What's this? Another Discworld book finished so soon?
I DEVOURED Nights Watch. It caught a grip on me that I really could not have seen it coming. One could expect, from the previous books of The Watch a similar story. A crime, a chase, some "politics"... And then. A storm comes in. And we are there.
The lilacs are blooming, the people are unhappy and there are talks. There's still a chase, of course, of a crazy sonofa. But while that looming threat covers the city of Ankh-Morpork, so does the people's fears.
Cogs move, the people are unhappy, it wasn't good times, freedom was practically non-existant, and in had to come John Keel to give order.
To be the sane man in a crazy world for those days.
To be there.
A revolution sparks from a feeling of hope. Of will to change, but when the powderkeg explodes, soon enough someone will rebuild the barrel, and back to business. And one will still have a boiled egg.
You just had to be there.
This book has sealed my love for the Watch.
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Up All Night 3
Warnings: dark elements, noncon, age gap, narcissim, probably name calling and nasty words, other dark elements. Proceed with caution. (older!reader)
Note: I wasn’t serious about this but now I were. Please let me know what you think as it helps me a lot with ideas and I love interacting with you all.
Part of The Club AU
You take the three minutes you have before you’re due for the meeting to pull on the black leggings you keep in your gym bag. It’ll have to do. You don’t have time to waste. The cardigan conserves your professionality.
You enter the meeting room. Ransom sits, hunched slightly as he squints at his laptop. He rubs his cheek, his lack of sleep showing in the bags under his eyes. You sit in one of the sleek black chairs and tap your fingers on the table. He aims a pointed look in your direction. You tap your nails louder.
“You call these notes?” He scoffs as he looks back at the screen.
“Mr. Drysdale, if you have your own, I suggest you go off of those.”
He rolls his eyes and sits back. “Whatever, I don’t need to fucking talk about the book. This is about a contract, not whatever bullshit plot this guy dreamed up in his shit–”
You see Robert Laing through the transparent panes of the wall. You recognise him from his author’s portrait. You stand in expectation as Ransom remains as he is, slouching in his chair as he swivels it back and forth. You muster a smile as Laing enters.
“Good morning, thank you for meeting me,” he takes the lead as he enters.
“Been waiting,” Ransom mutters.
“Robert Laing,” the writer introduces himself, offering his hand over the table.
Ransom makes a show of sitting forward and shakes it halfheartedly. To your surprise, the prospective client turns to you. You shake his hand eagerly, “Mr. Laing, we’ve been looking forward to it.”
“I know you,” he returns smoothly, “you must be the face behind the emails.”
“Ah, yes, that would be me,” you say proudly, raising your chin, “I trust you received the firm’s offer then.”
“I did,” he lowers himself into the chair across from Ransom and you sit as well, “I had my lawyer review it, of course. I’ve terms, a few, no major changes. More of an author than an editor, which is where you come in.”
“What do you want?” Ransom demands.
You clear your throat, “what are your suggestions?”
Ransom pivots the chair slightly and stomps your foot under the table. You hide the pain in your crushed toes and push your shoulders wise. He’s a little brat and he doesn’t like being reminded of that. He has to realise Laing is a hot property he can’t bully into taking the contract.
“It would be the percentage, solely, on the rights,” Laing unzips his bag and slides out a thin tablet, “what I think you’ve offered is just below fair, I would say. You must understand, everything I create is very personal.”
“We do understand, Mr. Laing,” you assure him, trying to disguise Ransom’s scoff as you raise your voice.
“Forgive my assistant. She talks too much. Let’s not get confused, Robbie, I’m the boss,” Ransom says, “so the lady is gonna leave and let the men talk figures.”
You slowly glance over at Ransom, careful not to lose your poise. You keep your smile in place and gather up your leather folder and metal pen. You stand.
“Of course, Mr. Drysdale, you are correct, I am only the assistant. Mr. Laing, it was a pleasure. You are very talented and I hope your place is with Thrombey Press. If not, I wish you the best in your endeavours.”
“Thank you,” he stands politely, “very nice to finally place a face to the name.”
You nod and strut out without looking back. There’s nothing more you can do and if Ransom blows it, he’ll know exactly who to blame. Though you’re sure he lacks that humility.
🩸
You settle in at your desk, the smell of cappuccino wafting up from your blouse. A bitter reminder of your hectic morning. You review the workday against Drysdale’s personal calendar. You truly hope he doesn’t intend to meet with the new non-fiction editor at that club.
Just as you feel your irritation fading, Ransom appears, striding past without a word. He slam his office door and you glance over. He steps up to the blinds and closes them, blocking your sight. Oh, you don’t think it went well.
You continue, trying not to think about it. Laing would’ve been a great acquisition, especially since Drysdale has lost several during his tenure. A few minutes pass before a message pops up on your screen.
‘Asshole is ‘thinking about it’.’
You open Teams and type back. ‘Better than a no. Let’s hope he accepts.’
‘Cappucino is cold.’
His response is about as much as you expect. You reply with ‘yes, sir,’ and grab your purse. Anything to get away from him. The wall is hardly thick enough to simmer your agitation.
You sweep out and check your watch. You’ll allow yourself fifteen minutes to get it together and get his cappuccino. You’ll do your best not to spit in it.
At the coffee shop, a local place you prefer on your rare breaks, you put in your order. A cappuccino for him, a tea for yourself. You move along the counter, joining the queue at the window, waiting for them to call your name.
You stand close to a table, the shop overcrowded. A chair scrapes and someone coughs. You try to shimmy out of the way as someone stands on the other side of the table.
“Excuse me,” the familiar voice calls your name, “I thought that was you.”
You turn an greet Laing with a smile, this one less put on, “oh, surprise running into you here.”
“Ah, yes, I’m afraid I have a weakness for caffeine. A writer’s curse,” he smooths his lapel, “and you?”
“Tea,” you answer.
“Mm, yes, black tea?”
“Herbal, no caffeine,” you assure him.
There’s an awkwardness there, things unsaid.
“Would you mind,” he gestures across from him, “five minutes. I’d love to run something by you.”
“Oh?” you tweak a brow curiously.
“Forgive me, I don’t know the man well, but you seem the brains of the operation,” he explains, “and honest at that.”
“Right,” you utter slowly.
“I promise, I won’t keep you long enough for your tea to go cold.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” you wave him off, “I don’t mind.” You sit and forget all about your order, “I really think you could do well with Thrombey Press…” you begin the pitch Ransom scrapped.
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