Fake News: Prey Mentality
Apr. 10th, 2007 12:49 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ptahrrificTitle: Prey Mentality
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Genre: Drama to Stephen, comedy to the rest of us
Rating: PG-13 for the contents of Stephen's dirty, dirty mind
Words: ~2400
Disclaimer: The usual two.
For the Report characters: The Colbert Report characters are property of Stephen, Eric Drysdale, and the other Report writers. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: The first fic in which I really dug into Stephen's elaborate system of denial, repression, sublimation, and projection.
Started this shortly after the Bill O'Reilly show ("Jon Stewart is a sexual predator"), and finished it after hearing Stephen's follow-up next week ("I did not do it right away, Bill! We talked, we went to dinner … I thought we made a connection. The whole thing felt very organic"). Comes with an associated sketch.
Has been sequeled by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gaudy_night: When a Predator Catches Its Prey.
Prey Mentality
When Stephen first met his new boss, his strongest impression was that the man didn't look very professional. Stewart wore a grey T-shirt and khakis, and Stephen studied them for some symbol of authority, some detail that would carry the moral weight of Stephen's own pressed collars, crisp ties, and expensive cufflinks. Nothing. The shirt was rumpled, the khakis cuffed unevenly, and one of his shoelaces untied.
That was when Stephen realized that Stewart was looking him up and down.
He puffed up slightly as Stewart noticed the cufflinks. Then, with a friendly "I look forward to working with you," the new host moved on to talk with someone else.
Only later, as he was running through the event in his mind (and double-checking Stewart's appearance - the clothes were clean, at least, the shirt falling gracefully across his chest, the khakis loose but still hinting at the shape of the legs underneath) did it occur to Stephen that there might have been something else going on.
Was Stewart checking him out?
†
Stephen sat across from Jon at the latter's desk, trying to pitch him a segment that would surely be a bombshell for the show if only he could be made to understand it.
"When I press the button," he tried again, "it triggers a succession of images behind me..."
"Wait, how do we rig up the images?" interrupted Jon.
"It's just a video montage on a screen. I'm standing in front of a screen."
"So if the wall is a screen, where do we put the button?"
"It's not exactly a button. It's almost more like a lever."
Jon's eyebrows were getting more furrowed by the second. A few more minutes and they'd tie themselves in a knot.
"Here," he said suddenly, pushing back his chair and rolling it around the desk to be beside Stephen. "Draw it." And he held out a pen and flipped over a page from an old script draft, giving the correspondent a smooth blue expanse to fill.
As Stephen took the pen, Jon's fingers brushed his, in a manner that he might not have thought was inappropriate if not for the tingle that ran up his spine.
Best not to think about it. Not until this pitch was finished. He pulled off the cap with his teeth and held it there, clenched gently, as he penned a stick figure, the display, and the slender contraption with a knob on the end that would rise up before him, the one that he had already started to think of as the God Machine.
Jon leaned closer; he was nearly bumped several times by Stephen's elbow, but didn't pull away. Surely this violated some workplace law about personal space?
There were laws about comfort, at least, and this was making Stephen very uncomfortable. He could feel his heart pounding with apprehension.
Just as he was about to speak up, though, Jon pulled away. "Oh, I get it," he said. "It's a lot simpler than I thought. I'm sure props can get a mock-up in by next week. Write me some material and we'll see how it goes, okay?"
He smiled as innocently as a saint, and Stephen, wondering if his boss had given up on the ulterior motives, agreed.
†
Stephen wasn't stealing, really - just borrowing. If he were fast enough, Ed wouldn't ever realize the device had been gone.
The uncomfortable moments had continued. Oh, Jon was a crafty one. He never did anything too overt, anything that could be pinned down. But every few days there would be a glance, a touch, or something as subtle as a suggestive pose, something that would leave Stephen's palms sweating and his heart racing.
He had to put his doubts to rest. Ed's device wouldn't be enough to build a court case, but it would at least confirm that he wasn't crazy.
Luck was with Stephen: an opportunity came within the hour, when he caught Jon walking into the, well, john. He switched the device on, slipped it into his pocket, and followed, stationing himself before the mirror and acting very absorbed in the image within it. (This did not strain Stephen's acting skills.)
It wasn't long before he heard a flush, and then Jon was at the sink next to him, washing his hands in a businesslike manner. Stephen focused studiously on his own pores.
"Am I getting grey hairs?" asked Jon abruptly.
Stephen jumped, then turned more calmly to look. "A couple, yeah."
"Drat." Jon eyed his hairline from a few more angles, then let out a sigh of resignation. "I'm going to look like a fossil in five years, you watch."
It was a transparent ploy - the personal put-down meant to elicit a compliment - but so caught up by Jon's scheming was Stephen (was there a name for this phenomenon? Stockholm syndrome, perhaps?) that he couldn't help himself. "I think it makes you look distinguished," he announced.
Jon looked surprised, then smiled in relief. "Thank you, my friend," he said, patting Stephen on the shoulder - and sending a tremor up his spine - before leaving.
As soon as the door swung closed behind Jon, Stephen pulled the Homometer out of his pocket and switched its display to show the last five minutes' worth of readings.
They had gone off the scale.
†
He tried to avoid being alone with Jon, or getting too close to him. Didn't want to give him any opportunities. Maybe it was dangerous to prolong the issue like that, but Stephen found that he enjoyed his job, and he didn't want to jeopardize it.
So he jumped at the chance to do a report on the "Dirty Dozen", a set of toys declared dangerous for children, because he could test and report on them from the Daily Show Child Gift Safety Headquarters rather than having to sit across a desk from Jon. Even that had started to feel uncomfortably close.
At first the report went well; he demonstrated the shortcomings of assorted fighting figures, lauded a NERF machine gun and Pokémon playset, and was dismissing a video game as "kinda gay" - the worst insult he could think of - when his boss appeared beside him.
He played it cool. "Jon, what are you doing in the headquarters?"
"...I took a cab." They were practically shoulder to shoulder. (Well, cheek to shoulder.) But they were still broadcasting, still in front of a live audience. That made Stephen feel safe.
Then it made him cocky.
In retrospect, the little pink dress was probably a bad idea, and it might have made it worse when he held it up and declared, in an affected falsetto, "I'm Jon Stewart - I'm a pretty little girl!" But really, he was half a head taller than his boss; for all his apprehension, Stephen had always figured he could take the man.
But then Jon grabbed his arm, and before he realized what was happening he was thoroughly at the man's mercy.
The bone-crunching sound effect was fake, but the power was terrifyingly real. Stephen was released an instant later, before he had time to catch his breath, let alone object. Numbly, he bowed with Jon to the camera.
†
Stephen had reported on post-traumatic stress syndrome. He suspected that was what he had. He kept having flashbacks, feeling the grip of Jon's hands on his arm, the intensity of it making him shake.
Now that he had felt the man's strength, his nervous mind couldn't stop imagining worst-case scenarios. One day, he would be working late, not realizing that everybody but Jon had left the building. Then he would get up, to go to the restroom or grab a coffee or raid the supply closet for pens. On the way there, he would hear footsteps behind him.
"Working late?" Jon would say, voice low, evocative.
Stephen would turn. "Y-yeah," he would stutter. "I didn't realize it was this late ... I should be going."
"Nonsense," Jon would reply, the corners of his mouth quirking up, one hand tucked jauntily in a pocket. He would take a step closer. Stephen, almost instinctively, would take a step back, then realize he couldn't go any farther.
He would glance at the wall behind him, hoping he was mistaken, and when he looked back Jon would be right in front of him. Involuntarily, he would shiver.
"Cold?" Jon would ask, voice dripping with innuendo.
He would be so close now - not touching, but so close - that Stephen could feel his body heat, and the correspondent's voice would tremble as he replied, "N-no."
He'd try to edge out sideways, but suddenly Jon's hand would be on his arm, and the correspondent would let out a little moan of fear as his boss leaned down and--
--no, he would have to lean up, standing on tiptoe and--
--but that wasn't very threatening. More likely, he would slide a hand up the front of Stephen's shirt, snaking it up behind the tie, then curl two fingers around the loop of it and draw him helplessly down to--
"Mr. Colbert!"
Stephen started so violently that he fell out of his chair; he picked himself up quickly, heart all aflutter. He was safely in his own office, it was afternoon, and at the door was the least threatening person imaginable: one of the stagehands, an unassuming man with untidy brown hair and thick glasses.
"What is it?" gasped Stephen, trying to focus on taking deep breaths.
"You - you're wanted on set, sir. Rehearsal's starting."
"Right, right. Give me a minute. I'll be right down."
The stagehand nodded and slipped away; Stephen mastered his breath, open a desk drawer, pulled out the Evian bottle that hadn't been filled with anything as weak as water in months, and took a healthy swig.
Then he looked at the clock. Sure enough, rehearsal had started while he was reminiscing. For a good half hour he had been wholly distracted by the possibility of being manhandled by Jon Stewart.
Whatever Jon was doing, it was working.
†
The discomfort reached its peak when the man's advances began affecting his dreams.
For a few days it was just vague sensory images - the sensation of being chased, climaxing in the grip of a hand on his arm. Then one night he awoke, shaking, with such vivid memories of being thrown roughly down upon the studio couch that it took a few minutes for him to understand that it hadn't really happened.
The next day found Stephen in his office, staring blankly into space, doing nothing but absently chewing on a pen. His response to the knock on his door was an automatic, unconscious "Come in."
He snapped back to reality in a flash when he realized who it was. "Don't shut the door!" he exclaimed.
"Um, okay." Jon left it open. "Why?"
"Need the fresh air," replied Stephen quickly.
"But it was closed before..."
Stephen twisted the pen in his hands. "Why are you here?"
"I'm worried about you, Stephen," replied Jon, all innocence. "You've seemed distracted recently. Are you okay?"
"Fine. Fine. Never better."
"You don't look fine." The host took a seat across from Stephen. "You're flushed. You might have a fever." With that, he reached over the desk and pressed his palm to the correspondent's forehead.
It was entirely unconscionable to inflict upon someone, without their consent, the feelings that this gesture inflicted on Stephen.
It was Jon's most blatant advance yet, and his victim could not have felt more powerless. His lips parted slightly to protest, but nothing came out. So he sat, mute and frozen, conscious of nothing but the firm press of the palm on his forehead and the intent stare of the blue-grey eyes upon it.
After what felt like hours, the hand pulled away.
"You don't feel feverish, but you still don't look good," pronounced the host. "Can I get you anything? Bottle of water? Aspirin?"
Stephen was, admittedly, not thinking straight (his mind full of thoughts of that hand running down the side of his face, cupping his jaw, tracing his neck, slipping under his shirt collar), but he remembered hearing somewhere that you had to get yourself out of situations like this, so he blurted out, "Can I have my own show?"
†
Sixty seconds of interaction per day, four days a week, via satellite. Stephen could handle this level of interaction. Jon never managed more than a suggestively raised eyebrow or a subtle leer: things so subtle that the audience probably never picked up on them.
With his own show, Stephen shone. Given room to stretch, he grew. He had hundreds of business lunches with his stage manager. He grew brave enough to bring Jon onto his own set, and survived.
But he was never brave enough to talk about what had almost occurred, what had occurred, until he was in the presence of a figure whom he feared and loved more than anyone save Jesus Christ himself.
"I have a restraining order out on Jon Stewart," he announced - it was the truthiness; he had a restraining order in his gut - as Bill O'Reilly took a seat. "The man is a sexual predator."
Papa Bear nodded his acceptance, made no judgment, and graciously changed the subject. Stephen's reverence for the man was already signed, sealed, and stamped, but this move only deepened it. He felt understood. He felt loved. He felt that he could finally move beyond the pain of the sexual harassment and focus on the present.
Which was a good thing, because the present was looking up. He had offered to take O'Reilly to dinner that night, and not only had his idol accepted, the man had a restaurant in mind already. Apparently it had great falafels.
Fandom: The Colbert Report
Genre: Drama to Stephen, comedy to the rest of us
Rating: PG-13 for the contents of Stephen's dirty, dirty mind
Words: ~2400
Disclaimer: The usual two.
For the Report characters: The Colbert Report characters are property of Stephen, Eric Drysdale, and the other Report writers. Not mine. Sue me not, please.
And for the real people, the poem:
Please, make no mistake:
these people aren't fake,
but what's said here is no more than fiction.
It only was writ
because we like their wit
and wisecracks, and pull-squints, and diction.
We don't mean to quibble,
but this can't be libel;
it's never implied to be real.
No disrespect's meant;
if you disapprove, then,
the back button's right up there. Deal.
Notes: The first fic in which I really dug into Stephen's elaborate system of denial, repression, sublimation, and projection.
Started this shortly after the Bill O'Reilly show ("Jon Stewart is a sexual predator"), and finished it after hearing Stephen's follow-up next week ("I did not do it right away, Bill! We talked, we went to dinner … I thought we made a connection. The whole thing felt very organic"). Comes with an associated sketch.
Has been sequeled by
gaudy_night: When a Predator Catches Its Prey.Prey Mentality
When Stephen first met his new boss, his strongest impression was that the man didn't look very professional. Stewart wore a grey T-shirt and khakis, and Stephen studied them for some symbol of authority, some detail that would carry the moral weight of Stephen's own pressed collars, crisp ties, and expensive cufflinks. Nothing. The shirt was rumpled, the khakis cuffed unevenly, and one of his shoelaces untied.
That was when Stephen realized that Stewart was looking him up and down.
He puffed up slightly as Stewart noticed the cufflinks. Then, with a friendly "I look forward to working with you," the new host moved on to talk with someone else.
Only later, as he was running through the event in his mind (and double-checking Stewart's appearance - the clothes were clean, at least, the shirt falling gracefully across his chest, the khakis loose but still hinting at the shape of the legs underneath) did it occur to Stephen that there might have been something else going on.
Was Stewart checking him out?
†
Stephen sat across from Jon at the latter's desk, trying to pitch him a segment that would surely be a bombshell for the show if only he could be made to understand it.
"When I press the button," he tried again, "it triggers a succession of images behind me..."
"Wait, how do we rig up the images?" interrupted Jon.
"It's just a video montage on a screen. I'm standing in front of a screen."
"So if the wall is a screen, where do we put the button?"
"It's not exactly a button. It's almost more like a lever."
Jon's eyebrows were getting more furrowed by the second. A few more minutes and they'd tie themselves in a knot.
"Here," he said suddenly, pushing back his chair and rolling it around the desk to be beside Stephen. "Draw it." And he held out a pen and flipped over a page from an old script draft, giving the correspondent a smooth blue expanse to fill.
As Stephen took the pen, Jon's fingers brushed his, in a manner that he might not have thought was inappropriate if not for the tingle that ran up his spine.
Best not to think about it. Not until this pitch was finished. He pulled off the cap with his teeth and held it there, clenched gently, as he penned a stick figure, the display, and the slender contraption with a knob on the end that would rise up before him, the one that he had already started to think of as the God Machine.
Jon leaned closer; he was nearly bumped several times by Stephen's elbow, but didn't pull away. Surely this violated some workplace law about personal space?
There were laws about comfort, at least, and this was making Stephen very uncomfortable. He could feel his heart pounding with apprehension.
Just as he was about to speak up, though, Jon pulled away. "Oh, I get it," he said. "It's a lot simpler than I thought. I'm sure props can get a mock-up in by next week. Write me some material and we'll see how it goes, okay?"
He smiled as innocently as a saint, and Stephen, wondering if his boss had given up on the ulterior motives, agreed.
†
Stephen wasn't stealing, really - just borrowing. If he were fast enough, Ed wouldn't ever realize the device had been gone.
The uncomfortable moments had continued. Oh, Jon was a crafty one. He never did anything too overt, anything that could be pinned down. But every few days there would be a glance, a touch, or something as subtle as a suggestive pose, something that would leave Stephen's palms sweating and his heart racing.
He had to put his doubts to rest. Ed's device wouldn't be enough to build a court case, but it would at least confirm that he wasn't crazy.
Luck was with Stephen: an opportunity came within the hour, when he caught Jon walking into the, well, john. He switched the device on, slipped it into his pocket, and followed, stationing himself before the mirror and acting very absorbed in the image within it. (This did not strain Stephen's acting skills.)
It wasn't long before he heard a flush, and then Jon was at the sink next to him, washing his hands in a businesslike manner. Stephen focused studiously on his own pores.
"Am I getting grey hairs?" asked Jon abruptly.
Stephen jumped, then turned more calmly to look. "A couple, yeah."
"Drat." Jon eyed his hairline from a few more angles, then let out a sigh of resignation. "I'm going to look like a fossil in five years, you watch."
It was a transparent ploy - the personal put-down meant to elicit a compliment - but so caught up by Jon's scheming was Stephen (was there a name for this phenomenon? Stockholm syndrome, perhaps?) that he couldn't help himself. "I think it makes you look distinguished," he announced.
Jon looked surprised, then smiled in relief. "Thank you, my friend," he said, patting Stephen on the shoulder - and sending a tremor up his spine - before leaving.
As soon as the door swung closed behind Jon, Stephen pulled the Homometer out of his pocket and switched its display to show the last five minutes' worth of readings.
They had gone off the scale.
†
He tried to avoid being alone with Jon, or getting too close to him. Didn't want to give him any opportunities. Maybe it was dangerous to prolong the issue like that, but Stephen found that he enjoyed his job, and he didn't want to jeopardize it.
So he jumped at the chance to do a report on the "Dirty Dozen", a set of toys declared dangerous for children, because he could test and report on them from the Daily Show Child Gift Safety Headquarters rather than having to sit across a desk from Jon. Even that had started to feel uncomfortably close.
At first the report went well; he demonstrated the shortcomings of assorted fighting figures, lauded a NERF machine gun and Pokémon playset, and was dismissing a video game as "kinda gay" - the worst insult he could think of - when his boss appeared beside him.
He played it cool. "Jon, what are you doing in the headquarters?"
"...I took a cab." They were practically shoulder to shoulder. (Well, cheek to shoulder.) But they were still broadcasting, still in front of a live audience. That made Stephen feel safe.
Then it made him cocky.
In retrospect, the little pink dress was probably a bad idea, and it might have made it worse when he held it up and declared, in an affected falsetto, "I'm Jon Stewart - I'm a pretty little girl!" But really, he was half a head taller than his boss; for all his apprehension, Stephen had always figured he could take the man.
But then Jon grabbed his arm, and before he realized what was happening he was thoroughly at the man's mercy.
The bone-crunching sound effect was fake, but the power was terrifyingly real. Stephen was released an instant later, before he had time to catch his breath, let alone object. Numbly, he bowed with Jon to the camera.
†
Stephen had reported on post-traumatic stress syndrome. He suspected that was what he had. He kept having flashbacks, feeling the grip of Jon's hands on his arm, the intensity of it making him shake.
Now that he had felt the man's strength, his nervous mind couldn't stop imagining worst-case scenarios. One day, he would be working late, not realizing that everybody but Jon had left the building. Then he would get up, to go to the restroom or grab a coffee or raid the supply closet for pens. On the way there, he would hear footsteps behind him.
"Working late?" Jon would say, voice low, evocative.
Stephen would turn. "Y-yeah," he would stutter. "I didn't realize it was this late ... I should be going."
"Nonsense," Jon would reply, the corners of his mouth quirking up, one hand tucked jauntily in a pocket. He would take a step closer. Stephen, almost instinctively, would take a step back, then realize he couldn't go any farther.
He would glance at the wall behind him, hoping he was mistaken, and when he looked back Jon would be right in front of him. Involuntarily, he would shiver.
"Cold?" Jon would ask, voice dripping with innuendo.
He would be so close now - not touching, but so close - that Stephen could feel his body heat, and the correspondent's voice would tremble as he replied, "N-no."
He'd try to edge out sideways, but suddenly Jon's hand would be on his arm, and the correspondent would let out a little moan of fear as his boss leaned down and--
--no, he would have to lean up, standing on tiptoe and--
--but that wasn't very threatening. More likely, he would slide a hand up the front of Stephen's shirt, snaking it up behind the tie, then curl two fingers around the loop of it and draw him helplessly down to--
"Mr. Colbert!"
Stephen started so violently that he fell out of his chair; he picked himself up quickly, heart all aflutter. He was safely in his own office, it was afternoon, and at the door was the least threatening person imaginable: one of the stagehands, an unassuming man with untidy brown hair and thick glasses.
"What is it?" gasped Stephen, trying to focus on taking deep breaths.
"You - you're wanted on set, sir. Rehearsal's starting."
"Right, right. Give me a minute. I'll be right down."
The stagehand nodded and slipped away; Stephen mastered his breath, open a desk drawer, pulled out the Evian bottle that hadn't been filled with anything as weak as water in months, and took a healthy swig.
Then he looked at the clock. Sure enough, rehearsal had started while he was reminiscing. For a good half hour he had been wholly distracted by the possibility of being manhandled by Jon Stewart.
Whatever Jon was doing, it was working.
†
The discomfort reached its peak when the man's advances began affecting his dreams.
For a few days it was just vague sensory images - the sensation of being chased, climaxing in the grip of a hand on his arm. Then one night he awoke, shaking, with such vivid memories of being thrown roughly down upon the studio couch that it took a few minutes for him to understand that it hadn't really happened.
The next day found Stephen in his office, staring blankly into space, doing nothing but absently chewing on a pen. His response to the knock on his door was an automatic, unconscious "Come in."
He snapped back to reality in a flash when he realized who it was. "Don't shut the door!" he exclaimed.
"Um, okay." Jon left it open. "Why?"
"Need the fresh air," replied Stephen quickly.
"But it was closed before..."
Stephen twisted the pen in his hands. "Why are you here?"
"I'm worried about you, Stephen," replied Jon, all innocence. "You've seemed distracted recently. Are you okay?"
"Fine. Fine. Never better."
"You don't look fine." The host took a seat across from Stephen. "You're flushed. You might have a fever." With that, he reached over the desk and pressed his palm to the correspondent's forehead.
It was entirely unconscionable to inflict upon someone, without their consent, the feelings that this gesture inflicted on Stephen.
It was Jon's most blatant advance yet, and his victim could not have felt more powerless. His lips parted slightly to protest, but nothing came out. So he sat, mute and frozen, conscious of nothing but the firm press of the palm on his forehead and the intent stare of the blue-grey eyes upon it.
After what felt like hours, the hand pulled away.
"You don't feel feverish, but you still don't look good," pronounced the host. "Can I get you anything? Bottle of water? Aspirin?"
Stephen was, admittedly, not thinking straight (his mind full of thoughts of that hand running down the side of his face, cupping his jaw, tracing his neck, slipping under his shirt collar), but he remembered hearing somewhere that you had to get yourself out of situations like this, so he blurted out, "Can I have my own show?"
†
Sixty seconds of interaction per day, four days a week, via satellite. Stephen could handle this level of interaction. Jon never managed more than a suggestively raised eyebrow or a subtle leer: things so subtle that the audience probably never picked up on them.
With his own show, Stephen shone. Given room to stretch, he grew. He had hundreds of business lunches with his stage manager. He grew brave enough to bring Jon onto his own set, and survived.
But he was never brave enough to talk about what had almost occurred, what had occurred, until he was in the presence of a figure whom he feared and loved more than anyone save Jesus Christ himself.
"I have a restraining order out on Jon Stewart," he announced - it was the truthiness; he had a restraining order in his gut - as Bill O'Reilly took a seat. "The man is a sexual predator."
Papa Bear nodded his acceptance, made no judgment, and graciously changed the subject. Stephen's reverence for the man was already signed, sealed, and stamped, but this move only deepened it. He felt understood. He felt loved. He felt that he could finally move beyond the pain of the sexual harassment and focus on the present.
Which was a good thing, because the present was looking up. He had offered to take O'Reilly to dinner that night, and not only had his idol accepted, the man had a restaurant in mind already. Apparently it had great falafels.
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-22 02:37 am (UTC)As soon as the door swung closed behind Jon, Stephen pulled the Homometer out of his pocket and switched its display to show the last five minutes' worth of readings.
They had gone off the scale.
"Can I have my own show?"
This was so fun. Thank you!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-05-22 04:35 am (UTC)Glad it amused!
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 05:38 pm (UTC)*sputters*
Oh man. Words cannot describe how in love with this I am. And homometer references for the fscking win
(no subject)
Date: 2007-08-20 10:39 pm (UTC)So glad you liked it ♥
(no subject)
Date: 2007-12-17 06:59 pm (UTC)This may be my favorite of everything you've written for this fandom. :D
(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-08 11:51 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-11-09 01:24 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-14 07:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-12-14 05:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-03-12 01:02 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-10 09:33 pm (UTC)Something tells me that Stephen is in for a bad surprise... although I can actually see him completely NOT realizing actual harrassement. He definitely is the master of selective perception.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-11 12:18 am (UTC)QFT.
And thanks =D
(no subject)
Date: 2009-05-13 11:26 pm (UTC)And I have to say after finally learning about and watching that "Right away" video, many things make much more sense.
Love. This.
Date: 2011-04-06 03:32 am (UTC)--no, he would have to lean up, standing on tiptoe and--
--but that wasn't very threatening. More likely, he would slide a hand up the front of Stephen's shirt, snaking it up behind the tie, then curl two fingers around the loop of it and draw him helplessly down to--...
Please, PLEASE draw this scene.
Re: Love. This.
Date: 2011-04-06 04:14 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-08-18 09:04 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2011-08-20 02:53 am (UTC)I do keep my fics loosely organized, and you're welcome to catch up with more of the old ones any time ^_^