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The Social Network: the kink meme!

It's Complicated: But sexy!

zuckonitkinkeme zuckonitkinkeme wrote in tsn_kinkmeme
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sorry about the delay in getting this up! please put all new prompts here.




IMPORTANT: please DO NOT post prompts about any non-public people as part of a prompt. for example: randi zuckerberg is fine as she is a public figure both on the internet and on facebook itself. priscilla chan is NOT as she is not a public figure.

if you're in doubt, please message the mod or leave a comment in the discussion post.

♥ post requests and responses in the comments to this post.
♥ be respectful.
♥ both a pairing/character AND a prompt/kink must be posted.
♥ one pairing/prompt per comment please.
♥ you are encouraged to try and write a prompt for every request you make.
♥ we are slash, femslash, het, three-and-moresomes etc. friendly. (we are even incest friendly what with some of our characters being twins and all...)
♥ no pairing bashing, OK? no need to wank over ships.
♥ long and short fics welcome. multiple responses encouraged!
♥ please try to refrain from saying 'seconded!' as much as possible.
♥ on RPF: Please disclaim that it is RPF, a work of fiction and in no way related to the actual actors/persons/etc. (i wouldn't even try and discourage RPF from this meme ;))


♥ alphabetize pairings/threesomes/moresomes. (e.g. Eduardo/Mark/Sean etc.)
♥ put [RPF] before RPF prompts. (e.g. [RPF] Andrew/Jesse)
♥ for crossover prompts: "[Crossover], The Social Network Character(s)/Other Character(s), [Fandom]" (e.g. [Crossover], Eduardo/Columbus, [Zombieland])
♥ no "!" in pairings, only in descriptions. (e.g. Eduardo/Mark, FacebookCreator!Eduardo, CFO!Mark)
♥ anyone, everyone, no one? Use "Other." (e.g. Sean/Other)
♥ put [GEN] before GEN prompts.


♥ please don't embed. link to images/videos.
♥ no locked material. this includes communities, even if membership is open.
♥ fills can be posted anonymously or not.
♥ fills can be anything: fic, art, vid, fanmix, podfic, etc.
♥ all prompts are open to fills at all times, even if they have been filled in the past or are being currently filled by someone else. multiple fills are positively encouraged; if something appeals to you then do not be put off creating a new fill by the existence of a prior one.
NEW: ♥ PLEASE comment with the first of your fill to the PROMPT and then all future updates as a comment to the FIRST PART of the fill. this makes it easier for both the WIP spreadhseet and for archiving stuff on delicious. it also helps people who are trying to catch up on updates and don't have to look through every fill on the prompt (should it have more than one). thank you.






have fun!

THERE WILL BE UNMARKED SPOILERS. enter at your own risk! :D


i know you guys are enjoying this meme and i appreciate that but please can you put the SUBJECT HEADER on your prompt. you would REALLY be helping me out if you could do that. it just saves time for me when i'm trying to tag everything in delicious.

AND PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT repost prompts from parts three, four, five or six over here again. the delicious is around for people to find prompts they may not have already seen. (prompts for parts one and two are now up for reposting.)



Eduardo/Mark, girl!Mark, post-deposition

I just want Eduardo to try and forget about girl!Mark but I want him to end up failing miserably since she's on the cover of Maxim, Rolling Stone, Time, Vanity Fair, and almost everywhere.

I want the shots in Maxim, Rolling Stone, and Vanity Fair of girl!Mark to be crazy seductive and a play on how she normally dresses (i.e. And over-sized hoodie with nothing underneath but some lingerie.

Plus, I want girl!Mark to have thick-rimmed computer glasses, just 'cause.



the paper's shot to pieces (1a/?)

so um LJ comment limits are the devil and also I hope you enjoy this a lot.


After the deposition, Mark's public image is, in the prosaic and accurate words of Sean Parker, totally fucked. It's on the tech blogs first, a day or two after the depositions and settlement, but it then starts getting picked up by local media and gossip rags, then gets bigger and hits the national magazines and newspapers. Everyone loves a love story, but the Facebook love story, of a girl and a guy in a dorm room at Harvard building something together and then falling utterly, irrevocably apart-- that story makes worldwide press.

Newsweek puts the tale of her and Eduardo on the cover. The New York Times Magazine does an expose with exclusive interviews from unnamed sources, and Mark assigns Dustin to go through each and every intern and find out who talked to which reporter. Four people are fired for violating nondisclosure agreements. Her PR, which is mostly Chris and a few insanely dedicated minions, start getting calls from Vanity Fair and Time. Even Oprah calls. She leaves a message that doesn't get returned, and they hire six new people in the public relations department after three days of utter insanity.

When the Times article breaks, Mark sleeps in the Facebook office for two days straight. She gets a concerned call from her mother, one from her eldest brother, one from Marylin Delpy, and a countless number of emails. She ignores them all so that she can send Dustin an outline for the layout update before the sun rises.

He emails back that they have other programmers to do this sort of thing, but she just nods at her laptop and keeps on going. She's at the point where she's forgetting the parts of the English language than don't relate to code, typing so fast her fingers hurt and her mind blurs, when Chris kicks open her door. The handle falls off.

He stalks over to her, yanks out her earbuds, gently closes her laptop, and gives her a hug. "I've been knocking for like five minutes, and you smell," he says, nudging her in the side. Mark winces; she's always been ticklish there and knows he's doing it to annoy her. "Lucky for you, I'm here."

Mark raises an eyebrow. "You're lucky that I saved that file," she grumbles. "Why am I so lucky? Have Eduardo and I made it across the Atlantic to be featured on the BBC? Or in China?"

"No, that was Saturday," Chris says. He sits down onto her couch, the red one picked out by her assistant. "But I think I know how we can fix this."


"Yeah." He sighs a bit. "And it'll work. But you're not going to like it."

Dustin's head pops around the doorframe in a suspiciously rehearsed manner. "You're really not going to like it," he says, flailing a little as he loses his balance.

Mark rolls her eyes. "Why don't you come in too," she says, and spins in her desk chair to give them her attention. Dustin sits on the couch next to Chris. "What are you planning?"

the paper's shot to pieces (1b/?)

Chris looks pleased with himself, though there's a tinge of embarrassment floating somewhere underneath. "It's a cliche idea," he says. "But we need to take hold of the story. We can't let the narrative be shaped by anyone else besides us, and right now it's getting wildly out of our control. You need to stop being a hermit in your computer cave and get out there. You need to be on the cover of Vogue and the New York Times magazine."

"I was on the the cover of the Times magazine like two days ago," Mark says, sending Chris a look. He shakes his head and continues.

"Yeah, but this time it's different. This time you're going to be in, I don't know, hoodie couture or even actual couture. Maybe a dress. You're going to talk about being a woman in a male-dominated industry, and you're going to talk about all the good sides of Facebook. You're going to talk about how you want to inspire young girls to do what you're doing. It's going to be a positive article, and you're not going to get mad when half the photos show off enough cleavage to make your nana faint."

"My nana is a very strong woman," Mark feels obligated to point out.

"Chris is missing so much by not having a Jewish grandmother," Dustin says, with an air of resignation. "Mine sent me her matzoh ball soup recipe last week. Have you tried it yet? It's really good."

"You don't use enough schmaltz," Mark begins, but Chris cuts her off.

"And you're gonna return Oprah's damn calls."

Mark focuses. "You think this will help."

He nods. "I really do. Plus you'll be all over, totally out there, while Eduardo seems to have fled. You'll be seen as strong and unafraid and in contrast he'll look weak."

She considers it for a moment longer. "Fine. But if this gets fucked up--"

"Then I will take full responsibility. But Mark, seriously, it's going to work. Anything is better than our current PR strategy right now."

"Yeah," she says. "Okay."

Dustin claps his hands. "Dinner at my place tonight!" He smiles at Mark. "We can work on your talking points then."

"You are a programmer," she scowls, but Chris places a placating hand on her shoulder, and Mark goes back to work.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (1b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-04 12:33 am (UTC)(Expand)

the paper's shot to pieces (2/?)

this part is short because I have COOKIES TO BAKE, but the next part will have all sorts of fashion and photoshoots (even though all I know about what happens at a photoshoot is from Tina's Fey's book)


Dustin's nana's matzoh ball soup is, one must admit, pretty damn good. Mark is in the middle of her second bowl already, slurping up chicken stock that tastes homemade and avoiding the sprigs of parsley floating nefariously in the broth.

"I made dessert," her friend grins. "Brownies with chocolate chips in them, just for you."

"That's nice," she says, barely looking up. "Hey, did you get the email I sent you about that third-party code we got earlier from that developer, what's his name--"

"Seriously, Mark, this is like, the sacred dinnertime. In my family we don't talk about work at dinner. And I know that it's same for yours, remember when I visited for Thanksgiving?"

"I still regret inviting you," Mark says. Dustin's smile remains cheery.

"I made the best cranberry sauce that year, plus I made a pecan pie that your brother said topped anything from any Dobbs Ferry bakery. And your mother loved me, even more than she liked -- oh. Fuck."

"Eduardo," Mark finishes calmly. "Yes, I know, my mother liked him when we were dating. And you were very charming."

"Sorry," Dustin apologizes after a minute. "Yeah, you know. Sorry."

She stares. "It's fine. Just-- don't mention it again, and we can talk about something else right now."

"Okay." He gets the pan of brownies and starts slicing them into squares. "Uh... let's see. Which photoshoot is first? Vogue? With that scary lady with the sunglasses?"

"Yes. Eurgh," Mark mutters after a moment or two in an example of eloquence. "I'm going to have to wear fucking lipstick."

Dustin cracks up laughing. "Chris probably should have made that clear before you agreed to this, huh?"

"You're both fired," she says, managing to keep a straight face. Her threats are so much more effective that way, though Dustin probably hasn't been scared of her since freshmen year finals week, a time they do not talk of ever.

"Hah, good joke Mark, you always were a funny one." Dustin slides a brownie across the table. "There's ice cream in the freezer," he says. "Just tell me if you want some."

She nods and finishes eating. "As long as I get to beat you in Halo later."

There's an outraged squawky hey! from Dustin's general area. Mark smirks.


Eduardo wakes up to a bright blue sky, a cacophony of honking horns outside on Park Avenue and the image in his inbox. It's a screenshot of the cover of Vanity Fair, sent by someone he knows vaguely from the Phoenix, someone he remembers as kind of a fratty girlfriend. The subject title is seen this yet? and he stares, because no, he definitely hasn't.

It's a portrait of a girl against a white background, pale-skinned and curly-haired, hair knotted up at the nape of her neck, bangs blunt and straight across her forehead. Blue eyes stare unflinchingly out from behind the lenses of black-rimmed glasses. Her mouth is pink, lips parted slightly. Faint freckles are visible marking her skin, scattered across the bridge of her nose and the upper lifts of her cheek. Her eyelashes are long and dark, coated in inky mascara. She has no shirt on, definitely has no bra, and there's a small scar cutting across her collarbone. Her arms are crossed over her breasts, her hands cupping her shoulders. They frame four words, stacked one on top of the other and starting just under her left collarbone, written on her skin in blocky lowercase letters in bright blue ink: punk. prophet. genius. billionaire. And then text, in a black sans-serif font. The Gospel of Mark.

"Fucking hell," Eduardo says, and slams the laptop shut.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (2/?)







Re: the paper's shot to pieces (2/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-04 12:14 am (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (2/?)

I can't tell you how excited I am that you're writing this other than type out an emoticon.

My face's like this: (:DDDD) all bright and cheery.

Continue. Continue as soon possible!! <3

the paper's shot to pieces (3a/?)

The Vogue photoshoot is utterly insane. The interview had been done over the phone while Mark was reading over employee protocol documents from HR, the questions lobbed at her all softballs. It had taken less than an hour; she knew they really only wanted some good soundbites.

But the photoshoot. She's in a makeup chair for hours while people rush around her, on phones and leading hectic, fashionable lives. She wonders how of many of them are on Facebook when they peer at their phones.

"Your makeup's going to be pretty simple," the stylist says to her. She's around Mark's age, with bleached-white hair and glossy pink lips. "We'll do the base, then just some eyeliner, mascara, eyeshadow to bring out your eyes, and a little bit of lipstick-- it's going to be matte, not all slicked on like mine is." She smiles, revealing perfectly white, straight teeth. Mark wants to ask if she intended to match her hair. "And then the other stuff we have to do so that photos look good. What brands do you normally use for makeup, moisturizer, that kind of thing?"

Mark blinks. "I don't wear makeup," she says. "At all. Even for shareholder meetings, though my assistant keeps trying to make me."

The stylist looks like a fish. "Okay then. But what about skincare?"

"I have some cleansing toner my mother got me at Target for Hanukkah," Mark offers up placatingly. "Oh! And sometimes when I get chapped lips I use Burt's Bees lip balm, because Chris told me that there's petroleum in Chapstick and I should help curb America's dependency on foreign oil. Or something. I stopped listening after a while and just bought the damn thing."

The stylist raises an eyebrow and starts dabbing on foundation.

The actual pictures cause Mark's youngest brother to text her telling her that he'd really not be seeing her half-naked every time he goes to buy gum and candy bars at the convenience store. One of the wardrobe people had actually measured her bra size, told her she'd been wearing a size too small for years, and then they'd carted out racks of lingerie. There's some brands she recognizes, like La Perla and Elle Macpherson, because it's hard to be at boarding school and have female roommates and not know a little about that kind of thing. But then there's others, brands with expensive and vaguely French-sounding names like Kiki de Montparnasse, and at one point Mark realizes that the total cost for the bra, underwear, blazer, and boots she's wearing combined would be enough to buy her a new laptop, several gigabytes of RAM, and a really expensive desktop monitor. With enough left over for a new iPod.

But when the issue is released, they look really good. Her favorite is one of her in this black lace camisole thing, complete with a garter belt and stockings. Over it all she has on some ludicrously pricey cardigan that resembles a varsity jacket with big gold buttons. Her hair is curly and wild, but in a way that makes it look intentional as opposed to a mess because she fell asleep at her desk again, and the makeup artist (and probably Photoshop) did a great job on her face. She looks ethereal, and she also looks like someone you shouldn't fuck with.

They only let her wear her glasses in one shot, which means she has to stick her finger in her eye way too much for one day. It's not like she minds contacts, but taking them out always makes her a little squeamish. And the one with the glasses is kind of a cliched picture, her in a corset with a men's dress shirt on top plus high-heeled boots that she kept tripping over every time they asked her to move, but it's probably worth it.

Rolling Stone is next, and they put her a tight vest and tuxedo pants, but she actually gets to ramble about code and development to the interviewer, and Chris and Dustin say nice things about her in print, so that's alright.

They ask Eduardo about her too, but his only response is no comment.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (3b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-04 07:02 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4a/?)

and now we get away from fashion and into the full depths of eduardo saverin's feelings. eventually.

also, thank you all SO MUCH for all the lovely feedback. *hugs all around*

and now, part one of wardo has lots of emotions and things.


New York is suddenly covered in Mark Zuckerberg's face. Eduardo is at the Union Square Barnes and Noble, planning to take advantage of the free Wi-Fi at the cafe while his is fixed, when he sees their Just Arrived magazines rack, a foot and a half in front of the only free table in the store. There are six magazines on it, and Mark is on the cover of four of them.

Why are you haunting me, he wants to spit out from between gritted teeth, and what's with the fucking media tour, Mark, you never would have gone for this before.

On the covers, glossy and everywhere, is Mark, showing off parts of herself he'd once been the only person to ever see. The Winklevoss twins never knew what was going on beneath Mark's layers of shapeless clothes, but now they do, now it's splashed luridly across America, her pale skin and shapely chest in expensive lingerie, legs taut and smooth. Eduardo is insanely, irrationally jealous. And seeing her like this in print almost makes him forget the picture in his head of Mark the devil, cold and in a button down blouse and pencil skirt, face harsh and set and vulnerabilities masked, sitting across from him during the depositions with a cold voice and so much anger.

He doesn't have any options here; he cannot text Chris because Chris will see straight through him and as lovable as Dustin is, he probably won't be helpful either. Dustin was always a fan of their being Mark-and-Eduardo, and therefore Dustin will probably just tell him to talk to her, which is of course the last thing he's planning to do. Those settlement papers he signed mean he can ignore her presence on God's green earth.

Eduardo wants to get away from Mark. Eduardo does not want her face staring at him at all times. In almost every picture she's looking into the camera, and while it would be okay if it were Scarlett Johansson or Natalie Portman, smiling and starry-eyed, with Mark it's simply disconcerting.

He's going to cave eventually. He's going to email Chris and ask what's up with the new PR plan, because it is so obvious what it is. He can't hold out much longer. But it's not going to be today.


Mark's middle brother calls her one night when he's mildly drunk.

"Mark," he says, panicked, "this is very important, you need to listen to me Marky."

"How many shots have you had, Danny?"

"S'Dan, not Danny," he reminds her. So a lot. From the noise in the background, she's pretty sure he's at a frat party. "Okay so I heard on the internet that you're going to be in Maxim."

"You can't hear things on the internet. You read them."

"Whatever," her brother waves it off. "Mark, you can't be in Maxim."

"Why not?"

"Your boobs are already ruining life for me! Every time I go anywhere with paper it's like, wham, there's my older sister's chest. There are other girls I want to see in sexy lace panties and knee-high boots. Not you. And Maxim, I actually read that shit!"

"I know. I was the one who found them stashed under your mattress five years ago."

"I knew it," Danny cries accusingly. "You suck. Don't ruin anymore things with your breasts, Mark! With great power come great responsibility!" He hangs up.

Mark promptly decides that all she's going to get him for Hanukkah are socks. And a copy of Playgirl or something, or maybe she'll wrap a copy of the Bust magazine she's in and sit over his shoulder and make him read about the disparity and inequality between female and male engineers.

Eventually, she falls asleep.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-06 01:28 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4c/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-06 01:30 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4c/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-06 01:36 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4c/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-06 06:09 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (4c/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-06 06:08 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (5a/?)

in which eduardo is irrational, dustin is an instigator, and chris is a boss.

this fic needs more dustin. I'm working on it.


He's still sitting at the cafe table and the person he's supposed to be meeting, the person whose firm he wants to invest money in, that person is almost twenty minutes late. Sloppy, Eduardo thinks, disapproving.

He really shouldn't email Chris. It's the absolute last thing he should do. There was a nondisclosure agreement for a reason, so that neither of them could tattle on each other to reporters, and Mark's pretty much stuck to the letter of it. And tt's just a publicity tour, but--

Eduardo really doesn't expect to see Mark in the press, let alone see her be polished and professional. He still-- he still remembers in the first office Facebook had, her hunched over her laptop in clothes that had seen better days, and what was it? "Fuck you flip-flops", oh right, because Mark never gave a shit about that, Mark lived in code and numbers and thefacebook until she was forced out of it.

From Harvard to thefacebook to Facebook-- he had believed in her, she had said to the interviewer, declared it to all the world. And maybe he's extrapolating, taking it places it shouldn't be going, but that implies she needed him, wanted him. Maybe. Hopefully.

(Maybe he's being delusional, allowing himself to think like this, considering things he's successfully shut away for three years).

He needs to email Chris. He needs to find out. Eduardo stands up and leaves the cafe; if his business partner isn't coming after almost half an hour, he's not coming at all. He needs to find somewhere with Wi-Fi.

"There's a Starbucks a few blocks away," the barista says helpfully when he asks.

"Good." He drops a dollar in the tip chair and grabs his briefcase. Time to actually take goddamn action.


Eduardo finds a Starbucks two blocks away and buys a coffee, his second of the day, then takes out his laptop. It takes him less than a minute to write out an email to Chris.

What's with the new media plan? Mark's face is all over the fucking city Chris, I keep expecting to see a billboard of her in Times Square. How much media coaching did you have to put her through? How much did you have to convince her to get her to pose with her top off anyways?

It might be a little defensive, but he sends it without a second thought, sitting back in his seat only somewhat satisfied. Chris's response comes after a few minutes and Eduardo opens it, reading the email as quickly as he can.

Wow, Eduardo, okay.


Believe me when I say the purpose of the media campaign WASN'T to torment you around New York City-- and what are you doing there anyways, I thought you were heading to Singapore?

Anyways. As head of PR for Facebook, I decided, and Mark agreed, that we needed to change her image. She just settled in two lawsuits, one as you know from her ex-boyfriend and former best friend. We were getting attacked from all sides in the press. There's only a certain amount of times you can subtly call someone a bitch before it gets to them, and Mark was getting there. Plus your "failed love story" was all fucking over, which is not what we need for the company. No one was talking about the expansion or the valuation of the company, like, the youngest billionaire in the world is a GIRL and that's kind of a big deal. It was just about betrayal, allegations of infidelity, and everything you don't want being said about your relationship. So we changed the story. This was how we chose to it. And seriously, don't be so pissed about it. It's not really any of your business, at least not anymore.

It was only a little media coaching. She's gotten a lot better.

What article did you see?

Eduardo blinks. That's-- well. That's probably the angriest email he's ever gotten from Chris, who is, by and large, a fairly mellow person.

The one in Bust magazine, he sends back, just at the time that another email appears in his inbox. It's from Dustin, and Eduardo opens it curiously.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (5b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-07 03:14 am (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (6/?)

shortish part tonight. more Dustin because yay.


Mark gets an email from Dustin approximately five minutes after he forwards her that very interesting, very confusing thing from Eduardo.

wardo didn't want me to send you that so is there any chance you didn't read it because i feel like a guilty panda D:

Like hell, she writes back. What WAS that?

I don't know, Dustin sends, but are you going to email him back about it?

No, Mark says, and that is that.

She can't write anything back to Eduardo. It wouldn't be fair. She and Dustin may play hacking games (Twitter has very inefficent security protocols), but this is different. It's not two people sitting at a computer, it's not her hacking into the Harvard facebooks while Eduardo looks on, worried and drinking beer to try to keep up until that thrilling, terrifying moment when the network actually went down. It's-- it's something personal, it's a concerned friend, it's something she hasn't had in years and didn't know she missed, even if he is going about it in the most oblique, jackassy way possible.

you'll probably see him at that fundraiser party thing next week, Dustin sends after half an hour. I'm pretty sure he's flying in, if/when you want to talk about it.

I don't, Mark responds, but that's mostly a lie and Dustin knows it.

But he's a good enough friend not to say anything.


On the list of things Mark would rather not do on a Friday night, going to a fancy party would be top of the list-- or rather, it would be second, because going to a fancy party with Sean Parker as her date will always and forever be number one.

She has Dustin right now as her plus-one which is definitely better; chief reason being that he won't run off with the daughter of some hedgefund manager and lock himself and the unfortunate lady into one of the bathroom stalls. (She'd punched Sean for that one, hard in the stomach. He'd deserved it.)

But yeah, it's Friday and it's kind of damp and chilly outside, and the last thing she wants to do is put on a black dress and earrings and high shoes, then go get her hair done professionally at a salon where she's fairly sure that the stylists hate her because she only answers their probing questions with a yes or a no, and then talk to overly rich people about their children's college prospects or whatever. For hours.

The food's never good either.

Dustin shows up at her door in a tuxedo with hair that looks like it was recently brushed, but like always, he faintly resembles a kid playing dress-up in his father's suits.

"You ready?" He asks, holding out his arm. Mark grabs it, unwilling to navigate the steps down from the porch alone in her rather treacherous heels.

"I'm screaming on the inside," she responds. Dustin grins.

"I'd say cheer up cause there's free food, but it's that one catering company-- oh, but this one has an open bar!"

Mark admits that helps, and they get into the car. Chris forbade her to bring her laptop, which means she'll be scribbling down ideas on stray napkins all night, unless she can get to her phone to email it to herself.

Dustin is fidgety.

"Spit it out," Mark says, once she's tired of his foot tapping and wiggling.

"You're not mad about that email--" Dustin stutters, words coming out in a total rush, "--because I probably shouldn't have showed it to you, but it was kind of strange especially from him and under the circumstances--"

"Stop feeling like a-- what was it? A guilty panda? Seriously, Dustin, you watch way too many animal-related Youtube videos at work-- but it's fine. Seriously. If he wants to be jealous whatever, it's his time to waste obsessing."

Dustin looks like that's rich coming from you, Marky, but he wisely doesn't say anything, fearing a swat on the head.

"I think he's gonna be at the event, though," Dustin says eventually. Mark shrugs.

"So we'll do the thing where we shake hands awkwardly and then not talk for the rest of the evening. I'm don't care about it anymore."

"He might," and she knows Dustin thinks that he's speaking too quietly for her to hear, but she does.

They ride the last few blocks to the party in silence.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (6/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-09 01:05 am (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (7/?)

there should be more of this because dun dun dun cliffhangers, but I need to go concentrate really hard on not getting sick and have tea and I wanted to post at least something. so enjoy!


There's a normal crowd that shows up at this sort of tech party. There are investors and shareholders and then there are people who did the actual work, who coded and spent nights trying to remove bugs from their programs.

Mark's not entirely sure where she stands anymore, so mostly she and Dustin stand near the bar and hope people will come to talk to them. Peter Thiel does, usually, and a couple of other people on the Facebook board. There's a few people she knows from Google, though they don't have a fraction of the money she does. At least they all play the same video games and watch the same movies so there's something to talk about.

But mostly it's just Dustin and her, Dustin complaining about his tuxedo and having to wear a tie and Mark emailing code to herself on her phone for something to do. Dustin's peering over her shoulder, looking out for mislabeled variables, when someone vaguely drunk, involved in some networking startup, and probably rich comes up to her.

(It's really that she doesn't know what to say to any of them-- how's your yacht? Do people even have yachts on the west coast? Mark has no fucking clue.)

"I saw you in that magazine," the guy says, slurring his words a little. "Nice pictures."

"Uh, thanks," Mark replies. Dustin raises his eyebrows disapprovingly.

"Maybe I should invest in Facebook, if you're like, going to be like that," the man continues. He's wearing a nice suit, far nicer than anything she knows Dustin has in his closet. Mark wonders how nice it would look if she spilled wine down the front of it.

"We're not looking for new investors at the time," she responds, which is basically the politest way she knows of saying fuck off, asshole.

The thing is, unfortunately, there's not too many guests in attendance at these things. It isn't a huge circle of youngish, wealthy, and involved. For all the jobs in Silicon Valley, there's only so many people at the top.

Mark is one of them. So is Dustin, and so is Chris. So is Sean Parker, though he rarely if ever shows up. And so is Eduardo.

And Eduardo has publicity people and an assistant too, and sometimes-- very occasionally, but sometimes-- he shows up at all.

He's in a suit. It's tailored to fit him, and he looks really good. Mark looks at him, across a room of crowded people, and it's like something from a story.

Or it would be, if they were two people who hadn't sued each other, hadn't spent several months exchanging death glares across any crowded rooms they both happened to be in simultaneously, and only had a few angry strained emails from the last few months to show for two years of excellent friendship (and makeouts).

Eduardo raises his eyebrows challengingly at her, and Mark cannot believe it but her cheeks grow hot.

She begins to make her way over to him, and it's a little bit like she's in a trance, like her feet are moving but her head doesn't know what's happening--

Behind her, she can hear Dustin speaking desperately to the finance guy-- "so, do you play Halo? Mario Kart? Do you even own a Wii?"

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (7/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-11 10:31 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (7/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-12 01:24 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (7/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-12 09:41 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (8a/?)

this update is dedicated to my poor unloved calculus work, which is actually 80% done so I can justify posting.


He looks good.

(Her brain is going it's Eduardo, he always looks good, which totally isn't true, she's seen him sick and pale, curled up in bed and totally infectious and gross, but that's not the point right now, Mark needs her brain to stop working at double time if she's going to do this.)

Mark says, "Eduardo," and almost winces at the awkwardness of that first syllable. It's heavy and strange on her tongue.

"Mark," he responds, and his eyes sweep over her, head to toe.

She looks-- she's fine. She in a black wrap dress, not terribly revealing, as well as her standard uncomfortably stylish shoes. She knows that she looks boring but unobjectionable.

(She's wearing underwear with Hello Kitty printed on the front).

"You look nice," he says.

"Thank you," Mark responds, wishing for pockets so she could shove her hands into them nonchalantly exactly like Eduardo is doing. "You're not going to say it's good that I'm all, I don't know, all covered up? Not on display all over the place?"

It's not that she doesn't have a brain-to-mouth filter, it's that it sometimes kind of doesn't work.

Eduardo blinks, stunned. "What?"

That wasn't what she was supposed to say. That was definitely not what she'd planned out in her head. "I, um, I wasn't going to mention that email," Mark swears again, "and I didn't mean to, I just-- I just suck at talking sometimes, which is why Dustin and me tend to stand in that corner over there until Chris sends us texts reminding us that we are not actually mole people."

Eduardo raises an eyebrow.

"I promise I was just going to do the polite handshake thing, Wardo, seriously-- shit, Eduardo, sorry--"

"Are you drunk?" Eduardo asks, after a long second stretches into an even longer minute.

"I had a drink or two," Mark responds, "but not like you're implying, we didn't pre-game beforehand. Although I accept that this sort of behavior might be more socially acceptable if I was in fact inebriated."

"Or you're simply nervous," Eduardo says. It's Mark's turn for the gaping fish-face. He shrugs elegantly, a smooth rippling motion she's always admired. "I can still read you. You haven't changed that much since college, Mark. You're just more cutthroat and you have better hair."

"I pay someone a lot of money to get my hair to look like this," Mark grumbles, her hand drifting up to touch it. It's loose and curling over her shoulder tonight, not wound up in bun with a pencil stuck through the middle per the status quote. "As for the other thing, it was-- that came along with suddenly having to be a businesswoman in a room full of dicks."

"Both meanings of the word?" Eduardo says, lips quirking into something Mark decides is a smile.

"Both meanings," she says. "If you want to do the handshake now and get it over with--"

She can't stop looking at his mouth, oh god, there has got to be something wrong with her.

"I would, except this is... not entirely unpleasant," his lips twist, and Mark remembers what it was like to kiss him, always warm and surprising, like it was happening for the very first time. "Uh, Mark?"

"What?" Her eyes flare wide before she collects herself. "Oh yeah. It's um, it's fine. You're right."

"Are you okay?" His eyes look a little-- and that's odd, isn't it, but Eduardo appears to be concerned, which is something Mark thought would probably not happen again? They probably should have just done the handshake thing, it was such an improvement on the death glares, Chris was proud of her for being a human being, and it didn't have the awkwardness of whatever this is.

"Uh. Yes." As odd as it is, she doesn't know what to say, so maybe that explains what happens next.

the paper's shot to pieces (8b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-12 10:48 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (9a/?)

sorry for the delay, it was like all of a sudden I got a social life and also porn.

aaaaaalso lj, instinctually is totally a word, do not tell me otherwise.


The thing is, they both know that it's a bad idea. Mark may be socially inept but even she knows that sneaking off during an event in a hotel ballroom where there are reporters won't work too well-- and if she didn't know, Chris would have told her during one of his PR training sessions. Besides, that's the sort of thing Eduardo has known instinctually since birth.

She knows it and he knows it, but Eduardo's long body is still pressed up against hers, her back to the elevator wall, and they're kissing deeply and wetly, his hand messing up her hair, pulling curls out and tugging them. Mark moans.

"I have--" Eduardo breaks away, panting. "I have a room upstairs."

"I assumed we were in the elevator for a reason," Mark says smartly, and slides her leg up in between his. It's his turn to gasp.


Chris types out a text. Don't do anything stupid, he writes, and then remembers that Mark's phone is in her purse and probably off.


The good thing about wrap dresses, Mark discovers, is that they come right off.

"We should--" she squirms, twisting her elbow so that she can untie the knot, "go inside--"

"Fucking key card," Eduardo mutters, as the door rejects it again, the light flashing red. Mark rolls her eyes and steps entirely out of the dress.

"Hurry up," she says, standing there in her bra and Hello Kitty underwear. Eduardo's eyes go even wider.

"Damn," he says, and shoves the card in once more. It beeps green and the door opens. "Mark, we should--"

She grabs him and it's his turn to be pushed up against the wall. Kissing Eduardo has always been good, but there's something else there now, something angrier and more passionate and more.

"You don't wear the cartoon character underwear for the magazine features," Eduardo comments, and Mark rolls her eyes and shoves her hand down his pants, causing him to sputter and stop talking. Good, she thinks.

Eduardo isn't even bothering with trying to unhook her bra; instead he pushes it up over her breasts. His breath is hot against her neck, his mouth sucking and nipping, and Mark knows that in the morning she's going to have a dark, obvious bruise.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she says, and extracts her hand from his pants, starts unbuttoning his dress shirt. He makes a slight noise of protest, hips bucking up against her. Eduardo bites sharply into her collarbone, maybe to retaliate, Mark isn't sure. She gets half the buttons undone and presses her palms against his chest, feels the slight roughness of his chest hair against her hands. She thumbs a nipple and Eduardo shudders.

He shrugs out of the shirt-- his suit jacket is somewhere on the floor, Mark doesn't know-- and suddenly there's a glint in his eye and his fingers swipe over the Hello Kitty decal over her crotch, close but not close enough.

She arches, her breasts brushing up against his chest, tries to force his fingers down a little bit, but Eduardo keeps them teasingly up, tracing the line of the elastic against her skin. It makes her shiver, makes him smirk.

It's becoming increasingly apparent to Mark that this might be some kind of contest and okay, that's good, because she is meticulous and pays attention and can remember what makes his body tick, and besides she's barely intoxicated and maybe that way she'll have the upper hand.

(It doesn't-- it shouldn't need to be about that, but it isn't going to go any other way.)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (9b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-19 02:27 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (9b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-20 05:50 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (10/?)

this is a tiny post because I have a test tomorrow, oops, and I'm a sleepy person. but this is probably far from the end! sex does not fix everything, marky mark.


It seems to take him an inordinately long time to find his way back, and Mark swears. "Asshole," she says, when the bed creaks under his weight.

"Takes one to know one," Eduardo replies, his tone thankfully more amused than angry. "Close your eyes, please."

The fact that he said please, okay, Mark is going to do this. She closes her eyes and grabs the sheets in her fists, body tense and composed of sharp lines. He's not going to make her wait too long, she would think, but it feels like ages, her eyes shut and breathing out and in, until the bed creaks again and Eduardo leans forward to fasten his mouth around her nipple. She jerks up, electrified-- "I wasn't expecting that," and Eduardo laughs, and his hand slips between her legs. She's slick and frantic against him, always urging him on, and when he finally pushes into her everything goes hazy.

She needs a minute to readjust.

"Fuck," Eduardo says, and then he's kissing her collarbone, her neck, her lips, trying to touch all of her at once, and they find their rhythm like they never lost it

It's thrilling and oddly soothing, and he's mouthing at her neck still, nipping, hips moving against her, and Mark's giving as good as she's got and even if it never was exactly like this it's better and worse and-- she wraps her hands in his ridiculous hair and pulls, and maybe they're not friends or lovers but they're certainly not enemies, not if he can still do this to her, and with that thought Mark comes.


The thing is, after they-- well, she's not sixteen, she can't giggle and say that they 'did it', but that's exactly what it feels like-- after they have sex, Mark doesn't really know what to do. This isn't a situation most people are in ever.

It's not like back at Harvard, of even the beginning of that summer, when all she had to do was curl up into Eduardo's side and become calm enough to fall asleep. For one, they're both keyed up on emotion and exhaustion and a not-insignificant amount of alcohol. For another, she probably can't take that kind of liberty with him anymore and that's strange, isn't it, because he was literally just inside her, but the boundaries keep shifting, with Eduardo--

She sighs, and steals a glance at him. He is just as awake as she is, tan and stretched out against the comforter. The air conditioner in the room is on and now that they're still, she can see the goosebumps on his arms.

"Do you want me to turn it off?" Mark asks, abruptly. She gestures. "The AC."

Eduardo shrugs, but when Mark gets off the bed, she feels his eyes on her, and she doesn't really know what to do with that information.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (10/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-22 05:04 pm (UTC)(Expand)

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (11a/?)

oh man I loved writing this part I hope it shows.


plus I discovered reading out code and including brackets will make a three-year old fall asleep like that, which, I think Mark would be proud.

Finally I am LOVING the feedback thank you ♥


She looks at him, waiting for a cue that he is refusing to give.

"Eduardo," Mark says, wanting to breach a gap. She climbs back into the bed. "Wardo, what do you want from me?"

He turns to her, finally. "I don't know," he says, and Mark drops her head, lies down onto his bicep.

"We can't go back to the party, then," she says, sticking to the superficial. "It'll look-- not good." Eduardo acknowledges this with a twist of his mouth. "I might have to sleep here." He shrugs, and she shifts off of him. "You're kind of being a bitch," Mark says, and then pulls her underwear back on. "Just so you know." She finds her purse, kicked over by the door, and fishes out her phone. There's a new message from Chris: don't do anything stupid, and Mark texts back sorry. She's sure that wherever he is, probably holed up with Dustin somewhere, he's rolling his eyes.

So the response she gets from him is surprising. You okay, kiddo?

Kiddo? Mark types back. A fond smiles appears on her face.

"Is that Chris?" Eduardo says abruptly. Mark nods.

"He wants to know if I'm okay."

Wardo's eyes are dark, inscrutable, but not like before, when they'd been almost black with lust. "Are you?" he asks.

Mark raises an eyebrow, challenging. "Probably." The rest of it-- it's just sex-- hangs there, obvious and unspoken.

"You should come back over here," Eduardo says finally, something concillatory creeping into his tone. "It's getting kind of late."

It isn't really, not for someone who's more addicted to code than any other tangible thing, and Mark has watched the sun rise almost every night this week, but if he's giving her something it's only right that she gives something back. "Yeah, okay," she says, and lies down, her body flush with his. He's warm, and he strokes a hand absently down her back before snatching it away. "It's fine if you do that," Mark murmurs, and then she turns her phone off and closes her eyes.

In the morning, he is still there. She isn't sure if she had expected otherwise.


Mark says, "do you want breakfast," and Eduardo says, "I'll drive you home."

So she bites her lip and says she's not really hungry. Eduardo's rental car still smells new, like pine freshener and leather, and it isn't entirely unpleasant but it's utterly impersonal.

Mark kind of wants scrambled eggs. Like, a lot.

She trips in the hotel lobby in last night's dress and last night's shoes. She'd used Eduardo's toothbrush-- wasn't sure if he'd noticed, didn't really care if her did-- so at least her mouth isn't disgusting, but she still feels like old socks rotted there overnight.

They get to her house, which is still a relatively modest rental, and Mark knows the polite thing to do would be to invite him in. But she's been getting all sorts of mixed signals, and she needs to wash her hair and get all the old makeup off her face, and maybe have some breakfast and have Dustin over to watch stupid reality TV. It's a plan, and it's a good one, and it's what she wants to do. She doesn't want Eduardo there, being awkward and difficult and different.

"I'm going to go," he says, and Mark exhales.

"If you're thirsty, you can get some water in the kitchen on your way out," she says, and makes her way upstairs, shoes held loosely in one hand. Her toes crack.

When she goes back down to the kitchen to invite Dustin and probably Chris over, and to warn them that if they want food they'll have to supply it themselves, there's a blue post-it note on her kitchen table. On it in familiar handwriting is a cell phone number, and then a few words. It's only fair, I suppose, since I got yours out of your phone last night.

Mark smiles, and then it turns into a laugh. When she calls Dustin and he asks worriedly if she's okay, she's able to honestly say yes.

She might not use it, or she might. But it's nice to know that it's there.

Re: the paper's shot to pieces (11b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-24 01:54 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (11b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-24 12:49 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (11b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-26 02:34 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (11b/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-28 11:04 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (12/?) - (Anonymous), 2011-09-30 06:33 pm (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (13b/13!) - (Anonymous), 2011-10-10 04:41 am (UTC)(Expand)
Re: the paper's shot to pieces (13b/13!) - (Anonymous), 2011-10-25 01:21 am (UTC)(Expand)