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just-here-for-the-moment · 3 years

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The Innkeeper's Daughter

Thank you sooooo much to @fandom-blackhole who let me take inspiration from This Ask for the original Anon and This follow-up Ask from me, and let me run wild with the premise of Pero Tovar falling in love with an innkeeper.

This one is for @silverwolf319 who sent me a request for "Ummmm...how about soft, sweet filthiness lol like, filthy dirty talk, but with feelings? Does that make sense?"

Saaaammmmm, I hope this delivers on that! 💜💜💜

Update: Part 2 is here!

Word count: 3200+

Rating: mature, 18+ only

Outline: Pero Tovar x “You” (OC cis/het female reader, “blank canvas”/no physical description/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: mature language; euphemisms; one use of “whorehouse” and “whore”; slow-burn; yearning; one incident of bar violence; Pero Tovar unleashing his desires verbally; lots of dirty talk; kissing; one breast grope; one erection; everyone’s clothes stay on

The first time you saw the grumpy Spaniard smile was a busy Saturday evening. Your father’s inn was full, the barroom filled with groups of raucous and rowdy men singing traveling songs and reminiscing loudly about battles won and women lost. The contrast between the exuberant hordes and the quiet, scowling man was evident to everyone, but they left him alone to brood.

“The Spaniard” had arrived in the early hours of Thursday morning and disappeared into his room immediately, sleeping the day away until supper. He kept to himself in the barroom, taking over a small table in the corner, keeping his back to the wall and his eyes on the other guests. He graced you with eye contact exactly once during Thursday’s supper, nodding at you to indicate his thanks for the ale before tucking his head back down to eat.

You knew from your two decades behind the bar that the quiet ones could sometimes be dangerous. But your father was much more concerned with the inn’s revenue and suppliers, and brushed off your questions with a wave.

“The Spaniard is quiet and doesn’t seem interested in starting trouble. He’s paid for his room in advance for the week. If he wants to be left alone, leave off.”

The Spaniard did not appear on Friday for the midday meal, but he did come back for late supper, repeating Thursday’s pattern exactly; a seat at the small table with his back to the wall, scanning the room from under his brow, a flash of eye contact to you as wordless thanks when you set down his plate and and the ewer of ale. The rest of the customers were settled for the moment, and something made you bolder than you would normally be, choosing to linger and try to break into the hard shell he wore like a cloak.

“Care for anything else? I have honey cakes set aside from the baker if you would like one.”

He grunted, a noise that was neither a yes nor a no. You weren’t sure if you should take offense or be happy that he made noise at all.

“What’s your name?”

He stopped chewing at that, and raised his eyes to yours, holding your gaze with his own deep brown orbs. The scar that ran over one eye was almost delicate, tracing a line from eyebrow to cheek that told a story of pain and must have resulted in him nearly losing the organ. You had seen many men disfigured and maimed by war and by accidents; but his scar was almost beautiful, highlighting his features in a way that made him more handsome, not less.

He swallowed roughly and grunted again. “Tovar.”

“Tovar… is that all?” You smiled wryly, hoping to pull more secrets out of him.

“Pero.” He grunted again, but this time it nearly resembled full speech. “Pero Tovar.”

He tucked his head back down and shoved more food into his mouth. You took that as your cue to go back to the bar. If he was staying all week you could wait until Sunday when things quieted down, spend a few days slowly probing. You got the sense he wasn’t dangerous, at least not to whoever brought him food and ale. You let yourself be distracted serving everyone else, and when you looked for him at the end of the night he was gone. You tried to ignore the little pang of disappointment that bloomed in your chest.

Saturday dawned clear and sunny, and you rose early to do the marketing for the inn and for your little household of two. Your mother had passed many years before, and your father prided himself on running an honorable establishment. You may have spent your formative years behind the bar of the inn, but nobody in the village mistook you for anything save an honest innkeeper’s daughter. The whorehouse was at the other end of town.

You finished your marketing and returned home, planning how to combine fresh eggs with leftover bread and meat for the midday meal. Most guests of the inn came for the late supper, but a few showed up for the midday meal and some companionship. You hoped Tovar would be one of them, but given that he had skipped the midday dinner on both Thursday and Friday, you didn’t dare hope too much.

To your great surprise, Tovar was already in the barroom when you arrived. He was dressed casually in tunic and pants and was standing on a table under the main beam, helping your father reattach the lantern. The chain had been broken for a few weeks, leaving this part of the room dark. Neither you nor your father had made time to obtain a ladder and fix it yet, but apparently for Tovar no ladder was needed. His tall frame was stretched up, arms raised to reach for the chain dangling from the ceiling, and his tunic lifted just enough to show a band of bare skin over his hips. The sight of him nearly made you drop your baskets.

You recovered your senses and looked away, greeting your father as naturally as you could. When you lifted your eyes to greet Tovar, you swore you saw the ghost of a smirk cross his lips. You hurried to the kitchen to prepare the midday meal.

When you dared to return to the bar, your father had gone, and Tovar was seated at his usual table. He lifted his eyes quickly to your face and you found that you could barely speak. Your words emerged in a breathy rush. “Are you hungry? Would you like to eat now?” You cursed your nerves and tried to settle them. Where were the other guests? Why was nobody else coming down to the bar?

Tovar looked at you sternly from under his brows and you suddenly felt like a child, caught for doing something naughty. But his next words made something in your middle turn over, fluttering like a moth.

“No. Sit with me a while.”

You sat. You were not accustomed to taking orders from strange men in your father’s establishment, but you rationalized it by telling yourself that attending to guests was good for the inn’s reputation, and that you would spring up and take care of any other guests as soon as they entered. You ignored the little whisper of lust that was suddenly at the base of your spine, tickling up like a trail of smoke from an extinguished candle.

“Tell me your name, woman.”

His question shocked you, until you realized that you hadn’t yet given it to him, and apparently neither had your father during their repair work. You opened your lips and spoke your own name, and under Tovar’s intense gaze it felt strange and foreign. He repeated it back to you in his sonorous tone, turning the fluttering moths in your center into lightning bolts.

“Are you enjoying your stay with us? Is there anything you need for your room?”

That half-smirk graced his lips for another moment, then passed away so quickly you were almost sure you imagined it. He shook his head, “No.”

You let the silence hang. Why had he asked you to sit with him if he wasn’t going to converse? Your stubborn streak won out over your curiosity and you decided to hold his eyes with your own and wait him out. Seconds stretched into minutes, and the air between you became heated, suffused with something like the vapors that distorted the air above a fire. Your hands grew moist, and you rubbed them across your lap, hoping the apron would absorb both the sweat and your discomfort. Tovar continued to look at you with interest, and the longer he stared the more you felt your face burn.

You broke first, bending your head and taking in a great shuddering gulp of air. Just then a footstep fell on the threshold and you leapt out of your chair and swept into the kitchen. When you calmed yourself and finally emerged, Tovar was gone. You let yourself get entwined in the gossip and the rhythm of your normal serving of guests, listening to the friendly chatter. By the time the bar was clear again, you decided to take yourself up to your room and rest, to conserve your energy for the busy Saturday night crowd. Saturday late supper consisted of cold leftovers and mug after mug of ale. The crowds were usually boisterous but good-natured, and you were looking forward to seeing Tovar again.

When you woke from your nap the sun was kissing the horizon, and you freshened your dress, changing into one of your nicer ones and a fresh bodice, tying a clean apron around your middle. You scrubbed your face with a wet cloth and rearranged your hair. You felt like a maiden heading to the altar, but you weren’t sure why. Nothing that Tovar had said or done so far gave you any indication that he favored you that way. There really was no need to change into clean clothing or present yourself in any special garments. Still… there was that hope, that whisper of lust that had sprung up under his gaze this afternoon. Maybe he would notice your efforts and begin to take an interest.

You entered the bar and began getting ready to serve the Saturday night crowd, handing around ewers of ale and plates of cold buns and cheese. The inn not only had a dedicated stream of locals every Saturday, but it also tended to draw groups of visitors from some of the smaller towns, as well as travelers on the road who needed a room for the night. You tried to keep your eyes on your work, but they kept flitting to the doorway without your permission, seeking any trace of the grumpy Spaniard and flickering the hope in your gut when they didn’t see him. As the barroom filled, you wondered whether he would appear at all. You pushed all hope of seeing him down, stomping on it and trying to keep yourself focused.

You hurried to the kitchen for another round of buns, and when you emerged into the bar he was there, sitting at “his” table and scowling his usual scowl. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, and you felt your face heat with desire. When Tovar saw you his face opened, and the first genuine smile you had ever seen painted his lips. The rest of the raucous room fell away, and you zipped straight to his table, depositing the plate of buns that had been intended for someone else.

“Hello Pero.” You bit your lip, never having addressed him with his name before. Was it too forward?

“Hello, mi-” he stopped himself, then said your name, almost reluctantly. Had he forgotten it in the few hours since you had seen each other last?

You smiled tightly, a little less warmly than before. Icy flakes swept over your girlish crush and your ardor cooled. If he had already forgotten your name, he must not be interested. “Ale?”

He nodded. “Yes… if you please.”

Your thin layer of ice melted. A “please” from this man was like high praise from anyone else. You nodded and went to the bar, filling an ewer and a mug, and delivering both to his table. You wanted to linger, but calls from the other side of the room interrupted any notion of getting to spend more time with Tovar.

You nodded once at him and departed, taking care of the other guests and helping your father lug another barrel of ale from the back. Every time you dared glance at Tovar he was watching you, gentle interest and curiosity issuing from his eyes, instead of the menacing scowl he had sported when he first arrived. You tried to focus on your usual tasks, letting the rowdy laughter of the bar patrons wash over you, but you could feel Pero’s eyes on you, and you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at him again and again, far too often. Your distraction was probably the reason that disaster struck.

Your eyes were again on Pero as you made your way across the room, and your toe caught the edge of someone’s foot, causing you to stumble and spill a mug of ale all over a large man. He bellowed in anger. You saw that he was a stranger, and as he unfolded himself from his chair and stood up, you could see that he was twice as broad as you and nearly two heads taller. The ale soaked his tunic and dripped onto the floor.

Before you could open your mouth to apologize, the man raised his hand to strike you. Suddenly his furious face crumpled into pain. He fell to his knees in front of you, the raised arm now twisted behind his back. As his knees hit the floor, Pero’s face materialized behind the man’s shoulder. Pero’s trademark scowl was directed at the back of the man’s head as he hissed instructions to the stranger.

“Apologize to the woman.”

The man spit out a curse and then refused. “She’s a whore!” Another wail of pain issued from his open mouth as Pero twisted his arm up and back.

He leaned down and spoke into the man’s ear, so low that you almost couldn’t hear it. “Apologize.”

The man dropped his head to his chest and whined out a stream of words that included several “sorrys” and “my mistakes”. You looked at him, eyes still wide with shock, mouth frozen into a grimace. Pero looked at you and then gave the man’s arm one final shove. A sickening crack met your ears and the man groaned as he fell forward onto his face.

“Now leave! And do not come back.” The man and his companions scrambled to the exit, and the rest of the customers murmured to themselves as they returned to their own drinks and gossip.

“Mi alma, are you alright?” Pero reached his hand out to you and you shook your head, tears springing to your eyes.

You spun on your heel and ran out of the bar, turning to flee to the back hallway, hands shaking. You pressed your back to the wall and then bent over at the waist, trying to catch your breath. You had seen bar fights before, and broken up a handful when they happened here and there, but you had never seen violence like that up close. You had never seen such hatred on a man’s face as the anger that had colored Pero’s features. You had the sense that Pero would have gladly killed the man and not had a second of remorse.

You heard a foot scrape the floor and you shot upright. Pero was at the end of the hall, eyes flickering in the light from the lone candle on the table. He put both hands out to you, palms facing you in a gesture of openness, approaching one slow step at a time.

“I am sorry. I am sorry.” His voice was low and calm. “Please forgive me.”

“No,” your own voice sounded high and panicked to your ears. “Stop. Don’t hurt me.”

Pero’s face crumpled and he halted his approach. “Hurt you? No, never. I would never hurt you. Please believe me.” He took another step toward you.

“But that man- You, you broke-”

Pero interrupted your awful cry. “Ssshhh, no. No, mi alma. That was not a man. He was a beast. I made him apologize and leave.”

Pero took another step, closing the distance between you to one stride. You were surprised to see tears in the corners of his eyes as well.

“I thought I was saving you, mi alma. Protecting you.”

“You did, you protected me, but- How were you so fast? And why do you keep calling me ‘mi alma’?”

Pero closed the final distance between you and reached his hands out to hold both of yours. He stepped close, and you had to tilt your head back to look into his eyes.

“I love you. You have enchanted me. ‘Mi alma’ means my soul. It means you have my love and my heart.” He looked deep into your eyes. “... and my body, if you so desire.”

He inclined his head and his lips met yours. You felt your head spin, heart pulsing through every vein, pounding in your ears as you let yourself be kissed, over and over again. You had kissed boys before, and even one young man in the village, but this was like being kissed for the first time anew. Pero kissed you with passion, with intent.

His hands gripped your waist and held you to him as your fingers entwined themselves up into his neck and the hair at the back of his neck. Pero broke the kiss and leaned toward your ear. His voice was low and gravelly, striking something in your core and sending sparks to your throat.

“I fell in love with you today. When I caught you looking at me as I changed the lantern. When you sat with me and met my eyes with your own and you didn’t shy away. When I saw that you had changed into a new dress, had made yourself pretty just for me.”

Your breath left your lungs in a huff, and the only sound you could make was a low hum.

Pero continued whispering words and warm breath across your ear, sending shivers down your neck, making your nipples harden with desire.

“I will take care of you, mi alma. Let me take you to bed and show you everything that you need to know. Let me show you how to make love to a man, to please him. How to take a husband and take your own pleasure, too.”

“Ohh…” You hardly recognized your voice as your own, and before you could say more, Pero kissed you again, opening your mouth and slipping his tongue inside. He pressed his hips against you, pinning you to the wall. You could feel his hardness against your hip; but instead of scaring you or making you feel ashamed, it stoked the fire in you from a flame to an explosion.

You kissed Pero back, as hard and as eager as he had kissed you. And then you did something you never would have imagined: you reached behind your waist and grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand up to cup around your breast. He squeezed and thrust his tongue into your mouth, swallowing your moans and squeaks.

He broke the kiss again to suck and nip at your cheek, your jaw, your neck. Every kiss inflamed you further, and you pressed your hips against his, rubbing from side to side to feel his hardness through the layers of your skirts.

“Let me take you to bed, mi alma. Let me make love with you.” Pero’s voice dropped to a low rumble. You could barely hear him above the thrum of your own heartbeat, but the words sent a new rush of something hot and wet to your private area.

“Let me kiss you between your legs, to taste you. Let me show you everything I know. Let me have you, and you may have me… all of me. Let me love you, mi alma.”

Your mouth opened and you spoke the only true answer to his request.

“Yes, Pero. Please.” --- Just-here-for-the-moment’s masterlist

My “all fics” tag list:

@anaaaispunk @justanotherblonde23 @gracie7209 @nicolethered @honestly-shite @driedgreentomatoes @dihra-vesa @1800-fight-me @the-queen-of-fools @juletheghoul

@kesskirata @honeymandos @silverwolf319 @mourningbirds1 @greeneyedblondie44 @spacedilf @maxwell–lord @anxiousandboujee @cevvie @quica-quica-quica @sherala007 @writeforfandoms @libellule2001

#Pero Tovar x reader #Pero Tovar x you #pero tovar x fem!reader #The great wall fic #the great wall fanfiction #Pero Tovar fic #Pero Tovar fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #Pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal characters

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lorna-d-m · 3 years

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Lights Out: Chapter Seven

Summary: Roxanne, recently graduated and unemployed, gets a call from her childhood friend and hero: her cousin James hunt. In need of a social media manager after one too many scandals, he can think of no one better than Roxanne for the position. Excited about a fun job and getting to know more about her cousin, she jumps at the chance. However, amongst all the bright lights of both the circuit and the media, Roxanne falls in love with his rival: Niki Lauda.

Pairing: Niki Lauda (Rush 2013) x fem!OC Roxanne Hunt

Word Count: 4,472

CW: language, alcohol, explicit sexual content (fingering and vaginal sex)

A/N: If y'all hadn't figured out this is going to be a longer fic so buckle up. I'm moving into my dorm on Friday so I'll be getting busy soon as classes start, but I am fully dedicated to this story. As always, any mistakes are my own, check out the race reports, and let me know if you want to be added to the taglist! Also I keep diverging a bit from my original plans for a chapter, not majorly, but enough to disregard the outline sometimes

Previous chapter

July 2020

With half the season completed, Roxanne felt the tensions of her position more acutely. She loved her job- nothing gave her more joy than seeing people react to the latest video or interacting with James’s fans- but her personal connections conflicted. James did not do well in either Belgium or Sweden. Transmission issues and brake problems forced him to retire early in both races. His earlier podium was all but forgotten in a seemingly endless string of disappointments. Hell, he hadn’t finished a race since Brazil in April.

Unsurprisingly, his mood took a turn for the worse. James’s ever-present optimism faded as each race week saw him further and further back in the championship. He hid it well by smiling and being as affable as expected, but he leaned heavily upon his vices: Drinking, partying, sleeping around, and smoking when his trainer wasn’t around. Roxanne tried to help him the best she could, but at the end of the day, she couldn’t solve his problems. All she could do was make him laugh now and again and listen to him when he needed someone to talk to.

Niki, by contrast, did exceptionally well. Monaco saw him take third in the championship, Belgium leapfrogged him into first, and Sweden further secured his lead. Finally, all the hard work by himself and the team started to pay off. He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but Niki kept his eye on the championship and knew he could win. Zandvoort would be a possibility to strengthen himself and Ferrari in the points.

Additionally, when Roxanne asked Niki why he seemed to smile more he admitted “I have a huge point lead in the championship and I’m seeing a wonderful woman. What more could I ask for?”. Balancing his work life and his personal life was a monumental task, but Roxanne understood. As much focus, effort, and energy Niki poured into a race week, she put the same into her work. They quickly settled into a pattern of seeing each other before or after the race- going out on dates or being together in someone’s hotel room-, and having little contact at the circuit itself. Sure they saw each other there, James and Niki were friends so they were often nearby, but they played it cool.

Roxanne thought of telling James about her and Niki just so she could have a friend and confidant, but she chickened out every time. What if it angered James? What if he made them break up? Or what if it broke some stupid rule since they were on different teams? Or what if they broke up; would it strain James and Niki’s friendship? Roxanne decided it was better to keep it to herself for the time being. Besides, they’d only been together for a few months now. That hardly justified opening a new can of worms and potentially ruining everything.

Zandvoort Circuit, Netherlands

Thursday, July 2nd. 2020

Every morning Niki waited for Roxanne's good morning text. During race week it was one of the few times he would hear from her as they were both caught up in their activities and exhausted in the evening. He could also count on a goodnight text from her, usually accompanied by a snoring emoji as she teased him endlessly.

Schatz: Good morning!☀️ Are you worried about the curse? 🎥🏎 😱

Niki: Good morning, Schatz. If you think I’m afraid the Netflix doc crew will somehow fuck up my weekend, think again, my dear.

It became a joke amongst the paddock that if the film crew followed a team or a driver for the week then they were guaranteed to fuck up. They never knew how or why, but once the camera focused on them everything went awry. Last season when the documentary filmed the Ferrari episode they caught Niki crashing in Germany after attempting to pass Scheckter on the first lap. Netflix had plenty of footage alright, by the time they included the crash, the safety car, pulling his car out of the wall, the replays, and the reaction, Niki figured they could make a whole damn episode out of it.

Schatz: You say that now…

Schatz: I hope they don’t, but if they do, can I say I told you so?

He snorted. Of course, she would ask that. Roxanne loved to get the upper hand on him when she could, and truthfully he didn’t mind.

Niki: Naturally, and if my weekend goes well then I’ll get to say I told you so.

On his morning track walk, Niki thought about the last time he was at the circuit. He started from pole and won, and he hoped to do so again. The first corner, a wicked hairpin coming off the starting straight, provided easy overtaking on both the outside and the inside, so Niki would need to be on the defense if he started from pole again. He also paid close attention to the penultimate and final turns, knowing the drivers would back up traffic on the warm-up lap before launching into a flying lap. As much as it pissed him off every time, he understood.

“Niki, are you hoping for a repeat performance of last year?” All morning the Netflix crew followed him around, sat in for meetings, and occasionally asked questions. It was all part of the job, he reminded himself. Sometimes he pretended they weren’t there as he worked so he could concentrate, and other times he pandered to them.

“Another twenty-five points would certainly be nice, but I don’t put any more pressure on this race just because I’ve done well here before. Every race is an opportunity to score points, and putting more stress on one race than another is a very slippery slope.”

***

“Let’s start with our championship leader. Niki, how do you feel going into this race? This must be an important one for you and your winning streak.”

Niki sat next to Scheckter as they did their Thursday press conferences. His legs were spread out in the chair, and his foot slowly tapped on the floor.

“Well, I’m bored of answering that, for certain.” His trademark bluntness either earned laughs or stares. On this occasion, it earned some scattered snickers from across the room. “Otherwise, I feel good, the car feels good, and we’ll see how we do on track here this weekend.”

***

Niki: So far the only curse is the endless attention. Otherwise, I think I’d come visit you. Goodnight Schatz.

Roxanne: What a shame. If only someone had said there was a curse 😉… Goodnight Niki 😴💤

Friday, July 3rd. 2020

After hastily snubbing out his cigarette, James walked back into the garage and got ready for practice. He dumped everything still in his pockets into Roxanne’s lap and put on his gear. Roxanne watched, knowing he needed a good weekend to lift his spirits, and hoped this would be it. He put together a few laps before reporting mechanical issues on the team radio. Frustrated, James pulled back into the pits.

He crossed his arms and stood next to her as he watched the team work and the time tick down.

“At least it happened now rather than in the race.” Roxanne was always unsure what to say when he had mechanical issues. She improved her knowledge about cars, but she didn’t know jack shit about how to fix it compared to his technicians and mechanics.

“I wish this shit didn’t happen at all. I can’t race if I don’t have a car that can fucking drive.”

“You’re a great driver, James. When you get your car straightened out they’ll see that. Shit, I mean they saw that in Argentina, remember?”

“I remember, and you remember,” he pointed at her, “but no one else does. They have short memories, and with King Rat” James mimicking Niki’s bite “set to get his fourth win in a row, I'm no one.”

“Don’t say that.” Roxanne wanted to tell him to knock off the mocking while she was at it, but she knew it wasn’t what he wanted or needed to hear at the moment. “You’re James fucking Hunt. Formula 1 driver, six-time podium finisher, and an amazing goddamn racer. Your time is coming.”

He regarded her with surprise, smiling honestly for the first time that day. “You’re right, I’m James fucking Hunt, an amazing fucking driver, and my time is coming.”

Saturday, July 4th, 2020

Niki: Good morning Schatz. So did James give you the day off or is another American Revolution coming?

Schatz: Ha ha Niki. 😐You know I was still raised by Brits, right? So celebrating wasn’t really the norm?

Niki: I know, but I couldn’t resist. 😉

He felt ready for qualifying. The practice sessions went great for Niki: he and Clay dominated the three sessions, finding those milliseconds they needed and testing the limits of the track. There was always a way to improve, and he was eager to find it on the track.

Q1 and Q2 passed without issue. Niki had the second and the third fastest times, but he wasn’t concerned. It was certainly enough to see him into the next section, and enough to keep him from being bumped. He laid out a good lap at the beginning of Q3 and went back to the pits to wait. In the last two minutes or so Niki would bite the bullet and leave the pits for his warm-up lap.

Clay left the garage first, and Niki followed. They went down the pit straight, and James came up behind Niki. In his mirrors, he could see Hunt’s Hesketh hungry for a chance to prove itself. Niki tore his eyes away from James behind him and focused on the track ahead of him. The tyres were his main worry in the warm-up lap; he worked to warm them up for more grip before going for a fast lap.

The first and the third turns were the sharpest, and he followed the racing line to hit the apex just as he needed to. He made sure to protect his tyres at the beginning of the lap so they’d maintain their grip throughout the stint. Niki completed the rest of the lap, going slightly wider than he wanted at one point, but reminding himself that the perfect lap doesn’t exist. It is strived for.

“That is P1, Niki, P1”

“And what was Clay’s time?”

“Clay is P2, and James Hunt is P3.”

P3? James did look hungry. He must have put together quite the lap.

***

Roxanne cheered with the rest of the garage. She had never seen James so determined or focused before he got in the car, and it paid off. He was P3, right behind the Ferraris, and ahead of Jody Scheckter.

“Open the channel, I want to talk to him!” Her headset came with a microphone, but she never used it until now. “That’s P bloody Three, James! P3!” Unintelligible yelling blasted into her ear, but Roxanne knew he was thrilled beyond belief. “I’m so proud of you!”

Sunday, July 5th. 2020

The booming thunder woke Niki before his alarm could take the chance. He groaned into the pillow cursing the rain and the loss of valuable sleep. After coming to terms with the fact that he wouldn’t fall back asleep and it was indeed storming, Niki grabbed his phone to check the radar. Dark, heavy storm clouds covered the entire area, guaranteeing a wet start to the race.

Niki: Good morning Schatz. Don’t forget your umbrella today. ☔

Another clap of thunder shook the window frame and a flash of lightning lit up the room.

Niki: And your boots, coat, and a prayer that this lightens. 😐

***

All the drivers, all the mechanics, all the teams, and all the fans were waiting. Ominous storm clouds hovered overhead, and the steady rain continued. Most of the thunder and lightning stopped, so the teams pressured the race controllers to let them start. They bickered back and forth, which allowed the foreboding clouds to move.

“And it looks like the drivers will be going for their formation lap minutes from now.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised to see some wet tyres out there, or even some intermediates as the conditions have changed slightly.”

“Well, with the wet conditions the drivers have free choice for what they want to start on.” The camera settled on the bright red Ferraris at the front of the grid, waiting for the formation lap. “It seems like Niki Lauda and Clay Regazzoni have chosen to go on intermediates as they suspect the track is still a bit wet.”

“It’s really a gamble out there right now. After the formation lap, the drivers can choose to pit for different tyres if they choose, but they must make that decision themselves, and they will start from that position.”

“I think we could see some of the drivers changing as they feel out the track. I just know this will be an interesting start for the race.”

Roxanne brimmed with anxiety. The start of a race was enough to make her feet tap nervously and her chest tighten with fear, but a wet start amplified that. A wet start meant they could easily fuck up their start, lock up on the turn, lose grip, and slide, and with all the drivers bunched together as they tore into the first turn, the potential for calamity was much higher. True, the conditions were much improved by the delay, but that did little to assuage her worries.

Niki led well off the line, but further back in the field two drivers collided with each other after a horrible start. James, meanwhile, decided to switch tyres soon after the start. This cause a panicked flurry in the Hesketh garage to get everything ready for their incoming driver. He wanted slick tyres now that the track dried up, and they executed the stop flawlessly. Storming out of the pit, he hungered to take back his position.

Fifteen laps into the race, James Hunt took the lead from Niki Lauda. Roxanne knew Niki fucked up with the intermediate tyres, and she knew James made a good call to switch, but seeing James overtake Niki ripped her apart.

The team cheered, eyes wide, yelling and screaming, jumping up and down, shaking each other, and Roxanne couldn’t hide her shocked expression. She lucked out that shock was an acceptable reaction at the moment. Roxanne wanted to throw up as the tension inside boiled over. The cousin, best friend, and employee of James Hunt rejoiced. He went through so much and so desperately wanted to prove himself. The girlfriend and lover of Niki Lauda wanted to cry. He worked so hard to earn his place in the championship.

Niki pitted soon after that for hard, slick tyres. Hunting for Hunt was his only option. The Ferrari had the pace to charge the field and Niki had the skill to overtake while avoiding a collision. Seeing Niki weave his way through the competition was a sight to see. Recently, he took pole position and led the race in a straightforward manner. Now, he attacked with all the elegance of a fencer. Precise, calculated, and quick.

For the last twenty laps of the race, Niki rode James’s ass. The Ferrari had more speed on the slow corners and overtook James, but once they reached a straight or a fast corner James retook the position. Back and forth, back and forth, Niki pulled ahead for James to slide ahead of him on the next turn. On the final lap, James crossed the finish line a full second ahead of Niki. \

***

After the champagne bottles, victory wreaths, hundreds of pictures, and dozens of autographs, Clay, Niki, and James sat down for the post-race press conference. They sat as they stood on the podium: James in the center with Niki on his right and Clay on his left. The clicking of cameras and the buzzing of activity filled the room. Niki scanned the crowd, searching for Roxanne, and found her standing off to the side. He smiled without thinking, just glad to have spotted her.

“Niki, second. That was awfully close for quite a number of laps. Did you think you were ever going to get past James there?”

He looked away from Roxanne and turned back to the interviewer. “Of course, with that many laps left and with the Ferrari car I was certain I could get past James here,” Niki casually gestured to James, “but he never cracked under the pressure. Obviously, he had more speed on the straights and the high-speed corners, but I nearly had him on the slower corners.”

“Nearly?” James chuckled. “I thought you had me once there on turn seven when you edged ahead of me.”

Niki grinned ruefully. “Not quite enough it would seem.”

“And James Hunt, race winner at last. What does it feel like?”

“What a moment! I thought this guy here would take it from me a few times,” now it was James’s time to motion to Niki. “We’ve had a shitty season so far, so taking the win today feels very good.”

“So tonight? It’s going to be a big night for you. Can we count on a classic James Hunt celebration, or have things changed?”

The whole room laughed at that, none more so than perhaps James. “Clearly some things and situations have changed,” with his allusion to Roxanne’s management, Niki couldn’t help but steal another glance at her. She stood near the wall, arms crossed in front of her uniformed shirt, and smirking. “But, I think some celebrations are in order.”

***

Celebrations would prove to be an understatement in Roxanne’s mind. James planned a huge night out for a bunch of the drivers and anyone they wanted at this club he loved nearby. He practically begged her to go party with them since she was so crucial for his victory.

“Please, if you hadn’t told me to buck up on Friday I never would have made this weekend mine.”

She couldn’t ignore the pleading glimmer in his eyes or the sincerity of his tone, so after sweating it out in the garage all afternoon Roxanne dolled herself up. A blue dress, one that complimented her eyes and received compliments every time she wore it, sat in her suitcase that might suit the occasion. Her sweat-drenched hair was easily tamed into a new style, up and away from her face, and after digging through her makeup bag and accessories she decided she was ready for the night.

Having never been to a Formula 1 drivers’ party she didn’t know what to expect, but she could count on one thing. They would spend obscene amounts of money. Many of them arrived in whatever fancy cars that drove that weekend, filling up the valet parking with their Aston Martins, McLarens, and most notably to her, their Ferraris. Inside the bright lights and erratic music, James arranged for a sectioned area and bottle service.

“Oh so you can party, but you have to bring your babysitter!” Jody Scheckter easily found James and teased him.

“Baby sitter?” James scoffed. “Just you wait, she’s a bigger partier than you and me combined!” He cast a teasing glance at Roxanne, knowing she preferred an evening alone but only came for him.

“Really?” Jody looked Roxanne and her blue dress up and down. “Then how about a dance, huh?”

“Oh,” her lips pinched together. “I have a boyfriend.” She worried that it sounded harsh, so she added, “thank you though.” James gave her a look as if to say “so your friend graduated to boyfriend?”

“You’re not trying to get with James here, are you? Because that whole assistant crushing on the boss thing is played out.”

Roxanne appeared mortified while James roared with laughter again. “Have you already had enough to drink, Jody, or not enough? Because that’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve said yet.”

***

Niki sat in the roped-off area with some of the guys with a glass of champagne in hand. He thought about asking Roxanne, who was at the bar ordering some overcomplicated fruity drink no doubt, to dance with him. It was a busy and crowded club, so as long as they moved out of view from Hunt, Scheckter, Andretti, and the rest of them it should be alright.

James had some lucky girl he picked up for the night sitting across his lap, and turned away from her chest pressed close to his face to talk to Niki.

“What ever happened to you and Marlene?” Marlene? Niki hadn’t thought of her in months. “I feel like I haven’t seen her at the track at all this year.”

Niki opened his mouth in shock. “And what happened to you and Suzy? I haven’t seen the two of you together since Argentina.”

“She’s focusing on her work, and I’m focusing on mine,” James answered. At that moment he was focusing on the way the woman on his lap wiggled.

Niki sighed. “We broke up shortly before the winter break. She said I was too much of an asshole while racing, and I said I wouldn’t stop, so here I am.” Niki’s life depended on racing, and if his girlfriend couldn’t be supportive then he didn’t need one.

James scoffed. “You, an asshole? Unbelievable.” Niki rolled his eyes and flipped James off before taking another sip of his drink. “Ah well.” James raised his cup to meet Niki’s. “Someday you’ll find someone who can overlook your rat teeth, blunt attitude, and general asshole-ness.”

That’s the problem, he thought. I found someone. Roxanne stood by the bar, ridiculous pink drink in hand, surveying the scene. Niki couldn’t take his eyes off her and the way the blue dress hugged her figure, showcasing every asset she possessed. He wanted to run his hands along the smooth fabric, dip his fingers under the blue satin, and hold her close. Niki shifted in his seat when his pants grew tighter.

***

Roxanne swayed to the music, singing along to one of her favorite songs. Who could resist ABBA? She spotted Niki across the dance floor, his eyes glowing in the dark, and winked at him. He worked his way across the room, passing dancing and grinding couples until he reached her. Niki cast one more glance over his shoulder at James before embracing her. Emboldened by the song and his hold on her waist, Roxanne danced against him.

Voulez Vous, aha. Take it now or leave it. Now is all we get. Nothing promised, no regrets.

That was the question on the tip of her tongue. She felt his excitement pressed against her thigh, and asked him. “Do you want?”

God did he want to. Niki pulled her away from the dance floor, one hand still gripping her waist tight making her grin. He found the swanky club bathroom decked out with mirrors and gold finishing, and his lips found hers. Sloppy and messy, her bright pink lipstick smeared onto his mouth and he could taste the strawberry and rum from her drink.

Roxanne let out a squeak when he suddenly gripped the back of her thighs and lifted her onto the counter, her back to the mirror. Her legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him closer and grinding at him over his slacks. One of his hands slid up her thigh and traced the edge of her black lace thong before moving it aside.

“God, I missed you, baby,” she rasped. With his unoccupied hand, he pushed the flimsy straps of her dress off her shoulder, tearing one with the force of his hand. The top of her dress slipped down, exposing the fact that she hadn’t worn a strapless bra that night, only pasties to cover her nipples.

Niki didn’t say anything, but he let his mouth do the talking. Each kiss, lick, and nibble told her that he missed her too. His hand between her thighs warmed and slicked her up, and when his thumb grazed her clit she tipped her head back and moaned. He smirked against her neck. She unbuckled his pants and pushed them down a bit, exposing his hardening dick. Roxanne wrapped her fingers around him, giving him a quick stroke that made him groan in pleasure.

Her free hand found his cheek and ran her fingers along his jaw, appreciating his offset bite when he tried to focus. He brought her close to the peak of pleasure, feeling her squirm under him every time he brushed that spot and decided she was ready. Niki pushed himself in quickly and deeply, needing to feel completely enveloped by her touch. Feeling so pent up from his fingers, it didn’t take long for her to adjust and only seconds later he started rocking into her.

The bass from the music vibrated the walls, and their combined moans and slapping of skin filled the room. Her thong was still pushed to the side as he hadn’t taken the time or hassle to remove it. She pulled him closer, needing to feel him against her, and he snaked his hand between them to find her clit.

Having had her climax denied earlier, she quickly found herself at the edge again. Roxanne gripped his shoulders and clenched tight around him. She saw stars when she came, and he kept thrusting into her, searching for his high now that he made her come. Sweat dripped from his forehead and their skin stuck together, but neither one minded. After a few more deep pumps into her, Niki grunted hard and let out a long exhale. She stroked his hair, calming him down from the passionate moment.

When he caught his breath he slowly pulled out of her and tucked himself back into his boxers. She examined the broken dress strap and realized she had no way to fix it there.

“Sorry. I can buy you a new dress if you want,” he offered upon seeing her frown.

“Oh, Niki that’s not it. I was thinking about how I’ll have to hold the top up as I slip out of here.”

“Slip out of here? I thought you would want to stay a bit longer.”

She laughed at the thought. “Sure, with my dress strap broken, my lipstick smeared to hell, and your cum dripping out of me, yes I wanted to stay.”

“Ah.” Niki hadn’t realized how much of a mess he made of her when he thought she still looked so beautiful. “I can take you back to the hotel,” he offered.

Roxanne looked at him hopefully. “Will you spend the night?”

“All you had to do was ask, Schatz.” He kissed her again, relishing the hint of strawberry still on her tongue.

Next chapter

Tag list: @apparrio @scuttle-buttle @lieutenantn @fictionlandslanddreams @danielbruhlswife @livvyshmiv

#daniel brühl #niki lauda #rush 2013 #niki lauda rush 2013 #daniel brühl niki lauda #niki lauda fanfiction #daniel bruhl niki lauda #rush 2013 fanfic

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isolaradiale · 2 years

Text

SUBSISTENCE PREPARATORY PHASE

Happy Thursday, everyone!

Subsistence, the sequel to the Subversion event, will begin on Friday, April 15th. However the next two weeks will be set aside for preparatory work in relation to your character's AU version, whether you participated in the original event or didn't. Of course, this stage is entirely optional and will not amount to any participation.

For those that weren't around for the original event, which ran in 2019 and was rerun at the end of last year, you can find it here:

PART I

PART II

CONCLUSION

What will mostly be relevant going into Subsistence will be the existence of these alternative selves that grew up on the island believing it was their home, and the fact that they were mostly sent to another space to save them in part 2.

Now, what needs to be prepared? As a reminder this is all optional, but it would depend on what you've done and what you would like to do. Making a post with all of the information about your character's alternate self using the tag "#subsistence prep" with any pertinent information might help you network for what's to come!

IF YOU DID NOT PARTICIPATE IN THE ORIGINAL EVENT:

If your character didn't participate in the event or you weren't in the group, you may feel free to create an AU self for your character that believes they grew up on the island as outlined in part 1, following those guidelines. Your character will have never met their alternate self, but they will have a chance to meet in Subsistence. You can also plan to have these AU selves know the AU selves of other characters, just make sure you discuss it with the other party first!

IF YOU DID PARTICIPATE IN THE EVENT AND WOULD LIKE TO CHANGE THE ALTERNATE SELF'S BACKGROUND:

Feel free! If you have a different vision for the AU version now than you did when you participated in the event during either run, feel free to adjust that accordingly. So long as it still fits within the guidelines we set out in the first place, you can make any adjustments you'd like! This include changing their relationships with other AU characters, and having them sealed away if you opted to kill them at the original event's end.

ONCE YOU'RE SATISFIED WITH WHAT YOUR CHARACTER'S AU SELF WOULD HAVE BEEN LIKE BY THE END OF SUBVERSION'S TIMELINE:

Think to the future. Ten years into the future while remembering what sent them there in the first place. What would your character be like ten years after being sent to that other space, that perfect replica of Spirale where life continued on peacefully after that event? What do they look like now? What do they do? Of course you could say that they've already passed on, but then they wouldn't be around for the event! But that is absolutely your choice! Including a blurb about this on your post if you choose to make one would likely be helpful!

Unfortunately we cannot share any context nor plot details as of right now, and so we cannot explain why this information is necessary. If you'd rather wait until part 1 is out to make that post, feel free! We just figured we would present you with this two weeks so that you didn't have to rush around last minute to put any of this stuff together.

If you have any questions about what you can or cannot do over the next two weeks, just drop us an ask and we'll give you a reply ASAP. We'll be using the tag "#event faq: subsistence prep" for any answers we give!

- the island stars.

#modnote #isola event: subsistence prep

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writtenonreceipts · 3 years

Note

I saw this prompt for feysand and i would love to see your take on it - I get stuck with a late class that doesn’t end until 9pm and I’m always anxious about walking across the campus to the dorms, so you offer to walk with me and one night, I find out that it’s in the exact opposite direction that you need to go in

I've really been enjoying your writing!!❤

AN: I took it and ran, and ran, and kept running. Thank-you so, SO much for sending it my way! This was a great prompt that had fun with. I’m glad you’ve been liking my stuff, it means a lot! ~5.5kwords

TW: Brief talk about death, anxiety, depression, fear.

Worth It

Seated at a canvas with paints or pencils in hand, Feyre was unstoppable. She could create landscapes with ease or depict a simple still life and turn it into something far greater. Art was where she lived.

Not in a basement classroom learning about Prythian history.

There wasn’t anything wrong with history, especially when it was as rich and vibrant as Prythia. But talking about wars, treaties, and assassinations could only be discussed for so long.

Of course, it didn’t help that Feyre was dyslexic, but she didn’t talk about that.

She glanced around the room, trying to see if anyone else was as bored as she was. It was the first day of class and she was the only one not taking extensive notes. Well, she and a guy at the front of the room. All Feyre could see was the back of his head. His hair was dark as midnight and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up as he sat at his desk. He didn’t even have a textbook with him.

Feyre forced herself to pay attention as the Professor finally shut down the slide show presentation.

“Make sure you look of the syllabus,” Dr. Wesson addressed the class. She was a small woman with rich brown hair and a plain green dress. “It outlines the schedule of tests and essays. None of the dates will be altered. My TA will be at your disposal.”

Dr. Wesson nodded to the guy with the black hair and gestured for him to stand up.

And just like that, the class was the most fascinating thing in the world.

He was tall, taller than he’d originally appeared. His warmly tanned skin made his violet blue eyes bright and eager. A sly sort of smile traced his mouth as he observed the class.

“Call me Rhysand,” he said, “I’m working on my masters specifically in the historical aspect of how literature was shaped by wars in the land. I’m always glad to help with your questions. Just make sure you email me to set something up.”

The girls next to Feyre whispered to each other, exchanging significant looks. Feyre exchanged a significant look with the amount of reading and writing that was required.

Hell. It was going to be a long semester.

The class dismissed right at nine o’clock, much to Feyre’s relief. While most of the students flocked to the front of the room to either gawk at the TA or further discuss issues with the Professor, Feyre left the class. Already she could feel her dread pooling into anxiety. Her heart rate quickened and the muscles in her left hand twitched.

She just needed to get home and sit down with a canvas and paint.

As soon as she made it outside the Humanities Building however, the dread continued to tug at Feyre. It was far too dark. With far fewer lights than she’d expected for a college campus. Or maybe it was because there was a thick layer of clouds sagging down and threatening rain.

“Feyre!”

Snapping to attention, Feyre clutched her bag to her chest and found the source of her name.

Her friend, and roommate, Alis waved at her from a path diverging deeper on to campus. Her dark hair hung in waves down her back and the jacket she wore was flattering against her curves.

Feyre let out a long, releieved breath and plastered a smile on her face. Quickly, she moved toward her friend.

“Hey,” Feyre greeted and accepted a hug from the smaller girl. “What are you doing here?”

“I know you had a late class,” Alis explained, “and I knew it was with Wesson. I heard the woman is miserable. So intense. But--I mean--you’re going to do great. Your always so creative with everything I’m sure she’ll love you. Anyway, I was finishing up buying my books for the semester and thought I’d meet up with you.”

Feyre smiled as Alis spoke, grateful for the small distraction. Even if it was slightly horrific in thinking about trying to get on a professor’s good-side.

“Thanks,” Feyre said, “I appreciate it. It was a bit intimidating.”

“I think everyone just likes making freshman miserable,” Alis said. Alis was technically a junior, but had changed her major four times and couldn’t decide on a minor. She was not on track to graduate when she’d originally thought, but wasn’t at all concerned.

Feyre wished she could be more like that than the raging mess she felt she was.

Behind them, leaving the Humanities Building, the TA appeared leading an entire gaggle of girls.

“Let’s go,” Feyre muttered. “I’m exhausted.”

By the third week of the semester Feyre came to better understand her relationship with exhaustion. And it was not a good one.

She was fairly certain her body consisted of ninety percent caffeinated beverages and ten percent hot pockets. She’d never been one for eating much. Growing up had always been a struggle in keeping food in the fridge and a decent pair of shoes on her feet. Feyre knew by now how her body functioned.

It wasn’t healthy, not in the slightest. And there was a part of her that recognized that. And another part that ignored it.

Two nights a week, Feyre found herself stuffed in the basement with little enjoyment. Other than getting to stare and Rhysand when Dr. Wesson turned the class over to him for brief instruction.

And looking at him was enjoyment. He was far different from any other guy Feyre had encountered. His hair was kept neat and short sweeping easily back out of his face, a charming smile, and warm brown skin. Not to mention the tattoos.

Feyre had never really considered tattoos as being attractive. Perhaps it was the artistic side of her that couldn’t get enough of them. On him at least. The way the black in swirled on his skin and swept up his arms. It was a shame he never wore short sleeves or unbuttoned one extra cutton at his collar.

Hell.

Mentally shaking herself, Feyre forced herself to pay attention.

Rhysand was discussing scores from the test last week. And, to put it mildly, was not impressed. Oh, there was plenty of good to say. Some of the students were engaged in the topics at hand. Some of the students displayed an obvious grasp of complicated topics. Others did not.

Feyre found herself sinking deeper into her seat by the end of class.

He hadn’t called her out by name, but truly--it felt like he had.

“That’s it for today, enjoy the weekend,” Rhysand called out at the tick of nine, “and remember essay proposals are due by the start of class on Tuesday.”

There was a quick rustle of the students getting up and gathering their things. It was a glorious Thursday evening and Feyre had somehow managed to keep her Friday’s clear of classes. At least something had gone right.

“Feyre?” She whipped around to meet those stark violet eyes. Hell. “I needed to talk to you about the questions you had on the proposal assignment.”

Feyre bristled. And not just because some of the girls shot her angry looks for being singled out by the hot TA. She hadn’t asked any questions. She was just trying to skate by on this class and be done with her prerequisites so she could get into her Art Major.

She set her bag on the floor once more and went to the front of the class. Already most of the students were leaving, far too eager to be done with school for the night.

As Rhysand answered a few last questions and dismissed the rest of the students, Feyre approached. Already she knew what she was going to say.

“I don’t have any questions.” The words fell from her mouth with ease. “I already know what I’m writing on.”

Lie. But a well-practiced one.

Rhysand’s mouth curled in a smile. He hefted a small stack of papers in one hand and leafed through them. Feyre froze realizing that they were the tests from last week. He pulled one of the stapled bunches out before setting the rest down.

“Honestly, I was surprised while grading this,” he said, “I mean, you’re obviously smart. I saw that you were awarded the Starfell Scholarship, not an easy accomplishment. Not to mention your always engaged and taking notes.”

Feyre wished her skin wasn’t as pale as it was. Her skin flushed under his scrutiny, but she tilted her chin up and met his gaze.

“And?” she asked. “I take my education seriously.”

Somewhat. When she actually liked the work.

Rhysand handed her the test. And she saw the grade.

Hell.

Her stomach churned. Roiled actually. Maybe she was going to be sick. That was just what she needed.

“So?” she asked instead. “It was the first test of the semester.”

“And yours in the only outlier,” he replied.

His eyes never left hers and Feyre felt more and more inclined to throw something at him. Who was he to talk to her about her grade? He was just the damned TA.

“Dr. Wesson doesn’t like picking up the slack of grading or talking to students about it all that much,” he continued, literally reading her mind. “I’m just concerned about you falling behind.”

Feyre stiffened and pursed her lips.

“I grew up learning Prythian history, I’m sure I’ll be fine,” she said stiffly.

Another lie. She knew enough that basic education taught and what she’d heard and listened to. But reading about it? Her mind couldn’t grasp it. It had been hard enough getting decent SAT scores to get accepted in the University let alone writing that damned Starfell essay.

“Of course,” Rhysand said slowly.

And Feyre had the sense that he was assessing her. Analytically, carefully. In the was that one would size up an opponent or scrutinize a strange recipe. He was trying to understand her.

Feyre handed him back the test.

“Thanks for the concern,” she said, “but I’ll be fine.”

Perhaps he was just being nice. Perhaps he was merely trying to fulfill his duties as TA. But she had seen the way he acted in the class. At times rebuffing boys and girls alike. Not to mention seeing him around campus tossing a football around with two other boys. She’d also seen him get kicked out of the library for a parkour prank challenge.

In all honesty, Feyre had no idea what to make of him. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

He didn’t seem to believe her. Not with the crease forming between his brow nor the frown turning down one side of his mouth.

Well, that was his problem.

“Have a good night,” Feyre said. She spun on her heel before he could say anything and grabbed her bag and was out the door.

Once she was outside, she could breathe again. Strange. She often found the darkness, the night, to be so suffocating. It wasn’t long before Feyre realized something was off about the night. And then she realized. Alis was nowhere in sight.

Feyre dug her phone out of her pocket and found a missed text.

Sorry chica, caught up at study group. Probs gonna spend the night at Nuala’s too. See you tomorrow!

Of all the nights Alis could get serious with her girlfriend.

Feyre swallowed stiffly and stared out over the pavilion that stretched between the humanities building and out to the mathematics building. A few pathways branched off to different parts of campus and then there was the main one that would take her to the dorms. And of course, most of the streetlamps were barely flickering to life.

She’d never liked the dark. Never liked what could hide in the shadows. Nor what could sneak in silence. Perhaps it was childish to still hold onto that fear. She was almost nineteen years old after all. Nearly fifteen years later and here she was.

Feyre’s hands shook as she clutched her phone. She could call Elain. Nesta. Even just to talk to as she walked. Though Elain lost her phone even when it was in her hand. And Nesta was at work.

But it was fine. Feyre knew it was fine. Because all she needed to do was walk. And shed been walking for long enough that putting one step in front of the other was natural. Easy. Simple. Yet here she was. Standing.

When Rhysand spoke, she didn’t even start.

“Are you waiting for someone?” he asked.

Myself. “No.”

Silence.

“It’s getting late.”

“I know.”

Silence.

How strange it was, to hear only the hum of crickets and breath of night.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Rhysand asked.

Feyre glanced at him. Even in the shadows she could see him clearly. It was like he was made of night, of dark, of the mysteries that she could never lay her hand on. She shook her head. Focus, Feyre.

“Of course I am,” she insisted, a little too sharply. “Maybe I like having time to think.”

“At nine-thirty at night. Outside the least exciting building on campus.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I heard that last year a group of boys nearly got suspended for trying to host a snowball fight, indoors.” Feyre couldn’t help but grin when she saw how Rhysand flushed.

“Technically, I’m not the one who brought the snowballs inside the building,” he said defensively.

“Oh, no, you’re just the one who built an entire fort in front of the main entrance to the building,” Feyre said.

It had actually been pretty hilarious when she’d heard about it from Alis. It almost made her wish that she'd been around last year instead of taking a year off.

“Technically,” he said again, the word making Feyre’s brow arch, “it was my brother who instigated the fight. He couldn’t let his reign be challenged.”

Feyre snorted a laugh and looked out over the quiet campus. It almost didn't look so dark and cold as she'd thought it had. But still, she felt her heart continue to hammer out unevenly in her chest. She couldn't walk home alone. Even the thought of taking one step forward had her clench and unclench a fist over the strap of her bag.

Rhysand continued saying something, but Feyre was only half listening. She was mostly focused on the thought of walking home. She could cut through the Science building. If it was still open. Or she could full out sprint.

“Are you alright?” Rhysand asked.

Flushing, Feyre pushed her hair out of her eyes and nodded. “Fine, yeah.” She knew she had to ask him. Knew that it was her only option despite how embarrassed she might feel. “Could you--this is stupid, so you can say no--could you walk with me to the dorms?”

Rhysand was quiet for a moment. And in that moment Feyre was certain he was going to sneer at her. Laugh. Tell her to get over herself. Just like the others before him.

"Where do you live?" Rhys and asked suddenly, cutting Feyre off before she had the ch

“The dorms on the west side,” she said.

“Alliance Dorms?” Rhysaid confirmed. When Feyre nodded, he flashed her a small smile. “Absolutely.”

Relief pounded through Feyre.

“If you tell me what the deal was with that test.”

“You’re an ass.” The words were out before Feyre could stop them. Not the best thing to say to the TA of a class she was likely going to flunk.

Scowling, more to herself than him, Feyre started walking towards the dorms. She was a strong confidant woman. She did not need him to walk her home.

But Rhysand with those damned long legs kept stride with her easily. And he was laughing. Feyre was half tempted to knock an elbow in his side for laughing at her, but his next words caught her off guard.

“I like you Feyre,” he said, “you are rather interesting.”

She glanced up at him. Was he serious? She’d insulted him. She’d barely exchanged ten words with him at this point. And was scared of walking home alone. Granted it was a valid fear for a young woman on a college campus these days.

“Insane is the better word for it,” she replied, mostly under her breath. That’s what everyone back home said at least. In the small town where nothing was supposed to go wrong. But everything did.

“Interesting, curious, vibrant,” Rhysand listed off. “Far better words I think.”

Feyre had never been good with words. Like now. She couldn’t find the energy to respond to him. There was a spark in his eye that almost challenged her, begged her to continue the banter, the little game.

She remained silent.

She’d heard it was a far better mask for her to wear anyways.

The first paper she turned in for the History class was returned with far too many red marks. Far too many question marks. Far too many. So Feyre merely folded the thing in half and stuffed it in her bag.

She could burn it later.

Dr. Wesson ended the lecture right at nine and dismissed the class. Feyre had almost disillusioned herself into thinking she could avoid a conversation with the Professor. With Rhysand. But just as she was trying to maneuver around the giggling pack of girls that sat next to her, Dr. Wesson’s voice called out for her.

“Oh Miss Archeron, a word please?”

Feyre froze. She could feign a phone call. But then next class session the same thing would happen. So, Feyre braced herself for what was to come and went to the front of the class.

As usual, Rhysand looked perfectly unruffled. Despite the fact that Fall was quickly slipping into the winter months, he still wore a simple black button up tucked into slacks, the sleeves rolled up.

“Feyre,” Dr. Wesson said as she approached, she reached out a hand and gave Feyre a firm pat on the arm. “I know Rhysand spoke to you last week about your test. I wanted to follow up, especially in seeing how this essay went. Now, there is still plenty of time left in the semester, but I worry you aren’t grasping the things you should be.”

Blood pounded in Feyre’s ears. She could hear her heart beat throb, feel it in her veins. Her entire body flushed with embarrassment, stress, horror. Everything bubbled to the surface even though she’d tried so hard to tamp it down.

She tried to open her mouth but found her teeth were grinding together so bad that her jaw hurt.

“I think,” Dr. Wesson continued, “that you would benefit from spending a bit of extra time with Rhysand. Just to make sure you’re where you need to be in the class.”

Feyre found herself nodding and agreeing. Her voice was relaxed, calm even. But far too close to breaking.

After thanking the Doctor for her uncharacteristic kindness, Feyre stared and the poorly erased whiteboard over Rhysand’s shoulder for a long moment. With a slow exhale she finally met his gaze.

Rhysand met her eyes with such intensity that Feyre nearly lost her breath all over again. She shook it off and rolled her shoulders.

“Shall we get started tonight?” she asked. “Or I’m sure you have plans.”

“Nah, only kicking Cassian’s ass at Mario Cart,” Rhysand replied. He flashed her an innocent sort of smile. Feyre wasn’t sure if it was one out of kindness or mockery of some sort.

She pulled her phone from her pocket and stuck it out for him. “Just give me your number and I’ll let you know when’s a good time to study.”

Rhysand hesitated on a moment before accepting the phone and adding his details. As soon as she got her phone back, Feyre changed his name from Rhys to Prick. It seemed to fit better.

“It’s not a big deal you know,” Rhysand said.

He followed Feyre out of the classroom. His steps were confident against the carpet that had to be at least thirty years old. Truly Rhysand was an enigma with his ease, grace, and elegance when pitted against the drab interior of the Humanities Building.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Feyre said.

Once outside, the cold night air nipped at her skin and even through her jacket she could feel goosebumps rise. Just like the night last week, Feyre waited just outside the building doors. She stared into the night; across the courtyard she could see a few pale lights from the Math Building. None of the lampposts had been fixed which left most of the walkways in shadows.

Nothing about the night was out of place. It was calm, still, and everything lingered on Feyre’s mind. And just like last week, Rhysand waited beside her.

Overhead, Feyre could just make out the stars. Only a thin veil of clouds hung over the sky allowing a small bit of freedom to pierce her heart. But not enough.

“Could you walk with me again?” she asked quietly, unable to look at Rhysand.

“Only if you talk to me this time,” he said. That cheeky grin returning. And despite how much she hated it, it put Feyre at ease.

“Fine.” She stuffed her hands in her pockets and began walking. “What made you pick history? There had to be something else. You don’t seem the type for old stuffy books or maps.”

“And who do you peg me for, Feyre?” His voice was practically a purr.

“High and mighty sitting behind a desk,” she replied drily. “Running some company somewhere. You certainly have the personality for it.”

He laughed unamused. “If my father had any say in the matter. A degree in history only puts off the inevitable.”

“That’s a rather bleak look on things,” Feyre said. It sounded like something she would say.

“Only if I didn’t enjoy what I was learning so much,” he said. In the flickering light of the lamps, they walked beneath, Rhysand’s expression brightened. “Between the wars and legends surrounding what shaped the country...it’s always been curious to see what we became. What we can become.”

His response seemed so honest, so genuine, that Feyre nearly stumbled. She barely knew him, had barely spent any time with him, yet she was beginning to feel that she knew him.

“So you devote all your time and attention to it?” Feyre asked.

They passed by the last of the campus buildings. A brisk wind scattered fallen leaves on the sidewalks and crunched under their steps as they walked.

“Don’t you have something you love? Something that you feel has changed you and you’d never want to give it up?”

A box of paints. Brushes that she’d had since she was ten. A canvas only half finished. She’d thought she could complete the image but it had been almost a year since she’d even looked at it. But art…art had changed her. Art had loved her just as she loved it.

“I guess you’re right,” she admitted. Tilting her chin up, Feyre caught sight of a small patch of stars amid the inky black sky. Dim but shining still. “There’s always something.”

If he heard the sadness in her voice, he said nothing. Which was partially surprising, but Feyre would roll with it.

“The tutoring,” Rhysand began.

“No,” Feyre cut him off. “Not right now.”

“So you’re just going to ignore your problems?”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Seems to be.”

Feyre stopped causing him him to move a few steps ahead of her. When he turned back towards her, he waited.

“I’ll admit to needing a little extra help to help my tests and essays, but I don’t see what else you’d need to know.”

“It’s alright to talk,” Rhysand paused, something else on the cusp of behind heard. But he restrained, his voice trailing off softly.

Feyre ignored the comment. Talking had never been her strong suit. She was more of action. Less idle, more work. Ever since she was a child it had been that way. She knew why, of course. It was obvious when she thought about it. So she never thought about it.

“What are you planning on studying?” Rhysand asked when she made no effort to continue on the topic of her test.

“Art,” she replied immediately. “I’m an artist. But my sister wanted me to get more of an education that could support me. So I’m just working on my prerequisites.”

“Art,” he repeated. There was a lilt to his voice as if he really were actually interested in what she was saying. “Sketching? Sculpture?”

“Paint and canvas,” Feyre said. “Since I was little. After my mom died, my sister bought me my first set of brushes and paint and everything I could need. She was only nine. I think she stole my dad’s credit card to do it.”

The reality of that had Feyre laughing softly, but Rhysand gave her look that was a mix of horror and confusion.

“It’s fine,” Feyre said quickly, “I’m fine.”

It was a lie of course. If she really were fine, she wouldn't have asked him to walk her home. She would better know how to control her fears, her anxiety. She would be happy.

“My mother died ten years ago,” Rhysand told her, his voice quiet and contemplative. “She’d been sick for a while and we knew it was coming. But for a ten-year-old boy, it was hard to understand. My father certainly didn’t. Still doesn’t.”

They reached Feyre’s dorms then, floodlights illuminated the front street and made it seem as though it were day. Feyre turned toward him and found herself smiling, just barely.

“Thank-you,” she said sincerely. “And I’m sorry you have to be a part of the dead mother’s club.”

“You too,” he said.

Feyre wondered if there was something else she should say. Wondered if he would even want to hear it. It was strange, that little flame of comradery that she felt towards him. But it was gone in an instant as Alis came running out from the building.

“Feyre! Get inside, it’s movie night!”

Shaking her head, Feyre offered Rhysand a small wave and headed into the dorms.

With three weeks until the next paper was due in that miserable class, Feyre spent her free time studying with Rhysand. It wasn’t as miserable as she’d been expecting it to be. Not when she realized he was far more laid back than she’d assumed. And then she’d met his best friends who were essentially like his brothers.

It was far easier to study in the relaxed environment that Rhysand created. And far easier to be herself around him. Of course, it had taken Feyre a while to decide that maybe they could be friends.

“Summarize what the chapter from last night’s reading discussed,” Rhysand said one night as they were studying. It was well after ten o’clock but they’d been given permission to stay in the building.

Feyre pursed her lips. She’d done the reading of course. As well as she’d been able. Most of had been hard to understand. No matter how she tried to focus or train her mind, her dyslexia always got in the way.

“Right,” Feyre said slowly. “It was about the last king of Hybern.”

“And?” Rhysand prodded.

“And he was a jerk,” Feyre added.

Rhysand’s fixed her with a look. Long and hard but still underlined with compassion.

“Feyre,” he said, just a bit more seriousness to his voice.

She sighed heavily and tugged at the sleeve of her shirt. “I read it. I just didn’t understand it.”

Silence.

Feyre shot him a scowl but didn’t meet his eyes. “I’m dyslexic. And History tends to be a bit harder for me to understand.”

Rhsand blinked. Once. But nothing else. No laugh or scoff of scorn. Instead, he smiled and pushed to text book toward her.

“Then read.”

“Read?”

“Aloud, preferably,” Rhysand said. He shrugged. “You want to be ready for the paper and subsequent test?”

“Prick,” she muttered. But she dragged the book towards her and began.

It became habit. A rhythm they fell into for the next several weeks. Rhysand helped Feyre study and prepare for the paper, the test. He walked her home, remaining the perfect gentleman. And Feyre, Feyre relished the time.

It was because he was genuine. Honest. There was something about him, deeper than the intensity he displayed on the outside. And for the first time in a while, Feyre found herself laughing with him. For the first time in a while, she was living for more than just expectations.

He was actually turning into her friend and it was strange thought indeed.

“Alright students,” Dr. Wesson announced towards the end of class on the last day before Thanksgiving break. “I have your midterm tests and papers graded. So now you can either relax or stress even further. Depending on the grade.”

A weak laugh bubbled around the room. Feyre gripped the underside of her chair tightly. She wasn’t ready for this. Not in the slightest.

Dr. Wesson slowly made her way around the room delivering both test and paper. Feyre, by some stroke of cosmic affair, didn’t get her paper until last and the entire room was empty aside from Dr. Wesson and Rhysand. Why was it they always ended up here?

“Well done, Miss Archeron,” Dr. Wesson said. She handed two packets of paper to Feyre and smiled. “I love to see improvement.”

Gaping, Feyre looked between the two grades. Heart hammering, she looked over the scores, brilliant red B’s shined up at her.

“I don’t usually offer extra credit,” the doctor went on, “but an exhibit is coming to the University about the Prythian Wall and it’s destruction. If you can come up with a project to demonstrate what it entails, I might be convinced to help you keep your grade up.”

Feyre could only nod as the professor bid them goodnight and left.

“Well done.”

Feyre looked up to see Rhysand beaming at her and she couldn’t help but grin. She leapt out of her seat and flung her arms around him in an embrace.

“Thank-you!” she whispered. It took her perhaps a moment too long to realize that a hung might not have been the best of plans. She hurriedly pulled back. “Sorry. That was uncalled far. I’m just really excited.”

“As you should be,” Rhysand said. His smile hadn’t dimmed but there was something in his eyes that Feyre couldn’t quite read. “It wasn’t an easy test.”

“And now we have a full week off for Thanksgiving,” she said. It was the best news she could have been given after getting her grades back.

“If you want,” Rhysand said, “my brother’s and cousin and I are having a game night, with pizza. If you want to come.”

A spark of excitement ignited in Feyre’s chest. She didn’t know when she’d developed a stupid little crush on Rhysand, but it was slowly starting to simmer out of control. She should have said no. Or come up with an excuse of some kind. Insead she found herself nodding.

“I’d like that,” she said.

They collected their things and left the building. Feyre took a few steps down the path they usually took to get to her dorm when she paused. She turned back to Rhysand and frowned.

“Where do you live?”

Rhysand looked a little sheepish. “Oh, I live over in the Court Apartments.”

Feyre blinked. “That’s in the complete opposite direction from my place.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been walking me home for practically a month.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Feyre asked, practically waving her hands in the air. “It’s basically a two-mile walk from my place.”

Rhysand shrugged. “You asked for help and I wanted to give it.”

Feyre stared at him. Her coat and scarf bunched around her neck, even though the night was perfectly clear. It was clear enough that she could see the billions of stars overhead. She could see them sparking in the black night. And for one she wasn’t overcome with her usual anxiety. Her usual fears. Instead, all she would do was stare at Rhysand.

“Why would you do that?” she insisted.

Rhysand opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Because you were worth it.”

His simple words hung between them and Feyre had a hard time knowing what to say or how to react. So she merely smiled and hooked her arm with his.

“Tell me about game night. Am I going to wind up on some snipe hunt?”

“Oh no, you and I are going to gang up against Cassian and beat him at Mario Cart.”

Feyre laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”

And she realized that she wouldn’t mind if that’s how the rest of her nights played out. Late hours of laughs and friends, being around people--one person--who made her feel better than she had in a long time.

No, she wouldn’t mind it at all.

thanks so much for reading!

tags:

please reach out if i missed you and let me know if I put you on the wrong tag list/want to be removed. it’s generally going to be easier for me to just have basic acotar/tog lists and not go into too much worry about that, so just and fyi...anywho

tags: @tottenhamboys20 @aelinchocolatelover @more-espresso-less-depresso-xx @bamchickawowow @ladywitchling @ireallyshouldsleeprn @courtofjurdan @sassys-world @sleeping-and-books @superspiritfestival @chieflemming @julemmaes @lysandra-ghost-leopard @harrymoncheri @firestarsandseneschals @emikadreams @rapunzel1523 @booksofthemoon @highladysith @fangirlprincess09

#feysand #feysand au #anon #prompts #answered #acotar #feyre archeron #rhysand #acomaf #sjm #fanfiction #feysand fanfiction

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stevenbasic · 4 years

Photo

”So, tell me how it went..!” Melissa asked, tucking her fit, bare legs underneath herself on the white leather couch in her new office, attentively turning to me as she sat up. She’d summoned me to her office to have our Friday coffee, and had made us each a cup. Dressed especially informal for our “casual Fridays” in a v-neck green tee and girlish black short-shorts, her figure was on particularly luscious display today and I’d already caught myself staring...twice. “I want to hear everything!”

She was, of course, talking about my long-overdue meeting with her friend Abby, a sales rep from Evolution, a local pharmaceutical company intent on getting my practice involved in a clinical trial of their new product. Melissa, since her start as our new Office Manager, had been unusually invested in setting up a meeting between the two of us; they’d been friends for years, I gathered, and this was a favor to Abby. Little did I know that this favor would quickly spiral into a whirlpool that would threaten to drag me under and drown not only me but...well, read on.

I took a look into my “World’s Best Boss” mug - a gift from her. Far too much milk, I saw...but I think I was starting to like it that way. “Okay, uh,” I began, taking my first sip, “yesterday afternoon…”

...

…I had just escorted Mr. Kowalczyk to the desk, pushing him along in his wheelchair, helping him start to check out, when Aubrey had given me the message.

“There’s a sales rep waiting for you in your office,” she told me, eyes sparkling. Aubrey - a slim, elegant brunette - had looked especially pretty yesterday, maybe done her hair differently. We were trying her out at her new position as front desk supervisor, and she already seemed to be taking to the job well.

“The one from...uh...Melissa’s friend?” I asked, a bit confused, “Abby?” Mr Kowalczyk, hearing the name, asked about Melissa - as he had three times earlier. “She’s off today, she’s not here,” I reminded him, now for the fourth time today, as his wife appeared alongside us. Melissa had this Thursday off, apparently for some doctors’ appointments of her own.

“Yes, Abby,” Aubrey answered, turning her attention, for the moment, to our patient’s wife, “Co-pay is ten dollars, Mrs Kawalski...”

“That’s Kowal-check,” the elderly woman corrected, narrowing her eyes and apparently none-too-pleased.

“That wasn’t supposed to be until tomorrow,” I commented, immediately annoyed but feeling my pulse start to quicken, “I was going to sit down with her on Friday…”. I signed Mr. Kowalczyk’s prescription.

“It got moved up,” Aubrey told me, taking a credit card from my patient’s wife, “she’s here now…”

Why was I so nervous?

“Thank you, Mrs. Kawasaki…”

...

“...yes, sorry, I should have told you myself,” Melissa apologized, biting her lower lip, after a sip of coffee, “but it was a last minute thing. And I was still at my appointment when I heard…”

“Well, yeah, it’s okay…” I replied, eyes dropping to her still-tan thighs as she brushed at them with well-manicured fingers, tips painted a mint green to match her top, “it was just a surprise, is al-“”

“Isn’t she so pretty..??” Melissa asked, and urged me to continue my story…

...

“Thank you sooooo much for meeting with me,” Abby had greeted, immediately standing up from the chair in front of my desk as I entered the room. She stepped to shake my hand, “I’m Abby, from Evolution Pharmaceuticals.”

“Sure, sure, no problem,” I replied, noticing the confidence in her grip and the dimples in her smile. I recognized her right away from a picture Melissa had sent, early on. Maybe in her early thirties, Abby was an attractive person; lots of sales reps are. My guard was up, as it always was in these sort of sales meetings, but something in the sparkle of her eyes struck me...and her figure was nothing to sneeze at, either. I found my attitude softening already. “Melissa’s friend, right?” She had medium-length, medium-brown hair, and a nice tan complexion. Nice hips.

I guess I could give her a few minutes.

“Yes!” she answered, as we both moved to take our seats. Abby was dressed smartly, in a grey pencil skirt and sharp white blouse. “She and I met at Evolution, at our clinic, earlier this year. She’s great, so fun...”

Wait what?

“I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you,” Abby continued, tucking her skirt beneath herself as she sat, pulling some slick promotional material from the fashionable leather bag beside her, “but I just want to introduce our product, go over some of the opportunities with you…”

What followed was both the typical sales presentation I’d seen a hundred times from different reps and at the same time one of the weirdest things I’d ever heard. From the emails and propaganda with which the company had flooded me over the past weeks, I’d read - or at least skimmed through - lots of it before. They claimed to have developed a novel general-health supplement for women; the science was still sort of hush-hush and what they could reveal was frankly a bit baffling. Normally I wouldn’t touch this sort of crap with a ten-foot pole, it all sounded so fishy at first. They were touting ambiguous improvements in mentation, endurance, strength, a whole host of other things. But I didn’t want to disappoint Melissa and, well, while I knew that the “Lean In” grants we were scheduled to receive - and frankly were going to be dependent on - were tied to us supporting female-led businesses, it soon became clear to me in talking with Abby that, um...we almost didn’t have a choice. I was starting to get the feeling that if we didn’t start working with Evolution, there’d be no money from Lean In. And so, becoming nervous, I was slowly forced to pay a bit more attention as we sat across my desk from one another, ten minutes or so into it. I was beginning to realize...we actually needed them.

But I still definitely had my doubts, my reservations, a whole load of concerns. How safe was this going to be? “And these patients,” I asked, “for the trial...the subjects. They would come from…?” It was a reasonable question. My practice was geriatric, and this was a product for younger women.

“We’d take care of that, we’d bring them in, we have a whole list of gir-...of women ready,” Abby assured me, her disarming smile doing its job, “We wouldn’t need to involve your current patients at all.” She watched me nodding, knowing she had made more than a bit of an inroad with me. “In fact, you wouldn’t even have to do much,” she continued, proceeding confidently, “we’d supply you with the new staff you’d need, we’d bring in all the supplies and equipment. We’d hook you up with our trial coordinator from corporate, she’ll organize everything. You’d just end up doing some video chats with her once in awhile.” At that Abby smiled strangely. “Her name's Brenda, you’ll like her.”

“It all sounds, uh, umm…”

Sitting there, at my desk, part of me couldn’t believe I was even considering this, still even talking to this woman. That part of me, though, wasn’t seeing what another small part of me was seeing - that the power dynamic in this conversation, between Abby and I, had gradually shifted. It was her, now, who held the upper hand. She represented the money, she was the big player. I was really the small fish here. The only thing that kept me from feeling like a nobody was knowing that my practice was somehow important to them, that they wanted me for some reason.

Why exactly was that?

“We’re a small company, but it’s not just money from Lean In that we come to the table with,” Abby continued, eyes sparkling, “we’d been bought a few years ago by a big, international group, so now we’re just ripe with resources. We can help you through tough times like you’ve been having, business down, income fading-.”

“Well, now,” I interjected, my pride rankled, “I wouldn’t say that…” I mean, I wouldn’t say it, but it was totally true. But how did she know all this?? Had she and Melissa been talking abou-

“Oh, shh, you don’t need to be embarrassed, it’s okay,” she said, “It’s nothing to be ashamed about, we understand. We know your practice is shrinking, but your needs are growing. And that’s why we’re growing too, so we can help nurture you, provide for you.”

This was humiliating as fuck but...why was I getting hard? Yes, Abby was attractive, blouse just a little too tight, chest just a little bigger than necessary. She was pretty, yes. No, actually...now with all the power in the room centered on her, with the strength she represented, she was downright hot. And the scenario she was laying out for me, this relationship I’d have with her big, female corporation? It felt positively...maternal. And, it was beginning to feel like a foregone conclusion, that I would be taken under their skirts. But again - why was I getting hard?

“Evolution will take good care of you,” Abby assured me, her voice growing subtly more tender, as if reading my thoughts, “and as we get bigger, and grow, we’ll carry you along with us. We can tuck you in to our...corporate structure. You’ll be safe, there, close to us.”

If I hadn’t noticed the outline of her bra beneath her blouse before, I was noticing it now.

“Would you like that?” she asked, probingly.

“Uhh…”

“We’d make sure you don’t get left behind, as the world changes,” she continued, “because the world is changing, Dr. J, and we think our product is going to help women succeed in it. Don’t you want to be there with us?”

“Uhhhh…”

Seeing my anxiety starting to get the better of me, Abby smiled disarmingly. “You probably need to talk to Melissa about it, before deciding on the trial,” she began again, “right?”

Oh my god I couldn’t believe it, how demeaning that was, but I knew it was my out - for now. ”yeah I guess I probably should…” I said, weakly…

“Of course you do…” Abby smiled.

…

“So…<nnngh>...” Melissa all but groaned, inching closer to me on the couch, “you wanted my approval, first?”

As I had recounted my story, described the meeting to her, Melissa had slowly, gradually, become visibly more excited, completely engaged. She’d asked me to repeat details, recount conversation, all the while gazing intently into my face and moving intimately closer to me on the soft leather couch in her office. Her curves, her larger body had me slowly retreating, backing up as best I could. An arm rested on the back of the couch behind me.

“w-well I, uh…” I stammered, eyes dropping again for a furtive glance at her thighs, hips, her tiny waist. I was, at this point, already overtaken by the scent of her perfume. “it’s uh-“

“It’s like you’re recognizing you need my help, isn’t it?” she asked, a strange huskiness in her voice, “Isn’t it?? That you have an easier time when I make the decisions for you??”

I couldn’t say anything, looking at her. I was tongue-tied realizing, in that moment, how assertive women now framed the borders of my life, affected my daily choices. And they were, if anything, all pushing me into the clutches of other powerful women. If I took this money, allowed this clinical trial to set root in my office, it would mean becoming dependent on both Evolution and Lean In. Lean In, I was learning, was a well-connected, obviously well-funded female empowerment organization, one that seemed determined to get women into places of influence and strengthen them while they’re there. And Evolution Pharmaceuticals was not just the rinky-dink pill pop-up that I’d assumed it was, but rather a small piece of some larger player...and maybe I’m just being paranoid, but probably also controlled by women. If I took this money, I felt like it would be sucking from the big collective teat of the country’s - and perhaps the world’s - most powerful alpha females.

“I, uh…” I began, forgetting where I was, “yeah…”

“Omigod I am SO happy with you right now..!!” she suddenly, finally gushed, sitting up taller, jumping towards me and abruptly throwing her arms around me. Strong hands behind my head now pulled my face to her chest. “You are such a good boss!”

“mmmrf!”

Embracing me to her bosom, she squealed, and hugged me tighter. Soft breast squashed into my face, my head plastered to Melissa's big left boob.

Oh my god what is she doing?!? I panicked, arms flailing helplessly as I heard her start to laugh. Despite my struggles, she held me firm - if anything, holding me even tighter still.

“M-m-m-Mulithhah!” I tried, voice muffled by the mushy mass mashed into my mouth.

“Shhhhh…!” she giggled, “I can’t help myself, I need to hug you!” Pressing herself into me, she moaned in delight. “Hug hug hug! I need to show you what a good boy you are!!”

The warmth, the softness of her breast was overwhelming, and as she held me firm I - despite myself - started to calm, give myself up to her massive tit. “mmmmf…” I tried again, this time my complaint sounding more like a little sigh.

She looked down at me, quietening down herself. When she spoke again, her voice had softened.

“That okay, sweetie?” she purred, cupping my head from behind with one palm as the other moved into my hair, “Can you breathe down there?”

I groaned something, something in assent and - god help me - rubbed my nose into her.

She giggled.

“There you go…” she cooed, now petting my head, “all good now, all good. Just breathe...”

I sighed again, every breath I took full of her perfume, the scent of her skin. I heard, through her chest, her cooing little praises.

“Good boy...good boy…” she lauded, enveloping me with affection. She was peering down at me, I knew, though my eyes had closed already. I felt her ready herself, and winced in shame even before she asked me the question that I knew was coming:

”So, with the trial…” she asked, “what have we decided?”

=================================================

Thanks so much to the incomparably amazing Dani Doreen for the image. We're so proud to have her onboard as our resident "from the neck down" Melissa and can't wait to work with her some more. She's so awesome and I'd recommend everyone check out her GTS/SM content:

Dani Doreen’s OnlyFans

https://onlyfans.com/danidoreen

#Growing Into the Job

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addierose444 · 4 years

Text

Academic Advice for First-Years: Part I

Last week I posted some general college advice for first-years. Here I will delve into my academic advice. This post got really long, so I decided to break it up into two parts. In this part, I will provide some general advice on course selection, note-taking, and homework. Next week, I will be exploring the academic support systems on campus. I will first address a reader question that I received.

What is your favorite computer science course you have taken at Smith College? Thanks :)

That is a great question that I am unfortunately unprepared to answer as I have only taken a semester’s worth of computer science at Smith. The courses I took were How the Internet Works (CSC 102) and How Computers Work (CSC 103). (You can see a full list of my courses here). While I don’t want to perpetuate the notion of “humanities people” and “STEM people”, I do think that these introductory courses are best suited for someone curious about computer science but who is quite intimidated by it. Namely, these courses have a math designation for Latin Honors but are way less “mathy” than say calculus I. With that said, I still think the best place to start is Introduction to Computer Science Through Programming (CSC 111). Why? First of all, because you will learn programming rather than just theory. Secondly, CSC 111 is required for the major and minor whereas CSC 102/103 cannot be applied to a minor and do not serve as prerequisites for any other courses. It is worth noting that despite recommending CSC 111, I myself haven’t taken it because I was able to test out of it. While I’m sure that this wasn’t the answer you were looking for, be sure to keep an eye on the main blog for another Smithie’s response in the near future.

In terms of course registration, here is a post I wrote a few months ago. While that post was quite thorough, circumstances have definitely changed in intervening months. Specifically, you may now elect to take three courses (instead of four) in the fall and an additional full credit course during interterm. This may make sense in that it allows you to spread out your course load and to have something interesting to do during interterm. Really it just comes down to if any of the course offerings pique your interest. It is also worth thinking critically about which classes may be best to take this fall as opposed to in the spring. As building community will be more difficult this year, I more than ever would recommend enrolling in a first-year seminar. First-year seminars are great because of the small class size (caps of 16-20), varied topics, and writing focus. This writing focus is important because all first-year students are required to take a writing-intensive course and because writing is a crucial skill.

Course selection ties nicely into my most general academic advice which is to build a strong relationship with your advisor and to learn to write effective emails. This relationship is important because it will improve the entire advising experience and efficacy. You can read more about advising at Smith here. In terms of emails, they are a key form of communication between you and your advisor, other professors, and your employer / prospective employer. In addition to proofreading papers that you submit, be sure to take the time to proofread carefully anything you send via email. In terms of the format, it is usually best to start with Dear Professor Last Name. If it’s someone you haven’t communicated with previously, be sure to introduce yourself. I like to include my first and last name, class year, and depending on the context, my majors. From there explain the situation and relevant questions. If there is a deadline or key question, bold text may be useful. Effective use of whitespace (paragraph breaks) and a concise but informative subject line are also important.

In terms of actual classes, be sure to attend every lecture. College is different in that not all courses take attendance and grade participation. Obviously, if you are sick, definitely don’t attend class in person. If you are more severely ill, it may be necessary to completely miss class. Here is where effective emails and positive relationships with peers come in. This is also part of why attendance matters in the first place. For instance, say you routinely miss class for illegitimate reasons and then actually get sick. If you need some motivation to actually get up and go to class, consider the extremely high cost of tuition and subsequently high monetary value of an hour of class.

Courses vary in how/if you should be taking notes. Courses that are discussion-based may require written preparation before class, but minimal in-class note-taking. In general, if the professor is lecturing you should be prepared to jot down the main ideas. The trick is to remain present in class. Namely, learn once by actively engaging with the material rather than trying to teach yourself later from verbatim notes. In terms of paper or digital notes, I vastly prefer digital notes. But between typed and handwritten notes, handwriting is better for actually learning and retaining information. This may sound like a contradictory answer, but my solution is writing on an iPad. You can read about the technology I use in college here. I also have a few posts on how I organize in college that can be found here.

Actively participating in class means contributing to class discussions and asking questions when you are confusing. Seriously, do not be afraid to ask questions. This is key for your own learning and will likely benefit your peers as well. It is only if you wait too long to express your confusion that your question may end up being “stupid.”

In terms of homework, the good news with college is that it is fairly predictable. First of all, key dates for exams and/or papers are outlined in the syllabus. Furthermore, courses often have a repeating structure for assignments. For instance, for my physics class, we had to read and virtually discuss the textbook by class time on Wednesdays and Fridays, we had a problem set due every Sunday, revisions due the following Wednesday, and a weekly quiz on Thursday. This predictable schedule allows you to better schedule when you will work on different assignments. Task management along with a study schedule help to keep you from getting too overwhelmed with all of your assignments. You can click here to read about a few task management systems I have used.

#college #Smith College #first-year advice #academics #course registration #asking questions #homework #academic advice #bts2020 #advice

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slnewman · 4 years

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Special Olympics

For my practicum I have been working with Special Olympics North Carolina (SONC) to execute their Wellness Wednesday sessions. SONC has implemented a new virtual at-home ten-week program called Partner Up Power Up. This Program was designed for athletes to be able to continue with bettering their health, despite the fact that they cannot meet in person. The program is set up to offer something for the athletes to do regarding their health every single day of the week. There are Mindfulness Mondays, Training Tuesdays/Thursdays, Wellness Wednesdays, Free Fridays, Strength Saturdays, and Endurance Sundays. Each week is focused on a specific health topic and the athletes have different power-up activities related to the topic. All of the athletes that signed up to participate received a playbook that outlines the entire program. The playbook includes the activity they will do each day, exercise tutorials, health tips, check off boxes, and goal trackers. This playbook can be completed and submitted to their coach at the end of the program.

For the past 6 weeks my group and I have been specifically in charge of executing the Wellness Wednesday sessions. These sessions are focused on total well-being and incorporate many aspects of health. So far, we have had sessions on healthy eating, hydration, healthy cooking, mental health, and oral health. Each of these sessions have a health professional to guide the session and teach the athletes the topic for the week. Even though these sessions are primarily educational, we always have an exercise warm up at the beginning so that the athletes are working on their physical health, too. These sessions have been amazing to watch and be a part of the activities. My group and I have been able to present in some of the Wellness Wednesdays. We have been able to run the logistics for the sessions as well as collect important data that we can use to evaluate our impact.

When we were first introduced to the task of creating the Wellness Wednesday sessions, I didn’t think that we would have a very good turnout. I thought that we may start off strong and that the numbers would start to fade week after week, like many long programs do. I have been quite amazed that my group and I have kept the numbers over 100 athletes every week. This has been very inspiring and shows us that our work is meaningful. The days leading up to a Wellness Wednesday event can be stressful at times, but whenever the session starts at 7pm on Wednesday nights, everything falls into place and the athletes make it all worth it with their smiles and engagement.

Over the past 6 weeks I have learned so much and have grown immensely more than I ever thought I would during a practicum experience. I have had internships before but working with SONC has been very impactful, not only for the IDD population but for me and my group, as well. I have been in charge of all of the communication pieces between my group, our preceptor, unified partners, athletes, and other volunteers. During this experience I have met many new people, developed new professional skills and have further fueled my passion of working with this vulnerable and amazing population.

Having the opportunity to work with this population has taught me a lot about public health and how underserved people with intellectual disabilities are. Individuals with intellectual disabilities are often at a higher risk for health-related issues not only because of their disability but because of the lack of proper education and health resources that are accessible to them. Some of the health disparities that this population face are: lack of specific need based health education, lack of inclusive health care professionals, transportation issues, and limited resources specifically for individuals with IDD. The Partner Up Power Up program is working to help mitigate those disparities by creating a program that can be done completely at home. Even though this program features virtual live sessions the athletes have all of the materials send directly to them and are able to complete everything without having access to technology. This program also works to give you information to help educate the athletes on healthy practices and encourages them to reach their health goals.

My group and I are also working on creating a toolkit for the athletes to educate them on how to be advocates for their own health. This tool kit will include sections on, what it means to be a healthy athlete, strong minds, fitness, social media, and how to be an advocate for yourself and others. We are very excited for this toolkit and we hope it will help to mitigate the lack of education barrier that some of the athletes experience.

Working with Special Olympics North Carolina has been an incredible experience and I cannot wait for the remaining Wellness Wednesday and I am incredibly excited and honored to be able to work with them more in the upcoming weeks and next semester.

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just-here-for-the-moment · 3 years

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Paloma, Part II

Series Masterlist - Part I - Part II

Word count: 8900+

Rating: explicit, 18+ only

Outline: Statesman!Frankie "Catfish" Morales, Agent Jack “Whiskey” Daniels, and "You" (OC cis/het female reader, Statesman research analyst, code name “Paloma”; age 26; reader is “blank canvas”/no physical description/no use of “Y/N”)

Warnings: “plot bloat” (trying to get Paloma where she needs to go); fully legal age gap; curse words; alcohol; Whiskey acting like a bastard; a little sprinkling of angst; open-mouth kissing; protected P/V sex; some extra-soft!Frankie

On your third Monday at Statesman New York you led a planning meeting that should have been easy. Jack Daniels made it anything but.

The worst part was that you hadn't even been properly introduced yet. Where Champ had rolled out the red carpet for you at Louisville HQ, Whiskey was a phantom, too busy to meet with you during your first couple of weeks. That made what happened in the meeting even more humiliating.

You started by outlining the research that your team had gathered, the analysis that they had carefully done, and presented the options and outcomes. When you were done, Whiskey threw his copy of your report down on the table and said, "That's horseshit."

You felt your face heat with embarrassment, but you tried to hold your ground. "Excuse me?"

Jack waved his fingers dismissively, "That's alright, I'll excuse you. This isn't the kind of work I expected from our new 'hotshot' team lead. Why isn't there information about the facilities we'll be targeting?"

"There are no 'facilities' at this location, Agent. It's a one-and-done for a drop and extract. There's nothing to raid, nothing to seize, and nothing to see."

"Really?" He arched one eyebrow at you and rubbed his thumb over his lower lip. The sheer cockiness of it made you burn with irritation. "So how come the information we got last Friday tells us that there's a production facility the next block over? You really gonna send our agents halfway around the world without botherin' to target the facility next door?"

You froze. Was he correct? That didn't seem possible. How had your team missed that? You held his gaze with as much assertiveness as you could muster, trying to match his attitude so that you wouldn't appear to be weak. "I don't have information about any facilities."

He cracked a smirk, "Well then, you're not very good at your job, are you darlin'?"

You swallowed hard and tried not to let tears rise. How dare he talk down to you? What the hell was his problem? Another agent spoke up, saying that if new information had come in recently, then you could review it and reconvene later to discuss its impact. The meeting disbanded.

You felt like you had been sucker-punched, and you weren't sure if you wanted to flee to your office, or sit gripping the edge of the table and glare Whiskey down. You opted to stay, waiting for everyone else to file out. Finally it was just you and Whiskey left, sitting at the big conference table and having some kind of a stubborn staring contest. This was not how you wanted to start your new job.

"What the fuck is your problem with me?" You gritted the question out and held his gaze. You knew that cursing at a senior agent, not to mention the one who was the face of Statesman Whiskey and de facto head of the New York office, probably wasn't the wisest way to start your tenure... but neither was backing down and letting him roll right over you.

"Nothin' personal, darlin', but I can't let you give my agents incorrect or missing information. Your team should have known about the facilities at this location."

"It sure felt personal, Agent Whiskey. If you have a problem with my work, you take it up with me privately. I don't mind admitting when I've made a mistake, but it's shitty to treat people like that in front of others." You glared at him, trying to look as fierce as you could.

He finally looked away from you, and muttered something that might have been an apology.

"What's that, Agent Whiskey? I didn't quite hear you."

"I said, 'I'm sorry.' You're right. That was unfair of me."

Before you could stop yourself, you found acid on your tongue. "Well, well, the great Agent Whiskey lowers himself to apologize. No wonder you flash that charm at everything on two legs. Your manners can't stand on their own, can they?"

If you hadn't been so focused on gathering up your paperwork, you would have seen a flicker of hurt cross his face. Instead you stomped out of the conference room and thanked the stars that you hadn't cried. By the time you got back to your office, a cold ball of regret was starting to form just below your ribs. You prided yourself on being able to work effectively with everyone, and you were extremely proud of your track record at Statesman so far. Why hadn't you been less confrontational, or tried to smooth things over? Why had you jumped straight to a pissing contest?

---

"God, what an asshole!"

"I told you, he's kind of a lot to take." Ginger's voice on the other end of the phone came through calm and sweet, as she always was.

You spun your chair to lean back and stare up at the ceiling of your office, trying to keep tears from forming. "Ugh, he's such a colossal jackass. I cannot believe he tried to undermine me like that in the meeting. I could have strangled him!"

"Just stay out of his way as much as you can. I'm sure he'll calm down once he sees what kind of work your team produces. You're doing great."

"Yeah, well... not so great actually. It turns out he was right. There was a report on a facility that came through very late on Friday, and one of my analysts went home sick, so I didn't get it in time for the meeting. That's the worst part: he was right, the bastard."

"Oh, Paloma. I'm so sorry. I'm sure that stung."

You let out a deep sigh. "I'll be okay. I just hope I get the chance to catch him making a mistake, and then I'll shove it in his stupid face. Make him lap it up with that ridiculous mustache of his."

Ginger giggled. "As much as I'd like to imagine that with you, I gotta run. Call me later? I miss you!"

"I miss you, too. 'Bye."

You hung up and spun your chair around, coming face to face with the sight of Agent Whiskey leaning in your office doorway. His arms were crossed casually, one foot propped over the other, looking like he could stand there all day. Your stomach leapt into your throat and then dropped down to your shoes. How much had he heard?

"Oh, kill me now," you breathed.

"Not just yet, darlin’. We have work to do." He popped up from his perch in the doorway and took a seat in one of your visitors chairs.

"How can I help you?" You kept your tone respectful, although it verged on frosty.

"Well, we need to revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence. Then we need to have a talk about civility."

You arched an eyebrow. "Oh, civility? I see. What kind of ‘civility’ did you have in mind, Agent Whiskey?"

"Well, for one, you can call me Jack. And for two, I was comin’ down here to apologize again, but apparently there's something you'd like to shove in my face and have me lap up with my ridiculous mustache?" He twitched one eyebrow up, looking smug and amused by the double entendre.

You closed your eyes and suppressed a groan. Maybe this was a hallucination and you were still in bed at home. Or maybe you hadn't actually left Louisville. You cracked one eyelid open, finding Whiskey’s deep brown eyes still on you. You decided to try to be the bigger person and smooth things over.

"I'm sorry. I was venting to a friend, and obviously that wasn't intended for your ears."

"Well now, I’m a big boy. I've heard worse and survived."

"I apologize. I let myself get irritated by your behavior in the meeting. It wasn't professional, and it won't happen again."

"Well, for my part, if I think you've made an error, I'll be sure to talk with you privately instead of calling you out in front of the team. Deal?" He stuck one broad, well-manicured hand out to shake.

You reached your own out somewhat reluctantly, then warmed to it, feeling how large and soft his hand was when it wrapped around your fingers. "Deal."

He gave your hand one final squeeze. An involuntary tingle ran up your arm, and you found yourself wondering whether he was as talented with his hands as he was smart with his mouth. Oh god, what was wrong with you?

You cleared your throat and pulled your hand away, trying not to jerk it back like he’d burned you.

“I’ll, um, I’ll have my team revise the mission plan to include the new intelligence, and then we’ll reconvene tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Sounds fine, darlin’.” He winked at you and you felt something flutter just below your navel.

---

Despite the conciliatory conversation with Whiskey, you still felt awkward and hurt, not to mention confused by some of the warmer feelings that had popped up uninvited. You spent the next six weeks trying to fly low and avoid Whiskey. You sent your senior analyst as your replacement for every meeting that you possibly could, and when you did have to attend them you timed your entrances and exits so that you wouldn't be in the conference room any longer than necessary. You transferred reports to Whiskey's office electronically, and when a hand-delivery was required you sent whoever happened to be closest to you. It worked great. You hadn't said more than "hello" and "goodbye" to Whiskey in so long, you were starting to feel like maybe you had escaped the awkwardness, the horrific start to your time in New York. It felt like a bad dream from another era.

One late Thursday afternoon, your plan fell apart. You got a request from Whiskey's assistant for a hard-copy file, and the entire office suite was empty. Each of your team members was off doing other things or had left early. You avoided it as long as you could, running to the ladies room to pee and then lingering in the hallway outside your office, just in case someone from your staff came back. After 10 long minutes you realized that you were "it" and that nobody was going to come save you. You sighed and trudged to the elevator. It seemed to move too quickly, depositing you at Whiskey's floor in no time flat.

As you rounded the corner you saw that Whiskey's assistant was gathering her things to leave for the day. After one too many disasters with "pretty young things," Champ had put his foot down and assigned someone to Whiskey who would keep him on the straight and narrow. Mary was what you called a "motherly hard-ass," while Ginger called her a “saint.” Mary had worked for Statesman almost as long as Champ, and she knew her stuff inside and out. Most importantly, she was completely immune to Whiskey's flirtations. He had tried once or twice to charm her, but after finding that her warm exterior concealed a brick wall of professionalism and a razor-sharp wit, he had relented.

"Hi Mary!" You kept your voice cheerful and light, trying to hide the twisting in your gut. "Here's the file he requested."

"Hi Paloma, you can go on in." Mary smiled wryly, "He actually asked to see you if you showed up. Sorry, kiddo, you're a lamb to the slaughter." She patted your back in sympathy.

Your shoulders slumped, "Ugh." Just as you were about to air your disgust in stronger words, Whiskey's door opened.

"Paloma! Glad to see you, darlin'. Come on in."

You shot Mary one last look, pleading for reprieve. She patted your shoulder and bid Whiskey a good night.

You forced your legs to move, and when you got inside Whiskey's office you perched on the edge of the sofa in the visitors area. Whiskey preferred to entertain visitors away from his desk, so he had a cozy corner of the office set up with two large chairs, a coffee table, and a black leather sofa that seemed to take up half the room.

You tossed the file on the table and spoke in a monotone that bordered on rude. "Brought you the file. Need anything else?"

Whiskey gestured to the bar cart. "Can I get you a drink, darlin'?"

"No." You shook your head. "But thank you."

Whiskey shrugged and poured himself something amber in a small glass. You couldn't take your eyes off his hands as they deftly maneuvered around the glassware and ice bucket. They reminded you a little of Frankie's hands: strong and thick, sure and precise in their movements. But where Frankie's hands were warm, work-worn and calloused, Whiskey's were primped and clean, just as manicured as his sharply tailored suits and slick mustache. You bit the inside of your lip to bring yourself back to reality before your brain could wander any farther down the path of what Whiskey's hands could do.

You focused your gaze on the file on the coffee table and waited. Whiskey settled himself into the big chair closest to your end of the couch.

"Paloma, darlin'. Thanks for coming up."

You cringed internally and tried to screw up the courage to ask him to just call you Paloma. The nickname of "darlin'" was starting to grate. For a moment you weren't sure if it was because you found it unprofessional or because you wanted to hear it more. Shit. What was wrong with you?

"What can I do for you, Agent Whiskey?"

"Please, call me Jack."

"What can I do for you?" You refused to give in, drawing your mental line in the sand. You could have a whole conversation with him without calling him Jack, couldn't you?

"Well now, I was hoping we could finally chat a bit - outside of a meeting, that is. You've been here almost two months and I'm sorry that I haven't taken the time to get to know you better." He winked.

You suppressed an eye roll and pursed your lips. "What would you like to know?"

You weren't going to make this easy for him, you decided. If he wanted information beyond your resume, or even a friendly conversation, he would have to work for it. You weren't simply going to open up like a flower under the sunshine of his charm.

"Well, I understand you're from Louisville. Beautiful place." He leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees, trying to close the space between you.

"Yes." You scooted all the way to the back of the sofa and crossed your arms, somewhat amused at the difficulty you were giving him. He hadn't expressed any displeasure yet, but you were certain that he was going to get frustrated sooner or later.

"Well, darlin' I had no idea that we were growin' them so smart down there, not to mention so pretty. If I'd known, I would have lured you up here to the big city a lot sooner." He looked like he was about to wink again, or try to devour you.

"Is that so?" God, he was really buttering you up, wasn't he? You crossed one leg over the other, keeping your arms crossed over your chest for good measure.

"Yes, it is. I was awfully impressed by your analysis on the Rex Smith case ‘bout a year ago. I had no clue there were that many shell companies in the mix. I would've thought three, maybe four, tops. But you found thirteen!"

Your jaw dropped a little at that. Not only had he seen your work on your first case as Assistant Director in Louisville, but he had reviewed the case file thoroughly, remembered such a tiny detail, and was also giving you credit? You were starting to think that you had underestimated Agent Whiskey. His charm and sass were legendary, but you now realized that those traits didn’t indicate anything missing in the brains department.

He smirked at your reaction and teased you gently. "Better watch that mouth, darlin'. You're liable to catch a few flies if you don't close it."

Goddamn him. You closed your mouth and tried not to sulk. You didn't like making mistakes, especially not such idiotic ones. If you weren't careful, he was going to knock you on your ass.

"Can I get you that drink now, darlin'?"

"No, thank you. I need to get going." You uncrossed your legs and stood up. Whiskey stood at the same time, and you found yourself entirely too close to him, your bodies just inches apart as you tried to negotiate your exit from the seating area. Something warm that smelled like cedar and smoky bourbon was emanating off of him, and you were certain it was from the expensive side of the cologne department. His coffee-brown eyes held yours, and you caught yourself staring at him while your brain sent you panicky messages to, “Move! Speak! Leave!”

Whiskey let the moment hang, seeming to enjoy every second that passed like torture for you. His eyes were twinkling so hard you thought you saw sparks. You heard yourself exhale a breath that was far more shaky than you would have preferred. He put his hand out to shake yours, and you found yourself imagining what would happen if you bypassed the polite gesture and wrapped your arms and legs around him, knocked him to the floor and kissed that stupid mustache right off his face.

Instead, you reached out to shake his hand and accidentally brushed the front of his hip, just an inch from his crotch.

"Oh my GOD! That was an accident. I'm so sorry, I'm sorry!" You scrunched your eyes closed and buried your face in your hands. Mortification consumed you as you heard Whiskey guffaw. You felt like you were going to die of embarrassment, and you were pissed off that it wasn't a real possibility. Death would have been extremely welcome.

Whiskey put his hands on your shoulders and squeezed. His laughter died down to a soft wheeze. "Hey, look at me."

You dared a glance through your fingers. His eyes twinkled and his white teeth still showed in a wide smile. "I'm sorry I laughed, I know it was an accident. You weren't trying to take advantage."

You moaned and Whiskey chuckled again. "It's alright, darlin'. You didn't break anything."

“Argh! I’m so sorry. That’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done.”

“It’s okay, I didn’t think anything of it.” He pulled you gently toward him, and you did something you never imagined possible: you let him wrap you into a hug.

“I’ll forget it if you will, darlin’.” His deep voice rumbled against your body and you felt yourself melting a little. Tears of embarrassment pricked at your eyes.

You sniffed and pulled back. Whiskey let you go, but kept one hand on your elbow. He looked at you warmly and smiled. “Really, darlin’. Don’t think anything of it.”

You found yourself staring into his dark brown eyes, warm and shiny with humor. The mood shifted almost imperceptibly, turning him magnetic. Something in you snapped and you wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him.

Whiskey hummed a surprised noise against your lips for a moment, then opened his mouth to let you in. His mustache was softer than it looked, and hardly tickled at all as you wrestled each other for satisfaction. You found yourself tumbling down to the couch. Whiskey lay over you with one strong arm wrapped around your lower back, keeping you pressed close against him. His lips and tongue were eager and searching, and you responded in kind, nibbling his plush lower lip and flicking your tongue across the back of his top teeth. The taste of his liquor intermingled with the scent of his cologne, and it sent your senses reeling. He tasted and smelled and felt so good, and you wanted to stay there and drink him in forever.

Your lips parted from Whiskey’s and you took a gulp of air, looking into his brown-black eyes above you. The inrush of oxygen kicked your brain into gear and you felt cold; both from the absence of Whiskey's mouth on yours and from the dose of harsh reality that washed over you. This was wrong... wasn't it? As good as it felt, it wasn't right to make out with the boss in his office, after hours, on a couch for God's sake. What the hell were you thinking?

"Oh, shit!" You shoved Whiskey's shoulders up and away, rolling him toward the back of the couch as you slithered out from underneath him. You landed on the floor, then crouched and stood up. Whiskey shifted on the sofa, turning to lay face up on the plush leather and folding his arms behind his head. His grin hovered somewhere between 'Cheshire cat' and 'kid let loose in a candy store.' You groaned at the sight while irritation and the desire to flop back down on top of him fought equally within you.

"Well now, darlin'. You need to be off somewhere?"

"Yes. This was not a good idea." You waved your hands in front of you as if you were trying to erase a blackboard. "I think I need to leave."

"Feel free to come back anytime, darlin'. I'll be right here."

You took three swift steps toward the door and then spun to face him. "I need you to stop calling me 'darlin''. My name here is Paloma."

He cocked one eyebrow at you as you continued. "And another thing, Agent Whiskey: this never happened."

Before he could respond you yanked his office door open and jogged to the elevator. What the hell was wrong with you?

---

"Ginger, you have got to help me. I don't know what's wrong with me." You shuddered out a breath as you kicked your shoes off and sat down at your kitchen table. At your elbow was the biggest drink you could pour without causing a hangover.

"Are you okay? What happened?"

You gulped. "I kissed him."

"What?! Why?"

"I don't know! I just... I was in his office and he was standing really close to me and then I went to go shake his hand but I accidentally touched his crotch and..." you trailed off as Ginger laughed. "It's not funny, it's embarrassing!"

She giggled at you. "That sounds kind of funny. You'll laugh about it later."

"I won't. I wanted to die of embarrassment, but then he was so nice about it and he was looking at me softly and I just- I kissed him! What the hell is wrong with me?"

"Try not to worry too much. You're not the first lady to make that mistake and you won't be the last. He'll forget about you as soon as someone else catches his eye.”

"Yeah, I know." You weren't sure if being one in a long string of women made you feel better or worse.

"… although it does seem like you have a ‘type’ now.”

“What?!”

“Well he is tall, dark, and handsome. If he weren’t such a jackass I’d say he reminds me of Frankie.”

“Oh, hell no. That is not a fair comparison. They’re nothing alike.”

“You’re right, Frankie was a gem. Listen, just avoid Whiskey and keep your eyes on your work. He'll forget about you and it'll be like it never happened. And as irritating as he is, I know he's not a gossip. Don't worry, this won't get around."

You threw back your head and let out a long breath. "Okay. You're right. All I have to do is my job."

"That's right. And you're really good at your job, Pal. Don't let this derail you, okay?"

"Okay. Thanks, Gin. I appreciate it."

"No problem. Listen, I have to go, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll be coming to New York next week. I have to do some training with, uh, a consultant. And when I’m done we can have a girl’s dinner out, okay? Just try to have a good weekend."

"Thanks, I will. You too."

You sighed and finished your drink. The idea of calling in sick tomorrow floated up, and you seriously considered it. But you had already spent six weeks avoiding Whiskey, and your integrity wouldn’t let you call out without a good reason. You could make it one day until the weekend, right?

---

You awoke Friday morning with a pounding headache and a cotton-dry mouth. You were dreading going to work, but duty called. You showered and dressed as slow as you dared, and found yourself dragging into the office only 15 minutes late. Fortunately, there was enough work to keep you distracted, and at your 10:00 department heads meeting you found out that Whiskey was out of the office for the day. Relief washed over you, and you suddenly felt lighter. You could survive until the weekend without worrying.

The rest of your day was uneventful until around 4:00, when an assistant brought you a vase of fresh flowers that had been delivered to reception. You frowned and looked for a card. The arrangement was beautiful, featuring dark yellow daisy-shaped flowers with fuzzy chocolate brown centers, and pinky-purple blooms shaped like bottle brushes. Both types looked oddly familiar. You leaned closer to examine them as your brain twisted in confusion. Were those...? No way... orange coneflowers and dense blazing stars? Who the heck would send you an arrangement of Kentucky wildflowers? Mom? It wasn't your birthday yet.

You felt an icy ball of lead punch you in the stomach as you opened the notecard: "Even though nothing happened, I had a hell of a time. Hope to see you again. -Jack"

That motherfucker.

Just as you were about to sweep the flowers into the trash, there was a heavy knock on your doorway. You looked up, and your emotions spun from anger to elation so fast you almost threw up. Frankie stood in your doorway, looking soft and rumpled in a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, his sweet curls escaping the same well-loved baseball cap he always wore.

"Frankie!?" You leapt out of your chair and practically ran to him. He swept you up in a bear hug and pulled you six inches off the ground. "Oh my God, Frankie, I'm so glad to see you!"

"Hey, Paloma. I missed you. How's the big promotion? They make you head of the New York office yet?" His deep voice rumbled into your ear softly, and you laughed with joy. You never wanted to let go.

Frankie set you down and broke the embrace, and you immediately grabbed his hand and guided him to one of your visitors chairs. You took a seat in the chair next to him, turning it to face him and get as close as you dared without looking too desperate.

"Oh my gosh, what are you doing here?"

"I'm doing a quick consulting job for Statesman, helping Ginger train a few folks for an extraction. I have to work on the project Monday and Tuesday, and then I'll be in town until Saturday as a tourist. I took the whole week off, so I don't need to be back in Florida until next Sunday." He smiled broadly at you.

You felt your own face split into a wide grin. "Do you need a tour guide? I've been here two whole months. I can show you my favorite coffee shop and we could go to a few museums."

He smiled warmly back at you, and you felt like you had been wrapped in the world's softest blanket. "I'd like that. Statesman gave me an apartment for the week. Should be close by, if you don't mind showing me where it is?" He pulled a slip of paper out of his wallet and read the address.

You threw your head back and cackled.

"What's so funny?"

"That's my apartment! Statesman owns a few units in the same building." You grabbed the piece of paper from his hand to read the apartment number. "You're literally one floor below me for the week."

He grinned. "Well, shit. If I'd known that, I would’ve just told them to let me bunk with you."

You frowned and handed the paper back. "Wouldn't your girlfriend be upset with that?"

Frankie looked down at his shoes. "She's, uh, not my girlfriend anymore. We broke up."

"Oh, Catfish. I'm so sorry." You reached out to squeeze his forearm, and the feel of his warm skin over ropey muscles made you tingle. You vividly remembered how much you used to love grabbing those forearms as he pounded into you, how good they felt wrapped around you in the shower, how strong and safe Frankie felt at all times. You pulled your hand back and cleared your throat.

Frankie stood. "Listen, I gotta take care of a few things this afternoon, but can we go to dinner later? Nothing fancy, if you know anyplace I can go dressed like this," he gestured to his worn jeans and work boots.

"Unless, uh,” he pointed to the flowers on your desk. “Is there a boyfriend who would be mad if I took you out?"

You stood and smiled, biting your lip. "No. There’s no boyfriend, and I'd love to go to dinner. I'll come down to your apartment and pick you up at 7:00? 7:30?"

"Seven is perfect." He hugged you, and the smell of him spun you right back to Louisville. Frankie smelled like clean cotton and hard work, with a faint whiff of mechanic's grease just under the scent of his laundry soap and Old Spice deodorant. You used to tease Frankie about his habit of buying the same deodorant that he’d been using since junior high, but he always swatted you away with a, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.” Now the scent of it made you want to buy every package in the world and always have the smell around you.

When you broke the embrace it was so hard to let go, to not lean in for a kiss like you used to. He seemed to feel it, too, lingering just a moment longer with his arms wrapped around you and smiling wistfully as you finally pulled apart. You wanted to stay in his arms for hours, maybe even stow away on his flight back to Florida.

“I’ll see you at seven, Paloma.”

You felt your goofy grin reappear. “Okay. I’m so glad you’re here, Catfish.”

---

The hours until dinner crawled, and you spent more time than you thought wise trying to get ready. You showered and put on your nicest outfit, which was really just the all-black, most-recently-purchased version of your normal work clothes. Your job at Statesman didn’t call for anything very dressy, so you hadn’t expanded your wardrobe beyond work staples. Still, you spent entirely too long arranging your hair, sweeping it one way and then the other, trying to figure out what jewelry to wear, and then changing your hair again for the third time. You were contemplating another shoe change when your phone alarm went off, warning you that it was five minutes to 7:00. Oh, well, too late to change anything now. You brushed your teeth frantically and hoped Frankie wouldn’t care.

You floated down the stairwell and found yourself grinning idiotically as you rapped at Frankie’s door. He opened it looking exactly the same as he had at 4:00 that afternoon, and you chastised yourself internally for trying to dress up. Your irritation turned to pride, however, when Frankie looked you up and down with a low whistle.

“Jeez, Paloma, you look fantastic. Should I change?” He looked worried.

“No, you look fine! We’re not going anywhere fancy, I promise. I don’t know why I changed clothes, it was silly.”

“No, you look amazing.” He opened his arms for a hug. You felt warmth rush to your face as you leaned in. Frankie was always so eager to please and to compliment you, to make you feel good. You had missed him so much.

The walk to dinner was easy, conversation bouncing between the two of you as you made your way to the restaurant. Frankie filled you in on everything going on in Florida, about his friends and his parents and his job. You spoke enthusiastically about your new position and how much you loved New York. You decided not to share information about either one of your run-ins with Agent Whiskey.

Dinner passed in a swirl of giggles and wine and good food. Frankie made you laugh so hard you almost choked twice, and before you knew it, nearly three hours had passed.

“Frankie, I think the restaurant is going to kick us out if we don’t scoot soon. Do you want to go walk around a little bit?”

He drained his water glass and nodded. “Yeah, where to?”

“We can window shop down the street, and there’s a cute little park nearby.” You arched one eyebrow at him, “Wanna go play on the swings?”

He laughed and nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”

You fought Frankie for the bill before letting him win. “Okay, but the next one is on me, Catfish.”

When you emerged into the summer night, you both took a deep breath, trying to clear your heads of the alcohol haze. You weren’t drunk, just pleasantly buzzed and a little silly. Without thinking, you tucked your arm into Frankie’s and snuggled yourself against him as you wandered along. Store windows were lit up against the dark, and you stopped here and there to look and giggle at displays.

You paused in front of an antique store. The window behind the bars was lined in red velvet, and on each of the little red display pillows sat a piece of vintage jewelry.

You were quietly gazing at an enamel bracelet and a sparkly tiara when Frankie’s voice broke the silence.

“You ever want one of those?”

“A tiara? No. I mean, it might be fun for a hot bubble bath, but I can’t exactly wear it to work.”

“No,” he nudged your arm and tilted his chin toward the far left side of the store window. “An engagement ring.”

You froze and suddenly couldn’t breathe. Your eyes shifted to a sparkly, square-cut sapphire ring sitting on the smallest pillow. You couldn’t form rational thoughts, and you weren’t sure exactly what kind of answer Frankie was expecting.

“I mean- uh, I guess I never thought about it. I haven’t seen anyone since we-” you swallowed hard. “I’ve been single since we broke up.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him, and when he didn’t respond right away you found yourself filling the silence with nervous chatter. “I mean, I tried dating but it never went past a second date, and I don’t know anyone who would propose that early, and anyway I just- I mean I didn’t think- and you left so I didn’t…” you trailed off, realizing that you weren’t making any sense.

Frankie’s voice was low and serious. “I thought about it.”

That broke the spell and you turned to face him. “You thought about it? About me?”

He looked at you, almost shy. “Yeah, I thought about it a couple of months after we started dating. But with your job and my work, and… Well, you know what happened. You were there, same as I was.” He reached out a hand to cup your chin. “I was sorry it didn’t work out for us.”

You sighed and melted into him, “Oh, Frankie.”

He wrapped both arms around your shoulders as you gripped his waist. Your mouths found each other in the dark as if your last kiss had been yesterday. Frankie was warm and solid and familiar, and you found yourself aching to hang on to him, to keep him there with you for as long as you could.

You stood on the sidewalk together for what seemed like hours, exploring each other and passing silent messages back and forth with your lips and tongues and teeth. Slow swirls of the tip of his tongue around yours told you he missed you, and the tiny nips you bit against his bottom lip conveyed an urgency, a need that you couldn't express in words. You found your fingers entwined in his belt loops, pulling him as close as you could, mimicking the kind of connection that really required nakedness and absolute vulnerability together.

You turned sideways to loop your arm around his waist and walk unsteadily back to your apartment building, stealing kisses again and again as you strolled, then paused, then continued on your way. The trip took twice as long as it should have, but neither you nor Frankie was willing to break apart for longer than it took to step down off a curb or glance at a walk signal. You just kept kissing, drunk on each other and wanting more and more; silently cursing the fact that the apartment was still so far away, but reveling in the moments that you could seize right now to embrace each other as you walked.

When you reached your block, you murmured against Frankie’s mouth. “Do you have anything? I don’t have any protection at home.”

He cursed softly, “Shit. No, I didn’t bring…” He didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence as you kissed him again.

“Don’t worry, that’s why I asked. There’s a drugstore right here.”

“I always knew-” he kissed you softly, “... that you were smarter than me.”

You giggled against his mouth and wrapped your arms around his neck. “You’re the one who can fly helicopters. I just stare at data reports all day.”

You walked into the pharmacy holding hands and made it through the checkout line in record time, urgently kissing again when you reached the sidewalk, navigating the final dozen or so yards to your building.

The elevator ride consisted of one long kiss, broken only by Frankie’s urgent, “Mine or yours?” You murmured, “Mine,” and pressed the button for your floor, folding yourself back into his arms. You unlocked your front door while Frankie held you from behind and peppered kisses down your ear and cheek and jaw, distracting you as you fumbled with your keys. When you finally got the door open, you tumbled inside together and slammed the door shut.

Now that you were someplace private, you could undress, fumbling against one another as you struggled to open buttons and zippers and bra clasps in between kisses; to continue your soft caresses while you kicked shoes and pants off and away. Finally you were both standing, wearing only underwear while you continued to embrace. You pulled away from Frankie and picked up the box of condoms where it had dropped, then you took his hand and led him to your bedroom.

You tumbled onto the bed together and continued the makeout session that had started miles away and what seemed like an eternity ago in front of the antique store window. Frankie’s strokes along your ribcage and thighs were light and almost ticklish, so familiar that you wanted to cry. You had no expectations of getting back together and attempting a long-distance relationship, but he was here right now. And that was good, right? It was familiar and lovely and sweet.

Frankie hadn’t changed a bit since you parted 10 months ago, except for a few more grays in his beard and one or two more crinkles when he smiled. You ached and ached for him, even though he was right on top of you, kissing you and touching you and murmuring your name. Your brain kept raising the idea of what would happen in a week when he had to leave, or what might have happened a year ago if Statesman hadn’t demanded so much from both of you. The knowledge that you had missed becoming Frankie’s wife because of shitty circumstances, combined with the threat of losing him again in just a few days time punched you in the throat, and a sob escaped your lips as tears sprang to your eyes.

“What’s wrong, babe? Did I hurt you?” Frankie looked you over, rolling to one side to examine your face with a worried scowl. He propped himself up on one elbow and hovered over you.

“No, I’m just-” You sniffed back another sob. “I just wasn’t expecting to see you, and I’m so glad you’re here. It’s just a lot, that’s all.”

He brushed a tear from your cheek. “We don’t have to do this right now; not if you don’t want to. I didn’t come here with the expectation that you would jump back into bed with me.”

Your heart leapt at that. Same old sweet Frankie, doing everything he could to treat you tenderly, to care for you. You knew that if you tried to explain everything you were feeling, he would probably take it personally. Frankie hated to see you hurting, and doubly so if he thought he was the one who had caused it.

“I might just need a minute. I’m okay, I promise. It’s just been a weird week.”

You decided to joke, to lighten the mood and try to ease Frankie’s worry. “My old boyfriend is back in town, and I just found out that I missed out on him being my husband, and I also kind of kissed my boss yesterday, so I’m not in a real ‘steady’ place right now.”

Frankie frowned at that. “You kissed Bill?”

“Oh, no! No, not my boss-boss.” You paused, unsure of whether or not Frankie would hate you for your next words. “I kissed Agent Whiskey.”

Frankie’s eyebrows nearly leapt off his forehead, but he didn’t sit up or let go of you. He didn’t run out of the room screaming. “Is there something I should know?”

“It was a mistake. I was in his office and I accidentally touched his crotch-” Frankie’s eyebrows raised another impossible inch as you continued, “Truly an accident, a horrible, embarrassing accident. And then I think I just felt really vulnerable and lonely and I kissed him.”

Frankie nodded. “It happens, I guess.” He looked at you tenderly. “Although I’ve never kissed my boss. He always has food in his beard.” You erupted in giggles and tucked your face against Frankie’s chest. He stroked your arm and shoulder, laughing against your hair.

Your giggles subsided, and you rolled away from Frankie, laying on your stomach and folding your arms under your chin. You sighed and turned your face to him. “I am glad you’re here, though. I really missed you.” You paused, trying to formulate your next words.

“It took me a long time to get over you, and I’m honestly not sure I ever did. If we hadn’t both had so much work and conflicting schedules, if things had been different-” Frankie leaned over and cut you off with a soft kiss.

“You don’t have to tell me how things could have been different.” He stroked your temple. “After we broke up I just couldn’t handle working around you. I didn’t hate you, I just had to leave. It hurt too much to stay.”

“I’m sorry, Frankie.”

“No, don’t apologize. It wasn’t you, it wasn’t me, it was just life.” Frankie leaned over and kissed your cheek, stroking your back with feather-light touches, raising goosebumps as silence settled over the both of you.

His touch felt amazing, conjuring electricity where his fingers met your skin. Tingles started to form in your pelvis and you found your breath shuddering in time with Frankie’s caresses. You sat up and moved to straddle him, entwining your fingers with his and pinning his hands to the bed next to his ears.

Neither one of you spoke as you rolled your hips gently on his and stole kiss after kiss, feeling his erection grow and press harder against your vulva, still separated by the fabric of both your underwear and his. Finally you broke your grip on his hands and Frankie reached up to cup your breasts. You arched your back to press yourself into his palms, and your nipples stiffened with the friction and the heat of his touch. You grabbed the backs of his hands and pressed them harder against you, as if you could multiply the sensations that were zipping through your body.

You leaned down for another kiss and then swung your leg off and over him. You stood next to the bed and pulled your panties off, then reached over Frankie to grip his waistband. He lifted his hips to assist you, and when his cock sprung free you nearly gasped at how much you missed him and missed this, the intimacy and the raw electricity and the closeness. You reached out to stroke his length a few times, running the pad of your thumb gently up the underside and over his slit. He was damp there, but not leaking yet, and you let go only to grab the box of condoms and rip it open.

“Here,” you handed him a foil packet and let him put it on. When he was covered you gripped him again and gave him three firm, slow pumps, pulling a moan out of the deepest part of his chest. You straddled him again and hovered over him, making eye contact as you lined up to insert him, taking him into the most intimate part of you. He stroked one large hand from your knee to your ass, then cupped both cheeks and pulled you slightly apart to help guide him in. You closed your eyes and let out a soft hiss as he entered. Everything felt so good and familiar, like no time had passed at all, like he had never left.

When you were fully seated on him, you placed your palms on his shoulders for leverage, watching with delight as the tendons in his neck flexed and his Adam’s apple bobbed, veins throbbing on either side of his beautiful throat as you rode him. He reached one hand down to thumb your clit, pressing and petting it and drawing whimpers from you as the pleasure swelled within you. Neither one of you spoke as you gazed into each other, moving together in a practiced rhythm, increasing the pace and the tempo and the force until you were shaking the whole bed. Then your head spun and you found yourself crying out his name as you climaxed around him. You slumped over him and buried your face in his neck, that gorgeous soft crook between his throat and his shoulder. He braced his feet and thrust up into you. Chills wracked your body as you squeezed and fluttered around his cock. He grunted and clenched his jaw, “I’m coming.” And then he pulled you closer and froze, holding you there as he filled the condom. When he relaxed his thighs and arms, you reached down and gripped the base of the condom to keep it on him as you rolled sideways and off.

You both lay staring at the ceiling, recovering your breath, trying to remember where you were and why anything outside of your shared pleasure mattered.

---

Frankie stayed at your apartment all weekend. The two of you kissed and caressed, showered and fucked, made breakfasts and dinners, watched movies and slept curled together, until you almost forgot how much you had missed each other, almost forgot the fact that he would have to leave.

On Monday you and Frankie walked to the office together and kissed at the front desk, parting ways for the day. You ran into Ginger in the hallway and squealed and gave her a hug. She smiled at you and wiggled her eyebrows. “Did you see who our consultant is for this project?”

“Yes! He came by my office on Friday and we went to dinner.” You leaned over to lower your voice and murmur, “And we spent all weekend together.”

Ginger laughed and you grinned and rolled your eyes. “It’s nice. I don’t know if we’re ‘back together’ or anything, but I’ll have fun hanging out with him while he’s here.”

Ginger bit her lip, “I’m glad. I know you guys really missed each other, but I’m happy you can see him while he’s here.”

“Me, too.”

You and Ginger made plans to have lunch together that afternoon, and your mood was light as you entered your office. It dampened a bit when you saw the flowers from Whiskey that were still sitting there. And it dropped further when you saw a note from one of your staff saying that Whiskey had requested that you come see him when you arrived this morning. You decided that you would just have to treat him like nothing had happened, and keep your head up. After all, you were on cloud nine with Frankie in town, so what’s the worst that could happen?

You found Mary’s desk empty, so you squared your shoulders and knocked on Whiskey’s door. He could try to irritate you all he wanted, but you were going to be cool as a cucumber.

When he opened the door, Whiskey grinned at you and motioned you in. You opted to stand next to his desk with your arms crossed. If this was business, you would keep it businesslike. He walked up to you and raised an eyebrow, still grinning like a fool.

You looked at him and frowned. What was his deal?

He started the conversation cryptically, “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Did you get my flowers?”

You opted for the driest tone you could, “Yes. Thank you.”

He nodded, “Good. Listen, darlin’-”

You interrupted him. “Paloma.”

“Right, Paloma. I’d love to take you out to dinner sometime and apologize again for behaving like a jackass in that meeting a few weeks back.” He placed both of his large, warm hands on your arms and squeezed. “If we could see our way clear to some kind of understanding, I think I’d like it very much if we could-” a knock on his door cut him off.

Mary opened it and stuck her head in. “Agent Whiskey? I have the consultant here for your 9:00 meeting.”

Whiskey hissed out a breath and sounded disappointed. “Right.”

You pounced on the opportunity to escape. “I’ll just get going.”

Mary opened the door all the way and Frankie walked halfway in, freezing at the sight of you and Whiskey standing so close together. Guilt creeped up, even though you had no reason to feel that way, and you fought the urge to apologize to Frankie.

You and Agent Whiskey spoke at the same time, words jumbling together as Frankie approached to shake hands with Whiskey.

“Hi, Agent Whiskey. You can call me Ja-”

“Frankie, hi. I was just-”

“Oh, do you two already know-”

“We used to-”

You found yourself standing next to them as they shook hands and sized each other up. Your own discomfort was so strong that you almost didn’t notice that they were jostling each other as if they were fighting for dominance. A strange energy settled over the three of you as they stared at each other. If you didn’t know any better, you would have said it felt like they were fighting over you.

“Whiskey, this is Frankie Morales. He and I used to work-” Frankie cut you off, something he normally would never do, and his next words mortified you.

“Paloma and I used to date when we worked together in Louisville.”

You groaned. You weren’t embarrassed that you had dated Frankie, but the less information Whiskey had about your personal life, the better.

“Is that so? Well, I didn’t know that.” Whiskey’s voice was as smooth as the leather on his couch, and he cocked an eyebrow at you. Instead of irritating you, it had the effect of sending a flutter to your crotch. You gulped, hard.

Whiskey turned back to Frankie. “Any big plans while you’re here in New York?”

“Paloma and I are going out.”

“We’re what?” Your voice was louder than you had meant it to be and both men turned to look at you. You felt stunned by the double gaze, the two pairs of dark brown eyes, the strong noses and lovely mouths; features so similar to one another now that you saw them together. Maybe Ginger was right, maybe you did have a “type.”

Your brain did a somersault, throwing up the most shocking and simultaneously wonderful idea, and you wished you could banish the thought back to whatever delicious hellhole it had sprung from. You almost burst into tears, thinking that the stress of your job had finally broken your brain. Under normal circumstances, the idea and all of its implications would have been curious, but under the current circumstances it was absolutely ridiculous. The absurd, impossible word had popped into your head entirely uninvited: “Threesome.”

Frankie and Whiskey stared at you for three long, agonizing seconds, then they both spoke the same word at the same time.

“WHAT?”

“Oh, shit. Did I say that out loud?” ---

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ogmosis · 4 years

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CRIME FICTION INTERVIEW: ROD REYNOLDS

Rod Reynolds is one of the best crime fiction authors to emerge in the last five years, his Charlie Yates trilogy set in the USA up there with other British writers such as Ray Celestin as well as Americans like Attica Locke and James Lee Burke. I had heard of Rod's work in the industry, but it wasn't until lockdown that I had the time to indulge in his writing. His ear for American dialogue from the 1940s is excellent, while his plotting and characters draw you in - the protagonists and antagonists constantly criss-crossing the line between good and evil. After moving on from Charlie and Faber for the time being, his latest book Blood Red City for Orenda Books is set in London - the city where he grew up as a council estate boy. Rod kindly took time out from working on his new book to talk about his career journey, inspirations and fitting writing in around bringing up young children.

How did a lad from Camden end up mining 1940s America for his first published novels?

I took a sabbatical from advertising in 2010 for a year to try and write a novel. I took a distance learning course with The London School of Journalism. I had never written anything, even though I have always been a big reader of crime. I grew up on a council estate in Camden and I didn't know anyone who had ever done anything like that. It was only as I got older, one of my old bosses was writing a book and he said, "You know what, why can't it be someone like us". I wrote a novel, sent it off to a million agents and got rejected, but got some really nice feedback saying, “This story doesn't work, but keep writing”. I went back to work with a new job, real life took over for a couple of years and it got to a point where I needed to decide whether I needed to do anything with this or put it away as a flight of fancy. I had the idea for the book that would become The Dark Inside after I stumbled across a real-life case that inspired it and I did some research into it. I had the voice at least that would become the character of Charlie Yates and it was quite vivid in my mind, so to give myself a shove I signed up to do the Masters course at City, University of London in novel writing. I was really lucky as it was the first year they ran a crime specific course with novelist Claire McGowan, amongst others. I had some amazing teaching that helped me develop the book and I ended up getting picked up by my first agent before I graduated then, not too long after, I landed with Faber. Lucky coming together of different circumstances.

How hard was it to change your mindset from advertising to novel writing?

I was a buyer in advertising, so that was a very social job. Great in some ways as you could get to take clients to drinks, dinner and parties, but I was working silly hours. I had reached my natural conclusion with advertising as I had done my 10-year stint. I wasn't passionate about it anymore. I was specifically dealing with newspapers, which was a declining sector of the industry. I was already looking at having to change my skill set if I wanted to carry on, so it wasn't too hard for me to walk away in that sense. I miss being around the office with the team I worked with. If I could have done the job from Thursday lunchtime to Friday evening, I would have happily done that forever. The rest of the week I could leave out. One of the reasons that I wanted to do the City of London course, because I was working full-time, I needed something to structure me and find that time in my week to write. I was also working on a deadline that we were due our first child halfway through the course, so I had to get that done. After I left my job, I swapped with my wife once she finished her maternity leave so I was looking after our little one at the time. It was helpful in a way because the only time I could write was at nap time or in the evenings. No time to worry about whether it was perfect, so I just got the words out and got the book done. Towards the end of the second novel, we were expecting our second child so the book had to be done again. My kids are school age now. I kind of look back and think, "How the hell did I work to those restrictions?" It is like anything - you get used to it and find a way.

I think Charlie Yates is one of the most flawed and interesting crime fiction protagonists we have seen in recent years, so how did he evolve?

James Ellroy was the big starting point for me, even after I got into Chandler, Hammett et al. Charlie started out as a voice that I could hear in my head, even if that sounds ephemeral or arty. I had this world weary, beaten down, over the hill journalist who kind of hated himself. I could hear how he would approach this situation whereby he is taken from being cynical in New York City and plunged into this seemingly nothing story in the Deep South which suddenly becomes very important to him, because he can see the effect on people in the town, the victims and their families. It is a matter of life and death. It is based on the real-life Texarkana Moonlight Murders in 1946. I wanted to fictionalise that scenario. The reason he comes from New York is that I read that a journalist from The Times in London was sent over to cover it, but it felt a little bit contrived so the next best alien place for me was New York as it was closer to understanding someone's life from London than somewhere else.

Did the clever FBI through line arrive at the start of your outlining?

Initially it was only going to be a standalone book, then I was going to write a second novel set in the same universe with different characters - something that Ellroy has done and I love. When Faber bought The Dark Inside, they asked for Charlie to come back and that wasn't too tricky. Colt Tanner came about essentially as someone I wanted to write to challenge myself and have fun with. He is unashamedly on both sides of the law. He is willing to do bad things, but he is on the side of the angels in his own mind. He is utterly convinced that the ends justify the means because of what he is trying to achieve. Charlie has got his own flaws and is riddled with self-doubt, while Colt is absolutely certain of his own moral rectitude.

How difficult was the Bugsy Siegel arc to write about?

I have been lucky enough to travel to Las Vegas a number of times over the years and I wanted to write something set there in the early days because it was such a sleazy, strange, literal desert outpost that became almost overnight this gambling mecca. I hadn't planned to involve it in the series and, when I travelled to Texarkana on a research trip and I was finishing up a draft of The Dark Inside, we were driving to Memphis to catch a flight to somewhere else and we passed this town called Hot Springs. I started reading up on the history of this town and how it had been run by this English gangster, who was sent down from New York and all this incredible history that it had. Bugsy Siegel was a regular visitor there and it looks like he took some of its influence as the blueprint for Vegas. Suddenly it just came together. That was book two sorted and I had a story I wanted to tell, and I can then link that straight to Bugsy finishing off the Flamingo in Vegas throughout book three. I was very lucky that Hot Springs, this town in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas that was really isolated in a valley fifty miles down the road from Texarkana, was Siegel's favourite location.

Are you a pantser or a plotter?

I love dialogue. I enjoy it the most and find it the most natural. I am a reluctant plotter. I started out as a pantser with a plan only really in my head but, with each book, the more I plan at the start the more it helps me at the back end. I was worried that it would stifle creativity and actually it is not really the case. I can now start with the synopsis and a route map I know I am going to try and follow. If I veer off from that and find better ways that is not a problem, but it is when you don't have that and don't know how to get from A to B or E to F in the middle of the story - that is when you can end up struggling.

Did you struggle getting back into a British groove for the new book?

All the stuff that I had written had been set in the States, even my first novel that was unpublished. You think it would be easy to write British as it is all around us and I am also writing in the present day without having to worry about anachronisms and regional dialects which was a tricky thing with the previous books, but it took a while to get those beats to make it sound authentic and the way I heard it in my head. I am not one for sharing my stuff until I am absolutely happy with it and satisfied it is as good as I can make it, then I am quite lucky in that I have a couple of trusted readers that I send it to. One will tell me if the story is good and then one will find any tiny mistake that I have made and picks up stuff even copy editors can miss. Karen Sullivan from Orenda Books is great. She does the first edit for Orenda, then we work with West Camel who is her editor and he goes through it a second time and incorporates his feedback. It is nice to have that two-stage process. Blood Red City is out in paperback and has done really well. Financial Times picked it as one of their summer reads. The reviews have been great and people have been getting in touch to say that they have enjoyed it. Orenda have a big network of bloggers and readers on board and that is helpful as it touches on themes that some people might find off-putting. It starts with financial crime and I didn't want to put it solely in that direction as it is about murder and London. Orenda have a small team, but they have built an incredible presence.

What are your hopes going forward?

The story I am working on at the moment has elements of a psychological thriller about it, even though it didn't start out that way. This new one was supposed to be a big departure. I was looking at something like a Sliding Doors thing with parallel lives, but at the start of lockdown I cut half the story, which was quite painful, but I am enjoying writing it. I also have a second book with Orenda, which is going through edits and is set in the present day in the States based on another real-life case. Hopefully that is out in 2021. As a community, you will do well to find a warmer or more welcoming bunch of people than we have in crime fiction. You think there would be some competitiveness, but I haven't seen any.

Find out more about Rod HERE. Buy Rod’s Charlie Yates trilogy HERE. Check out his new book Blood Red City HERE.

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