#tjourn henners

[lettalady]

What if the journalist was still having her thing with the actor who led her to develop her "actor armour" in The Journalist?

[ Send me a Weekend What If ]

Oh my dear darling nonnie. Her thing that led to her actor armor ::Henners shame on you::

Let's see if I can find that. Let's see if it's even posted or also sitting in the drafts someplace. Whoops.

SO. Errrr the only thing I found was something that is in fact TJOURN prequel related but isn't the actor armor reason specifically is from the word prompt challenges: Fi-fie-fo-fum there’s an American in my bed

But if you want to know the reason why she's got actor armor it has to do with loosely dating and then having your sex life publicly joked about on television. [See this gifset from when Henner's reveals Superman's Diet Plan]

*Incidentally digging to try to find the snippets already written led me to stumble upon a few other Henners things I'd written so. ha. That was a fun surprise -- contained below the cut*

"For cardio's sake... what do you do for cardio?"

Everything would have been fine if he'd just kept that cheeky grin held in place. Simply shook his head and moved on. Ignored the question.

Your coworkers have a field day. Your friends have a field day.

"So that's what the kids are calling it these days."

"Do a lot of running when he's in town?"

"Better run on home."

Everyone is laughing because it's no secret that you let him charm you into agreeing to something less than a relationship and more than friends. He didn't want the 'messy relationship stuff' and didn't want labels. Since he's been out of the country for several months filming it's more than clear the reason why. The downside to agreeing to a lack of exclusivity in whatever it was that you were to one another is you can't really be mad that he's playing the field.

So to answer your What If the long way round. What if things with Henners had gone differently? I imagine we'd have gotten:

Eyes a little glazed over despite the shower – easy to blame the long day of surfing, swimming, and sun… not to mention the drinking – Henry’s smile seems weary, but content. The vacation isn’t quite the trip that had been planned, what with the training to keep his skills sharp that pulls him away for hours and hours. It’s a complaint, yes, but halfhearted. It’s still a trip abroad, still warm weather and sunshine and a magnificent view – not just the scenery.

And while you’re contemplating all this after having snapped a quick photo on your phone, he’s leaning closer to say something that gets lost in the noise of the beach bar. Moment in time safely stored, you refocus your attention, “Hmm? What?”

The small, exhausted smile he’d worn moments prior changes, expanding into a dimple-showing laugh. He leans closer and as he jerks his head in a small nod he flicks his fingers lazily towards your nearly empty pint glass. “Do you want another?”

“No… I’m stuffed and…” Pleasantly buzzing from the drinks that have been steadily coming to your table. Perks of being Superman, everyone wants to send him a drink. He’s fostered more than one off on you. You keep shaking your head, laughter bubbling up through your words, “too many more and I’ll have to be carried home.”

He shifts in his tiki-esque chair and tilts his head to the side, mock pain at the thought, “Ooooh no, don’t even mention lifting anything. It makes my body ache.”

“That’s a comment about all the surfing and –“ Momentarily at a loss for words you shrug and mime a karate chop, aiming at his collarbone, “stuff, not my weight, right?”

“Right. Definitely not.”

As he’s nodding with emphasis to try to make your scowl disappear the waiter appears with the check. When had Henry signaled for it? Was your waiter a mind reader as well an enabler?

It’s a short walk back to the villa that has been rented out for your stay. At least, it would be if the pair of you weren’t taking your sweet time down the sidewalk. Typically not ones to meander and hinder the flow of foot traffic, it becomes the topic of conversation.

“How many more paces, you think?” You glance aside to study him as you ask the question.

Henry’s frown seems slightly sinister when lit from the streetlight overhead. He doesn’t dare to hazard a guess knowing full well you’d take that many and not a step more. “Too many?” Nodding after laughing along with you and passing from underneath the streetlamp, he looks up at the stars just beginning to be visible overhead. “I know. I’m exhausted, too. Might just fall into bed and not move till morning.”

You sidestep to bump into him, feeling him release your hand so that he can wrap his arm around your shoulders. It’s nearly too warm out for such close contact. With just enough breeze and the proximity to the water, the temptation to pull away from him lessens. He might’ve showered before coming out to the bar with you, but that was long enough ago that the scent of his soap has wafted away along with the heat of the day. “Hmmph. Hopefully not that exhausted. You smell like a bar, Henry.” Plus there are other activities you want to pursue after falling into bed with him, most of them requiring movement.

He draws you up short so that he can lean and audibly sniff your hair, “And so do you. Your point?”

“I’m just voting no to sleeping fully clothed.” You lift your eyebrows as you reply, attempting a knowing smile.

He’s adjusting where his hand lies on your torso as he maneuvers the pair of you back into motion, the pressure of his touch trailing down. Maybe he’s getting the hint. “Oh so we’re voting on it, meaning falling into bed isn’t off the table.”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, just barely, you shake your head, “Not the falling into bed part that I was objecting to…”

“And did you harrumph me, just then?”

This time you do roll your eyes, “No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Just shut up and walk, Henry. I’m starting to get sticky again.”

He does sit down and fall backward onto the bed fully clothed, but your steady glare gets him back up again – with a deep, albeit resigned, laugh that makes your skin tingle – and peeling off pieces of clothing. Finally down to his boxer briefs, your displeasure lifted, he settles again on the king sized bed. Only halfway drawing up the sheets, waiting to pull them over you as well, he emits a sigh loud enough to be heard from your position across the room. “Ahhhhh.”

He’s even got his eyes closed. If he falls asleep before you even get into the bed… “Did you brush your teeth?”

Those damned dimples appear, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Yes.”

“Liar. You didn’t step foot in the bathroom.”

He barely moves aside from the effort taken to reply to you. “Toss me the mouthwash?”

Maximum effort. You suppress a laugh, ducking into the bathroom to snag the bottle and your own toothbrush while you’re at it. He hasn’t budged. “Are you going to catch it?”

“Yep.”

“With your eyes closed?”

“Yep.”

Hmm would he move if you beaned him with the bottle? It’s only a little travel bottle, after all. But then if he’s nursing a bruise it certainly won’t get you closer to your goal, no matter how gratifying it might be in this instance. You’re careful with your aim, the release, and then – WHUMP – the mini-bar-sized bottle lands in the sheets next to his hip. Only then does Henry eek one eye open, first noting the location of the bottle, then to squint at you and note your toothbrush salute.

Teeth and mouth pleasantly clean and unfuzzy, you reemerge from the bathroom. The mouthwash sits on the bedside table next to his watch. Oh-Exhausted-One isn’t snoring, but for all appearances he’s out cold. You twist your lip into a momentary scowl, your libido not thanking you for being nice earlier. You huff under your breath, “Maybe I should have aimed a little to the left…”

The corners of Henry’s mouth twitch into a smile. “Mm very glad you didn’t.”

Ah so not sleeping, not yet anyway. He’s just really enjoying the backs of his eyelids. Maybe if you provide him a little incentive he’ll rise to the occasion. You let the sheets fall where they may as you settle into the bed cause if you get your way they’ll get shoved out of the way anyway. Resting on your side, you nudge him, “You could show me how glad…”

Still with his eyes closed, he lifts his eyebrows. “Tomorrow? Doubt I can even lift a finger right now.”

This time the noise you make is a harrumph, though he doesn’t call you on it. You reach across him to turn off his bedside lamp – saving Mister I Can’t Lift A Finger from having to do that, too – and flop back onto your back to enjoy the darkness and try to figure out how to keep from strangling your celebrity boyfriend in his sleep.

It’s just as you’re about to drift off and enjoy sexually frustrating dreams – you’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t kill him cause (a) too many people would miss him and/or notice right off the bat, and (b) you’ve nowhere to hide the body – that you feel the mattress shift indicating He Who Is Too Exhausted To Move has finally found a reserve bit of energy, probably to go to the loo since he hadn’t done so in prep for bed or while at the bar.

Unexpected contact – his hand seeking out the bottom edge of your shirt and skirting over your hipbone and abdomen – makes you blink your eyes open in surprise, and then annoyance. “Oh! Oh, so you can lift a finger.”

“I think, maybe I can…”

Oh yes he can lift a finger. You attempt to twist and push his hand from between your legs. You succeed just as his fingertips divert towards the edge of your panties, and you feel the fabric ruffle and snap back against your skin as he allows his hand to be pulled away from its task. “Henry… Fuck!” Your loosed explicative comes out breathless as you fall back on the bed again, once again sweating and hot in more ways than one.

His chuckle vibrates the bed, “That’s the idea, honey, though that does require more than a finger.”

[lettalady]

director cut: The Journalist

Oh it's been a while since we've heard anything from the world of TJOURN. Once again I still have stuff waiting in the notes, at least in term of the prequel series... specifically seeing a different film festival with the pair of them running into the reason for our journalist's actor armor.

For TJOURN proper I had that first moment of dialogue in the first chapter stuck in my head.

“You. Want. A. Story.” 

[ I'll put the rest under a cut because, as we know, I ramble. ]

Tom was seething and I wanted to know why. I couldn't quite figure out, at first, why he'd spit the words at someone and refuse to hear reason. Something that happened in his past and with great effort he moved beyond it only to have lightning strike so very close once more. I didn't want to write an actor couple, so was the person he was so mad at a different kind of professional relationship, or someone that was a civilian that got wrapped up in his world.

Ultimately, I thought the idea of a journalist becoming a significant other in an actor's life, and then having details leaked - photos leaked - would be an interesting something to explore. I knew we'd never really learn what happened in his past to make him react the way he did, without a moment of understanding or a second to catch his breath and think, analyze the way our journalist/ his SO was responding to him and say ok something isn't lining up here.

If I remember correctly it was the first attempt at trying to write a story where Tom didn't get the girl in the end, but I failed along the way. (Second attempt being Unsettled, though again - it's been so long the timeframe of which came first is a bit blurred.)

Of course I ultimately caved and went back to flesh out the background - what happened to Tom to make him react so harshly, meeting the journalist that makes him reconsider his opinions about the profession, yadda yadda how they become the couple we see in TJOURN proper. As for our journalist's actor armor and why it came into being... I think I've posted glimpses of it here and there in other ask games but the story of Henners and the journalist and what happened between them awaits fleshing out - somewhere in the piles of notebooks.

[lettalady]

I did, while I was digging, also find TJOURN 0.7 -- both versions. So there's some sorting to do to figure out which darned one is the correct one. Past me hates me, I think.

What if the journalist was still having her thing with the actor who led her to develop her "actor armour" in The Journalist?

[ Send me a Weekend What If ]

Oh my dear darling nonnie. Her thing that led to her actor armor ::Henners shame on you::

Let's see if I can find that. Let's see if it's even posted or also sitting in the drafts someplace. Whoops.

SO. Errrr the only thing I found was something that is in fact TJOURN prequel related but isn't the actor armor reason specifically is from the word prompt challenges: Fi-fie-fo-fum there’s an American in my bed

But if you want to know the reason why she's got actor armor it has to do with loosely dating and then having your sex life publicly joked about on television. [See this gifset from when Henner's reveals Superman's Diet Plan]

*Incidentally digging to try to find the snippets already written led me to stumble upon a few other Henners things I'd written so. ha. That was a fun surprise -- contained below the cut*

"For cardio's sake... what do you do for cardio?"

Everything would have been fine if he'd just kept that cheeky grin held in place. Simply shook his head and moved on. Ignored the question.

Your coworkers have a field day. Your friends have a field day.

"So that's what the kids are calling it these days."

"Do a lot of running when he's in town?"

"Better run on home."

Everyone is laughing because it's no secret that you let him charm you into agreeing to something less than a relationship and more than friends. He didn't want the 'messy relationship stuff' and didn't want labels. Since he's been out of the country for several months filming it's more than clear the reason why. The downside to agreeing to a lack of exclusivity in whatever it was that you were to one another is you can't really be mad that he's playing the field.

So to answer your What If the long way round. What if things with Henners had gone differently? I imagine we'd have gotten:

Eyes a little glazed over despite the shower – easy to blame the long day of surfing, swimming, and sun… not to mention the drinking – Henry’s smile seems weary, but content. The vacation isn’t quite the trip that had been planned, what with the training to keep his skills sharp that pulls him away for hours and hours. It’s a complaint, yes, but halfhearted. It’s still a trip abroad, still warm weather and sunshine and a magnificent view – not just the scenery.

And while you’re contemplating all this after having snapped a quick photo on your phone, he’s leaning closer to say something that gets lost in the noise of the beach bar. Moment in time safely stored, you refocus your attention, “Hmm? What?”

The small, exhausted smile he’d worn moments prior changes, expanding into a dimple-showing laugh. He leans closer and as he jerks his head in a small nod he flicks his fingers lazily towards your nearly empty pint glass. “Do you want another?”

“No… I’m stuffed and…” Pleasantly buzzing from the drinks that have been steadily coming to your table. Perks of being Superman, everyone wants to send him a drink. He’s fostered more than one off on you. You keep shaking your head, laughter bubbling up through your words, “too many more and I’ll have to be carried home.”

He shifts in his tiki-esque chair and tilts his head to the side, mock pain at the thought, “Ooooh no, don’t even mention lifting anything. It makes my body ache.”

“That’s a comment about all the surfing and –“ Momentarily at a loss for words you shrug and mime a karate chop, aiming at his collarbone, “stuff, not my weight, right?”

“Right. Definitely not.”

As he’s nodding with emphasis to try to make your scowl disappear the waiter appears with the check. When had Henry signaled for it? Was your waiter a mind reader as well an enabler?

It’s a short walk back to the villa that has been rented out for your stay. At least, it would be if the pair of you weren’t taking your sweet time down the sidewalk. Typically not ones to meander and hinder the flow of foot traffic, it becomes the topic of conversation.

“How many more paces, you think?” You glance aside to study him as you ask the question.

Henry’s frown seems slightly sinister when lit from the streetlight overhead. He doesn’t dare to hazard a guess knowing full well you’d take that many and not a step more. “Too many?” Nodding after laughing along with you and passing from underneath the streetlamp, he looks up at the stars just beginning to be visible overhead. “I know. I’m exhausted, too. Might just fall into bed and not move till morning.”

You sidestep to bump into him, feeling him release your hand so that he can wrap his arm around your shoulders. It’s nearly too warm out for such close contact. With just enough breeze and the proximity to the water, the temptation to pull away from him lessens. He might’ve showered before coming out to the bar with you, but that was long enough ago that the scent of his soap has wafted away along with the heat of the day. “Hmmph. Hopefully not that exhausted. You smell like a bar, Henry.” Plus there are other activities you want to pursue after falling into bed with him, most of them requiring movement.

He draws you up short so that he can lean and audibly sniff your hair, “And so do you. Your point?”

“I’m just voting no to sleeping fully clothed.” You lift your eyebrows as you reply, attempting a knowing smile.

He’s adjusting where his hand lies on your torso as he maneuvers the pair of you back into motion, the pressure of his touch trailing down. Maybe he’s getting the hint. “Oh so we’re voting on it, meaning falling into bed isn’t off the table.”

Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, just barely, you shake your head, “Not the falling into bed part that I was objecting to…”

“And did you harrumph me, just then?”

This time you do roll your eyes, “No. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know. Just shut up and walk, Henry. I’m starting to get sticky again.”

He does sit down and fall backward onto the bed fully clothed, but your steady glare gets him back up again – with a deep, albeit resigned, laugh that makes your skin tingle – and peeling off pieces of clothing. Finally down to his boxer briefs, your displeasure lifted, he settles again on the king sized bed. Only halfway drawing up the sheets, waiting to pull them over you as well, he emits a sigh loud enough to be heard from your position across the room. “Ahhhhh.”

He’s even got his eyes closed. If he falls asleep before you even get into the bed… “Did you brush your teeth?”

Those damned dimples appear, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “Yes.”

“Liar. You didn’t step foot in the bathroom.”

He barely moves aside from the effort taken to reply to you. “Toss me the mouthwash?”

Maximum effort. You suppress a laugh, ducking into the bathroom to snag the bottle and your own toothbrush while you’re at it. He hasn’t budged. “Are you going to catch it?”

“Yep.”

“With your eyes closed?”

“Yep.”

Hmm would he move if you beaned him with the bottle? It’s only a little travel bottle, after all. But then if he’s nursing a bruise it certainly won’t get you closer to your goal, no matter how gratifying it might be in this instance. You’re careful with your aim, the release, and then – WHUMP – the mini-bar-sized bottle lands in the sheets next to his hip. Only then does Henry eek one eye open, first noting the location of the bottle, then to squint at you and note your toothbrush salute.

Teeth and mouth pleasantly clean and unfuzzy, you reemerge from the bathroom. The mouthwash sits on the bedside table next to his watch. Oh-Exhausted-One isn’t snoring, but for all appearances he’s out cold. You twist your lip into a momentary scowl, your libido not thanking you for being nice earlier. You huff under your breath, “Maybe I should have aimed a little to the left…”

The corners of Henry’s mouth twitch into a smile. “Mm very glad you didn’t.”

Ah so not sleeping, not yet anyway. He’s just really enjoying the backs of his eyelids. Maybe if you provide him a little incentive he’ll rise to the occasion. You let the sheets fall where they may as you settle into the bed cause if you get your way they’ll get shoved out of the way anyway. Resting on your side, you nudge him, “You could show me how glad…”

Still with his eyes closed, he lifts his eyebrows. “Tomorrow? Doubt I can even lift a finger right now.”

This time the noise you make is a harrumph, though he doesn’t call you on it. You reach across him to turn off his bedside lamp – saving Mister I Can’t Lift A Finger from having to do that, too – and flop back onto your back to enjoy the darkness and try to figure out how to keep from strangling your celebrity boyfriend in his sleep.

It’s just as you’re about to drift off and enjoy sexually frustrating dreams – you’ve come to the conclusion that you can’t kill him cause (a) too many people would miss him and/or notice right off the bat, and (b) you’ve nowhere to hide the body – that you feel the mattress shift indicating He Who Is Too Exhausted To Move has finally found a reserve bit of energy, probably to go to the loo since he hadn’t done so in prep for bed or while at the bar.

Unexpected contact – his hand seeking out the bottom edge of your shirt and skirting over your hipbone and abdomen – makes you blink your eyes open in surprise, and then annoyance. “Oh! Oh, so you can lift a finger.”

“I think, maybe I can…”

Oh yes he can lift a finger. You attempt to twist and push his hand from between your legs. You succeed just as his fingertips divert towards the edge of your panties, and you feel the fabric ruffle and snap back against your skin as he allows his hand to be pulled away from its task. “Henry… Fuck!” Your loosed explicative comes out breathless as you fall back on the bed again, once again sweating and hot in more ways than one.

His chuckle vibrates the bed, “That’s the idea, honey, though that does require more than a finger.”