You've been standing by this damned catering table all day. You did not sign up for this, you did not sign up for this, you did not sign up for this. You fiddle with your clipboard, eyeing the schedule and looking out beyond all the cameras to the interviewing area. People are practically on their tiptoes looking for any clue as to where the action is.
You start to chew on your pen and eye the pastries with a semblance of remorse. A hand reaches out and grabs the pen from you.
"Bad for your teeth," a voice whispers in your ear. You feel his hot breath against your neck, and your eyes widen as you turn to face him.
"You know, they're waiting for you, out there," You point purposefully at the television set about fifty feet away. "Your adoring fans," you smirk at him, grabbing the pen out of his hands and biting down on it forcefully.
You run it through your teeth, and look at him with an air of dominance. He narrows his eyes at you.
"Shoo," you say, poking him with your clipboard.
He shuffles away, and you can't really interpret the look on his face at this angle.
As he settles on to the couch and is greeted by a roar of applause, you saunter up and settle behind one of the cameras. There's some light banter, and you don't really pay attention… you can't get the feeling of his breath against your ear out of your nerves.
He makes a quip about throwing a punch. Then, out of nowehere, his eyes rest on you- you, of all people, tucked behind a camera (but clearly in plain sight).
"You give and I'll receive." He bites his lip. "I like being the dominant one."
He makes sure your jaw has dropped before he looks away again and throws his fake stage punch. Your heart has made a home in your feet, and you could be about 47% sure that your thighs have turned into hot lava.
You whisper, "Jesus fucking christ," before turning on your heel and making your way to the back of the set.
You're not really a stalker type, but you are a type, and certain things have the ability to get under your skin. Like power struggles. Yeah, power struggles get under your skin. You feel a tremor in your hands as you boil, and something nudges at the inside of your chest like a piece of raw coal.
So, when he makes his way back to his dressing room, you grab him by the back of the shirt and usher him in, locking the door behind you.
"Thanks for that," you whisper. "You just made a million women drop to their knees, but I'm going to make you drop to yours."
He grins lasciviously. One hand reaches to the hair at the nape of your neck. "I'd like to see you try."
You snake a hand under his white shirt and press against his abdominal muscles. "I won't have to."
There's a couch about three feet away, and you do a quick calculation. You push him until his knees are against the couch, and you stand on your toes to whisper, "Sit."
He seems to struggle with this for a moment, but he does.
You settle yourself on his lap, and press a light kiss to one of his cheekbones.
And that's when you hear gunshots. What the hell?
Gunshots?
Everything becomes hazy for a few moments, and then you're horizontal, and you're waking up, fuck you're waking up what the actual bloody fuck is going on, gunshots?
You pull on a black and white stripey jumper and storm down the stairs.
"DAMN IT WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?" Your voice thunders.
He's in a blue dressing grown- the man you were just dreaming about- and he's shooting holes in the damn wall.
"BORED!" he yells, aims, and shoots again.
I don't like this one as much as my last one, but hey… I'm slightly sorry, maybe a little, not sure… but yes.