maybe one of her other pitches, but she won't truly think about it until she's survived this one.

• She spoke about the "kill your darlings" writing advice and how if you love a scene but it doesn't move the plot, you've gotta cut it, and how she did that with the final scene in Fourth Wing, which was originally 7k words of Violet POV pulling information out of Xaden.

• When asked about fan theories she actually said something I found a little sad. "I don't listen to fan theories. One, I'm not on TikTok—it's a little bit more important for me to be alive than to listen to what other people think they know about me, and two, I don't ever want fan theories to bleed into my writing."

〰️ And that's it! If anyone's going tomorrow, please voice record the whole thing and report back lmao 🙏 🫶🏼

ETA: part two is here, x

[dduane]

I just read the part where Kirk experiences the Enterprise's point of view in The Wounded Sky to someone else, where she sees the crew as children she is training up to the Great Desire of exploration for exploration's sake, especially Jim. His reaction, essentially: "That was really pretty. ....And then he blows her up."

I hadn't thought about that before! I checked the copyright date, and it looks like The Wounded Sky came out a year before The Search for Spock, so you were writing without knowing that sacrifice would eventually happen.

How did you feel about that? Do you wish that writing decision had been made differently? (If, as a Trek writer, you're allowed to comment on other Trek writers' choices!)

You know, I tend not to think a whole lot about such issues. First of all, because (in the long run) it gets you nowhere in particular that's useful. And secondly, because it's not a thing that, as a Trek writer in any medium except film, you have the slightest power to change.

Now, at this end of time I think we can safely say that no one's going to hire me on to write a Trek film. And also that no one at that end of the creative spectrum is going to pay the slightest attention to anything I say, either. Both of those situations are just What's So, and neither of them bothers me. (Since I have universes of my own to manage at the moment, and that's where my attention properly lies.) So as regards my opinions about other writers' work, I'm pretty much off the hook.

If I had been on screenwriting duty for that film, would there be things I'd have wanted to do differently? Hell yeah. From the premise up. But the important thing here is: would those things necessarily have worked better on the screen / with the audience? Impossible to tell. And speaking as someone repeatedly given permission to work in someone's universe, the main thing to be aware of is the expectation that your chief responsibility is to do what best serves the characters and the IP of which they're part. (There's a post over at Out of Ambit with a lot more of my thoughts on the subject:)

The other thing to remember is that, though I've worn the Canonical Hat in my time, novel work is by definition non-canonical. Doing it, you are at all times working with the understanding that the licensor rarely views your work as anything better than a corporate side hustle—a way for the IP to make some cash on the side—and will ignore you and the stuff you've created unless given pressing reasons to do otherwise. (Such as when they might make some unexpected money off it... at which point you remind yourself as forcibly as necessary that what you did is Work For Hire; they own it, lock, stock and barrel, and you should not realistically expect to be given any credit.)

And, if you understand the rules and enjoy the work enough, all of this is okay. The reward is not in making a lot of money doing it, or even in having aspects of your work openly assumed into canon. The reward lies in being allowed to contribute to a given universe in public (and, yeah, getting paid for it by the licensor). It's not payback: it's payforward. And you're left an astonishing amount of freedom to bring your vision to that universe. (Sometimes... as one colleague has McCoy say... you have to be "very, very careful" to get away with it. But it can be done.)

The truth is that even in the 1980s, I was sharing this level of playing-in-a-universe with a goodish cohort of editors and writers: a big roomful at least. Now I'm sharing it (retroactively speaking) with hundreds of them. With the best will in the world, even in the 80's the licensors (as regarded film) couldn't have realistically polled/listened to all of us regarding our creative opinions about the screenplay end of things. As for what that'd look like nowadays... I'll leave you to your own deductions. 😏

Anyway, thanks for the question. It's always nice to know that there are people who want to know what you think. 😊

[remotewatch]

for this simp I have no sympathy 🏃‍♀️‍➡️💵

part two section A (just trust me) • part one here!

Jack Schlossberg x reader | 3.3k wc

summary: Jack steps out of line. What’s to be done?

cws: sugaring, inappropriate workplace dynamics, findom, submissive loser jack, spit kink, phone sex, he’s so pafetic innit, there will be part 2 section B and also part 3 I promise, Hermès is getting whacked unprovoked

AN: as always heaps of thanks to @mystardustmelodyyy (genuinely who knows when this would have been posted without your help) best editor to eva do it 🩵🩵

minors dni gtfo focus on getting taller first

By some grace of the universe, you get an urge to reach over and check your phone for the first time today and see “reminder: bs zoom 🤮” received five minutes ago. You barely have time to straight arm sweep all your shit off the side table into your purse and book it back to your cabana, leaving your poor Ghia unattended for the birds. A hand gets stuck putting on your coverup (another stroke of intuition, packing the button up instead of anything crocheted), but you manage to free it, toss your sunglasses aside, and join the call right on time.

Tragically, before you can mute yourself and shut off your camera, a crystal clear seagull squawk (enjoying your drink no doubt, asshole) cuts through the murmuring of waiting for everyone else to arrive. Even with only a few cameras on, you can feel every single one of “JS and 165 others” turn their attention straight to you. Amy, your coworker who you confided in about the card suspicions, turns fully to the left pressing her lips together to suppress her laughter. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the fabric of your cabana flapping behind you, blowing what’s left of your cover. Jack looks only mildly interested; his poker face has drastically improved in recent months. The team probably thinks he’s sending you a dreaded “stay on afterwards for a quick chat” message when he glances down for a moment before clearing his throat and picking up where he left off.

Your phone lights up with a text from Jack’s private line: ‘where the FUCK are you???’

You text back as inconspicuously as possible: “Ibiza??? we booked it together?”

You’d forgive him if he didn’t remember, considering the circumstances.

One Month Earlier

“Let me taste you?” Jack looks utterly pitiful facedown on his own office rug, creasing his suit to hell and back while he grinds against one broad palm. It’s a splendid view, but you’re too busy booking your flight to pay it any attention. The sun-warmed windows against your back perfectly mirror how his cheek is burning up against your calf, a delicious contrast to the icy office air tickling your bare legs.

“How much do you think that’s worth?” You ask flatly without so much as glancing at him. Jack looks at you blankly, desperately, gears turning behind glassy eyes. You place one heel on his forehead and shove him back when he tries to lean in for a better view of you

“Um, fifty?” You whip his phone around with Face ID already open, and he involuntarily bucks into his hand with a pathetic whine when the transfer goes through. There’s no formalities; you merely spread your legs a bit wider and twist your free hand into his hair as he plunges his tongue as deep as he can with a voice-cracking groan….

💳💳💳💳

“Are you upset with me? Can I buy something to make you feel better?” texts from his personal line continue to blow up your phone, disrupting your trip down memory lane.

He seems genuinely distressed, poor baby. You reply “Nooo, I’m not mad ☺️” with some extra heart emojis for good measure, followed by a link to the local leather atelier. By the time you get to your hotel suite that evening, there’s a gorgeous handbag in buttery nubuck waiting on your bed.

💳💳💳💳

Within a week of your hiring, multiple coworkers had pulled you aside to warn that Jack’s phone, Slack, and other channels of communication were perpetually set on Do Not Disturb, all sighing with resigned acceptance that ‘he responds eventually’. A few months into your tenure, you’d noted that he always replied promptly to your messages and chalked it up to gross exaggeration on their part. These days, he answers within seconds no matter when you text him.

This was your first trip out of town since you’d taken this job, and you were just a smidge thrilled to see his punctuality unaffected by the five hour time difference. Jack could easily pore over the charges littering his bank statement, but his generosity must be contagious, because you find yourself itching to keep him updated on the fun. A bikini pic here, an artful spread of your beachside mezze there. Each time, he responds instantly with a heart reaction accompanied by a picture of his spit-less coffee and “ :,( “.

You're not sure if it’s the heat or the way Jack’s forearms looked in his rolled up oxford, but when there’s a follow-up meeting on Zoom Tuesday afternoon, you decide to send him photos from last night’s rose water steam bath, accompanied by one of his emoticons.

“The water feels so nice here :)”

Admittedly, the way his jaw tenses with his tongue poking into his cheek made logging on entirely worth it.

💳💳💳💳

You’re beginning to think you could spend the rest of your days in your oceanfront cabana living on Rocha pears and sea breeze when Pepper, your favorite Maître D, comes in to deliver your breakfast on Thursday morning and mentions that “your husband” will be there soon.

“Who?”

“Señor Schlossberg! He said he has an urgent message for you.” Pepper winks playfully. “I’ll leave you love birds to it! Look, here he is now.”

It’s the first time you’ve seen Jack in casual clothes- rolled-down black basketball shorts, a backwards baseball hat, and a sweaty gray t-shirt with the word “Funcle” emblazoned on the front.

“Jack!” You sit up and start to reach for your cover up before realizing that’s silly to do for a man who regularly gives you pap smears with his nose. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” he briefly takes off his hat to wipe the shine from his forehead; it’s unclear if it’s from the humidity or nerves. “I’m so sorry to do this, but there’s this presentation.”

“A presentation? How riveting. I’m on the edge of my seat!” You giggle, placing the raspberry garnish from your morning smoothie onto your tongue.

He smiles stiffly and manages a droll chuckle. “Unfortunately, it’s for Gary- yeah, I know” when he sees you wince. “He’s about to go postal. We need you back when I pitch.”

Motherfucker. You’ll kill him if he doesn’t get to you both first.

💳💳💳💳

Not even ten minutes after takeoff and Jack is frowning at his laptop, way too worried about a client that would have left six meltdowns ago if he ever planned on it.

You slide your feet up his legs and under the keyboard to steal some residual heat from the motor and his thighs. His face doesn’t change, but you can feel his quads tense up when you curl your toes.

“The meeting’s not until tomorrow, right?”

He doesn’t look up, too busy stabbing the backspace key. “Yeah. Why?”

“Would you drop me off at Heathrow so I can do a little window shopping?” The “s” word gets his attention. Jack pauses his frustrated pen tapping to glance up at you and raise his eyebrows.

“Window shopping? Is that right?”

“I was going to do some this afternoon, but someone interrupted and made me miss my Loewe appointment. I’ll catch the next flight back.” His thumb draws pensive circles on the space bar.

“We can both stop there. It’ll be a pain to find you a new seat this time of year.”

“You just want to watch me work, don’t you?”

“Guilty.”

💳💳💳💳

You tear across the sparkling terminal floors like a tornado, Jack scrambling after you struggling to balance your ever increasing load of shopping bags as you flit from store to store to duty free counter. The Harrods stop weighs him down considerably: “I’ve been dying for a 24 inch cast iron!” Never mind that the thing dwarfs both your stove and oven, or that you have zero space to store the rainbow of Sferra towels and linens you heap into his arms. “This red piping will be so gorgeous for the holidays!”

When you strut right past Hermès, he nods pointedly at the entrance. “Want to go in there?”

“God, no. The last time I went to the one by work, they offered me a white picotin. I’ll never get anywhere with their stupid mind games if they think I’d like something like that!”

His eyes linger on a mannequin drowning in fuzzy striped knits. “Can I at least get you a blanket? You’re always so cold on the plane.” The earnestness in his voice is enough to make you pause, and Jack’s poked out bottom lip seals the deal when you look back.

“Fine, but only if they have a real pattern and not those fugly H ones.”

“Obviously!” He just can’t help himself from snagging you a horse charm on his way out.

For the most part, he maintains a respectful distance, content to watch you stalk around the perfume counter, unblinking predator eyes roving for an elusive green apple note. At one point, you catch him leaning down to sniff your hair, and a steely glance banishes him right back to reshuffling the VAT refund paperwork.

Friday

Exactly fifteen minutes into Jack’s pitch, it’s dreadfully clear that he did not need you for this meeting, so you spend the next forty quietly seething and waiting for your lunchtime “touch base”. The tension in the boardroom grows thicker as everyone trickles out, Jack shifting uncomfortably under your watchful eye. When you collect your things and trot wordlessly back to his office, he follows close enough to literally breathe down your neck. A click of his lock and the whisper of the blinds, and you’re twisting his ear until he sinks down to his knees, already stumbling over his words.

“What the FUCK was that?!” you hiss right into your boss’s face, not caring about the spit that lands right between his eyebrows. “I looked so stupid sitting there with nothing to do like I’m your little accessory!”

Jack’s jaw snaps open and shut uselessly like a marionette before he finds his voice.”I’m so sorry; I should’ve been honest with you. It just really helps me focus when you’re here on important days. It’ll never happen again. I swear, there’s nothing more important-” you cut him off before he can really get going, releasing his ear and hauling him back to his feet by the tie.

“You son of a bitch!” You snarl, dragging him along while you pace between the bookshelves framing his desk. “I should be eating fresh pomegranate on the beach right now! I booked an aerial yoga class with a former olympian! But NO, I needed to be here for this meeting. Those were your words! Why did you lie to me?”

You’re surprised by the softness of your words, and Jack looks as if they’ve gutted him straight onto the carpet. He takes a minute to massage his temples before daring to meet your gaze.

“I didn’t want you to think I was looking for any reason to bring you back, or like I was trying to control your trip. I was losing it prepping for today and panicked, but that wasn’t right.” He chews on his lip for a moment before adding: “I also didn’t think you’d believe me, how much you calm me down. It sounds like bullshit even saying it now, but it’s true.”

“You thought I’d assume you were lying, so you lied?” Jack grimaces hearing it laid out so plainly.

“Yeah, I did.”

“And how did that work out?” He looks down at your iron grip on his tie, looped around your hand enough to force him into an awkward stoop.

“It could’ve gone better. I’m sorry about that.” You fight to keep the scowl planted on your face, but the downright obsequious sincerity pouring off him cuts straight through it. Half a step closer and he has enough leash to straighten up fully; the unobscured relief on Jack’s face is nothing short of heart melting. He leans in eagerly when you lift his chin and offer a gentle swipe over his jawline, “Be honest with me next time.”

“I will. I promise.” Finally releasing the tie, you step back to lean on his desk and give him a proper once over. His puppy eyes are going to be the death of you.

“Alright then. Sit.” Jack’s knees hit the floor before you can finish the word, unmoved by the resounding thud that echoes throughout the office.

“Should I get the rope?” He can’t stop himself from swaying in anticipation.

“Ugh, I can’t even look at you right now.” you exhale dramatically, spreading your palm over his forehead. “Let me calm myself down.”

His relieved grin shatters the tension, and, like clockwork, you start manhandling that mane of hair, guiding Jack south and letting him sneak in a few pecks along the way. You’re not made of stone.

“As you wish,” he murmurs peacefully.

💳💳💳💳

In between your ferocious shopping sprees, Jack had stayed true to his word, continuing to pay your rent month after month. Your studio apartment was still on the smaller side and may or may not have a mold problem, but at least now it was filled to bursting with late-night impulse purchases from 1stDibs. In particular, you were proud of the Alexander Girard rug that you’d converted into a wall tapestry to hide the massive crack in your back wall wainscoting.

Your nighttime routine has grown lavish as well. Lately, the end of the day meant changing into a plush terry cloth robe, making a pot of specialty oolong tea, and lighting a Cire Trudon candle. The time change is still kicking your ass, so you also throw on a face mask and eye patches, plus your favorite microfiber headband with tiger ears, for the whimsy. As you massage your favorite rosehip oil over your collarbone, your mind can’t help but drift to Jack and how nice his tongue felt there earlier. Sure, you weren’t thrilled to have your time in Ibiza cut short, but it was so touching how genuine he’d been in his office. You two weren’t the types to play mind games, but it’s not like you spilled your guts out to each other either. Once your session ended, you even stayed behind to discuss how his presentation went. He’d listened raptly, jotting down occasional illegible notes before asking what kind of food you’d like delivered for dinner since there were zero groceries left in your apartment.

God help you- you decide to call him once you flop onto your new tufted Kluft mattress.

“Hi-” he answers instantly “I’m so glad you called, I was actually thinking about calling you because, again, I am SO sorry, I was so out of line this week. Who was the olympian you booked? I can get them over here for that aerial yoga class, we could do a whole workshop-”

“Jack, stop,” you cut him off before he can go on another one of his famous tangents. “I accepted your apology, and I know you’re sorry. That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh. What is it?” His tone shifts from frantic to concerned “Is something wrong? Do you need anything?”

“No. I just wanted to let you know that I will be finishing my trip in Italy.”

“Oh! You should go. I’ll be ok for a few days.”

He sounds utterly unconvincing, but his wanting you to enjoy yourself is genuine; god, it’s always so genuine.

“Do you want to come with me?” you squeeze your eyes shut, not sure what you just brought upon yourself or if that was even an option within your arrangement. The breathless ‘Seriously?’ you get back after a beat and a half feels rocket-powered, like a triple shot of adrenaline.

“Yeah. I still have all the tours and accommodations booked for later this week so we can go to those. But if you’re in, we are NOT leaving early. I’m serious, Jack, I don’t care if Gary blows his brains out in the conference room, I’m going on that yacht!”

“Gotcha,” he laughs. You can so easily picture him kicking his feet in the air. “So, what else did you plan?”

“I just had to spend a few nights at Borgo Santo Pietro.”

“Oh that’s a lovely choice,” his voice slips into a low purr that hasn’t graced your ears before; you must’ve woken him up from the sound of it.

“Yeah, I was thinking massage in the gardens, wine tasting all afternoon, room service dinner because I’d probably be jet lagged.”

“Mhm,” there’s a tinge of breathiness to Jack’s voice, and you can just barely hear fabric rustling in the background. “What else?”

“Then an unstructured day for shopping. Super chill so I have time to browse without being yanked back across the pond-”punctuated with a giggle so he doesn’t start groveling again. He’s too busy panting into the mic to bother.

“And then I’ll charter their boat on the Lake. I’m renting it for the whole day so I can really take my time, see the sights and dive in the grottos in one of my new L’Agence bikinis-you remember those, right?. I’ll probably have to bring all of them on the yacht, just in case. And my footwear- I’ll need the Ferragamo flats, those sheep’s wool slippers from Daylesford market, maybe something sparkly for the evening?

“Will you need a new dress?” He gasps. You can hear the snap of elastic on his boxers, eliciting some goosebumps on your skin.

“No, I think it would be fun to wear a heel with a bikini… but I could add on some Pavè drop earrings and a diamond lariat. Wouldn’t that be nice? It’ll look like I’m dripping in jewels.”

He lets out a long groan that makes you throw your head back with satisfaction; he was putty in your hands.

“I booked a private painting lesson because the suite has a lovely pied-á-terre. Then there’s this service where you can get a bath set up by the head of spa staff- they’ll incorporate all the oils and extracts you could possibly want. It also comes with the option to get a massage afterwards, although I guess you could do that if you’d like.”

Your voice is starting to fray into arousal around the edges, but you’re enjoying yourself way too much to keep a lid on it, and the pitiful whimpering noises from Jack are just music to your ears. You absentmindedly stretch your legs over your percale duvet and continue:

“Some prosecco would feel just heavenly to pour down my throat after such a full itinerary. I should order a whole case for the suite. Two cases! Should we get enough to fill the bathtub? So can you shower me with it?”

There’s no response, just the obscene slapping of skin mixed in with Jack’s strained noises. Your lips curl into a mischievous smile as your heart rate speeds up right along with him.

“You’re being so rude, you know? I invited you along out of the kindness of my heart and you’re too busy fucking your hand to plan our time together.”

“Sorry-yes, yes, two cases! Oh my god-”

He veers off into a fit of ragged grunts, louder and louder then silent. There’s nothing on the line but desperate, deep breathing until he crescendos with a stifled whine of a moan. As you sink back into your silk sheets, your hand glides over your stomach and between your thighs, thinking about the outline of his chest in that goddamn funcle t-shirt.

“Have you unpacked yet?” He chokes, snapping you out of your haze.

“Well no… I haven’t had time.”

“We should go now.”

“Really?”

“God, yes. Just give me fifteen, and I’ll send a car for you.”