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Poppy wasn’t sure who started the fight that started it. She knew she and Ian were going through one of their rough patches. They were partners, but he had his muse, and his humours, his kickboxing nonsense and his chakra alignments. She was competing with his ego and his harmonic crystals.
“That might be stupid,” she said, crossing out her note on the board.
“Oh, too stupid,” Ian agreed readily.
Well, he could be a little nicer about it, and help her refine ideas instead of discarding them. And she was tired of yelling. She wasn’t defeated or worn out. She actually liked the work they were doing. But Ian was on her last nerve, and she needed that for . . . spinal things.
They had books open on the desk, showing research for the smallest detail. And the last thing she’d read was about wolf dominance and how people used it in dog training. Bite inhibition had to be taught young, with play fighting. But you were supposed to show that a bite hurt by making a loud exclamation. And she was used to going silent when Ian hurt her. He was temperamental, and she was emotionally reserved. They couldn’t both be the sensitive one.
“I think it would be okay to do your thing,” he said idly. “But it would be so much better to do my thing with the zombies. So, like you have a zone for it, and everyone can opt out, but once a year at Halloween it’s free range. The dead rise from every grave. It’s temporary, but for a couple of days everyone has to deal with them. And the money comes from the players who choose to face zombies with the expansion, so they can be ready for the special event. Gives Brad something to do, makes Montreal happy. It’s a great visual. Fun for you!”
She wouldn’t admit it, but she didn’t always just do whatever she wanted at work. Some things embarrassed even Mythic Quest visionaries. So Poppy forgot when she walked over to Ian’s chair, perched on the arm of it, and threw her arms around his neck. He mistook it for a hug, and she caught his grin before she bit the top of his ear. Her nip of the cartilage flicked it as he stopped moving to hug her back and gave her arms a measured shove away.
He rolled away with his hand up like the ear was gone, and David made distressed noises. Jo chuckled with unholy glee, and Brad hummed like they had played into his scheme somehow.
“Ouch,” Ian said flatly.
“Exactly,” she said. “You’re always taking bites out of me, and it’s unpleasant. So before you decide my idea is trash and yours is some pinnacle of storytelling, I’m going to remind you we’re not lone wolves. We’re a pack, and we survive with numbers. By yourself you’d struggle.”
He ignored their audience of assorted coworkers, and looked at her with extreme focus, his hand still extended. Ian caught her sleeve and reeled her back, standing in front of her with his feet moving uncertainly.
“Does that mean you don’t like the zombie zone,” he asked.
“I hate the name. The idea is good,” Poppy said grudgingly. “But I resent being told I love it because you thought of it. It’s not a baby. I don’t have to love because it’s ours. We could have lots of babies by now. When you’re done noodling, I’m the one carrying the work.”
Carol paused in the open office doorway, her hand raised for a courtesy knock. Her expression changed from vaguely pleasant to horror, and she threw some papers into the room. “I didn’t hear that!”
“Look what you did to Carol,” he sighed. “So, if we’re wolves and you just had to give me a warning bite, what do I answer to say I’m sorry.”
“Head butt to my face or neck,” Poppy told him. “It’s not about who’s in charge. It’s about both of us being part of the same pack.”
His big head tipped to the side and he nodded. Ian bumped his forehead on her chin, veering up for a brotherly kiss on her cheek and a second of his chin propped on top of her head.
“You’re so short,” he said. “But you’re furry. That makes you pack. You guys as well, even with that hairline, David.”
The office didn’t really get used to it as much as everyone saw it in person at least once. It happened in meetings in front of groups. It happened in the hallway, with Poppy having to pick up Ian’s hand to nip him there instead. It was reciprocal, though Ian’s ear bites were a good deal more like a fond hair tidy followed by a hint of teeth in his ear kiss. The message was the same. They were speaking freely, and sometimes it went too far.
The answers evolved. Head butts became knuckles rubbed along shoulders, or a forehead pillowed to ribs as they ran out of energy to stand up and fight. It happened on conference calls, until David learned not to make his sound effect of strangled social anxiety. Ian learned to take the bite without any sound. Poppy usually made a tiny murmur, but nothing that hinted at the show anyone was missing.
It was centering for them. They were the center of the Mythic Quest universe. And whatever power of opposites they harnessed to go ten years together, they could go back to the well and sip from it again. They just had to be shouting at each other to find the path.
No one ever mentioned HR needing to discuss the biting or alleged attempts to breed. It probably helped that Poppy’s natural build was slight with a small bust, and if she was even a little pregnant she’d show fast.
“This is very plush, luxurious,” Poppy said. She stepped to the edge of the paper rolled across the studio floor, her sock feet stopping before the clean white surface. “I like the throne. It’s very tall. Is that one of ours from home?”
Ian squinted at it. “No, they must have borrowed it from one of the movie displays,” he said. “I thought we had a second throne. There are two of us. We could have brought another one from the office if I’d known we needed it.”
There were assistants milling, and a photographer loading memory cards and batteries. Pelit magazine was Finland’s oldest and most famous video game magazine. At least some of their employees had flown a long way to California to photograph them and launch Poppy as a Co-creative Director.
She and Ian had shown up in Mythic Quest t-shirts and jeans. They’d been promised a professional wardrobe option as well as a themed outfit if they were willing. She was counting on her theme being armor with a boob cut out she couldn’t make use of, even if she agreed to wear it. But they were in the business of fantasy, and they were nerds, too. If it wasn’t too heinous, she’d wear the costume. She’d promised David she’d try to wear it.
“It’s a big throne,” Poppy told him. “We can share, right? It’s not like every office has spare thrones like ours does.”
“I didn’t realize how hard it was to nail the intimidation factor of a throne of an executioner king. I didn’t want extra ones, I wanted one done right and they’re custom furniture,” he said, still glaring at the one throne. “There better not be some sexist thing about you lap-sitting. I’m gonna talk to somebody.”
She preferred to wait for all the objections to pile up and argue them at once. Poppy could feel his nervous energy making his arms bunch. He loved attention, but he had trouble if it wasn’t 100% positive. And gamers weren’t known for their sweet and understanding ways when they were used to looking at immortal bodies with giant, implausible muscles. Birthdays in the real world came with physical changes. She didn’t want him to spiral into a burnout and disappear.
“Let’s do the makeup and wardrobe first, then we’ll tweak the concept,” she said quietly. “I don’t see the translator. I don’t want to hassle the assistants. They’re getting coffee. They don’t control throne quantity. I’m also concerned about why there’s a bed.”
It was a big leather bed frame, with a mattress made up in faux suede sheets and tossed with fake fur throws. There were two crowns, and an assortment of swords and other prop weapons.
“Oh, the bed was my idea,” Ian told her. “Yeah, that’s tasteful. Don’t worry.”
It probably wasn’t, but she would trust him until it had to be a fight. A nice woman who didn’t speak English well gestured for them into the makeup chairs, where a lot of work happened for Poppy to feel like she didn't look too different. Her hair was glossy and somehow both smoothed and fluffy. She had vetoed red lips, but allowed a pink gloss. She watched Ian study his reflection as eyeliner and some subtle contouring made his jawline stand out. He had a minimal beard, and she thought he looked younger with more of his face revealed.
The wardrobe had to have been created with her scruples in mind. There were leather pants, but they were a nice dark brown and not too tight. There was a white, loose shirt with lacing in front. And there was a brown leather vest that would actually give decent protection against knives. She had the option of boots, but was told they wouldn’t be visible, so Poppy didn’t bother putting them on.
Ian came back from the curtained change area in his own leather pants, his colour scheme a dark, reddish brown. He had silver chainmail over his white shirt, but with his front laces spread wide so there was a lot of chest peeking out. His rings were still there, joined by a silver crown that had a fake ruby proudly displayed low on his brow. She couldn’t help noticing he’d had the crown fitted so it went low enough his hairline wasn’t hidden.
“You brought your own crown,” she said, hiding a laugh.
He brought his hands from behind his back. “Got one for you. And signet rings.”
They were all silver toned, her crown also sporting a ruby with an overall smaller build. And her ring actually fit, which Poppy was suspicious of. Things were going too well. She’d expected one of them would freak out. Maybe it was because she could keep her own socks on, as he had done.
“No shoes?”
“They’re not shooting that low,” Ian told her. “So you’re going to stand on the seat of the throne and I’m going to sit on the arm. It gets our faces lined up so we don’t have to put you in a Peter Pan harness.”
She put her crown on and tested her neck with the weight. “I’m not that short.”
“No, I’m tall. And we’ll get in bed and do an action shot like someone’s busting in on us and we’re defending ourselves. I have my sword and we brought the shovel.”
Poppy wasn’t sure about that. “Why would I have a shovel in bed,” she asked.
“We have to be ready to defend our kingdom at any moment, you know that.”
“Do I?”
He touched his crown, his face very serious. “Yes! We have every player counting on us to keep the world we made running,” Ian said. “And we do it really well.”
They were doing great, the servers stable and their special events getting people interested and signing up to be part of the game. There were always loyal gamers who would continue until the final moment an online environment was shut down.
“Hey, yeah, we’re going, yeah?!” Their photographer was Finnish, and his pep disguised whether he spoke much English. Most of what he said was hype up talk he could have learned from the lyrics of popular songs. “Let’s show them our teeth and bling!”
Poppy was helped to climb onto the very big throne, starting from a crate and holding on to the very tall back of the chair. She waited for Ian to settle on the arm, his legs hiding her socks. The photographer came up and started bumping their limbs around, tapping Ian’s knees until he opened them wider, and left Poppy to stand in between them.
“Together, loose, strong,” the photographer said loudly. He darted around the back of the throne and pulled her arm until she was hugging Ian’s shoulders and not holding on at all to the chair. Poppy wobbled and Ian held on at her waist.
“You’re okay,” he said. “I could catch you with my thighs, too.”
“Please don’t catch me with your thighs.”
The makeup artist ran in with a step ladder. She helped Poppy fix her hair around the crown, and dabbed the instant sweat on her forehead. She took a tiny comb to Ian’s moustache, and Poppy could see his tiny comb envy. She knew there would be a sudden influx of tiny combs all over their office. Perhaps a whole tiny moustache salon would be created.
The translator came up to stand in front of them, speaking as the photographer was draping cameras around his neck. “Hi, so Arvo is your photographer. He speaks some English but he wanted me to let you know his vision for the shoot,” he said. “I’m Jorma, and you can call me if you need to tell him something. He says he wants to see you as Queen and King, Ian as our long-seated sovereign and Queen Poppy as a warrior bride coming into her reign. He wants to see you as friends, lovers, gods in the world you created. He wants you to touch each other naturally, the way you usually do. He wants you to show passion and unity.”
Arvo shouted something quickly, and Jorma added, “And posture is very important. Your clothes will look so much the better with a straight back and proud hips.”
The makeup lady on the ladder was poking Poppy’s shoulder as she tried to listen to all the instructions on being a very tall and non-slouchy person.
“Lipstick check, show me your teeth,” she said. “Good, beautiful! Mr. Ian, lipstick check!”
Once Ian was approved for a lipstick smear free smile, the makeup lady climbed down and carried her ladder away. Jorma moved back and Arvo came in with a sword. He set it point down next to Poppy’s feet, so Ian’s knee was in the foreground, the sword sandwiched between him and Poppy. Ian put his palm down on the hilt, holding the sword upright. It was his left hand, with his signet ring prominent on his fourth finger.
To hold the sword, Ian had to let go of her waist. Poppy put her arm around his shoulders, and he glanced up at her. “Pop?”
“Yes! Pop! Luminous!” The photographer was very excited about them. “Lady put hand here, too. Left hand, ring, together!”
She brought her hand up and let her fingers be draped artfully across the back of Ian’s, angled and slightly spread to imply intimacy. The matching rings and crowns were starting to feel very serious. His chain mail was heating under her hand, and when she shifted uncertainly Ian moved his knee behind her to touch her leg.
“Tall! Proud! Winners!” The photographer tapped her hip and she pulled up taut, trying to find height that hadn’t come with eating all her vegetables for a whole childhood.
While he was still hovering, the photographer took several very close shots of their hands. Ian had to be getting tired of holding the sword up, but he was steady under her palm. Poppy felt very sweaty. She concentrated on being still. She wasn’t sure what the rings had to do with anything. If the translation hadn’t gone well, this could just be a really weird engagement photo.
“Poppy, relax. Think about that first moment of a fresh server, another few thousand people pouring in, knights, squires, mages and nymphs blinking into existence on ground you coded. Under a sky you listened to me babble about and found the colour of it in your head.”
They were the first to walk those new lands, always. The programmers and testers took over at a certain point, but Poppy and Ian always went in first, together. And it was silly to know it was pixels on a screen, but it felt as real as anything emotional could be. There was no way to collect feelings, but they filled her.
“I’m not a model,” she whispered.
“I could be, and I’m kind of dying to show you I really can catch you with my thighs.”
“Don’t you dare.”
The closeups of the rings seemed to be done. Ian’s hand was tapped until he lifted it away, and Poppy was holding the sword by herself. Ian’s free hand was slapped and tugged until it was behind her back, his signet ring now displayed with his possessive splay of his palm over her midsection.
“Equality, yes?!”
“Sure, yeah,” she said, as Arvo moved away and started shooting with another camera. There were other words shouted at them. “Tilt sword a little, casual, like it’s not heavy at all, very relaxed,” Jorma called. “Like a natural fighter.”
She was jealous of Ian for getting to sit and rest one of his arms on his thigh. He looked natural. Poppy shifted her tight grasp to a light press down with her palm, and felt the sword spin on the blunt point. She saw a flash of reflection go out. “Sorry!”
Arvo was gaping at her. “Again! MORE!”
She let the blade twist under her grip several more times, unsure if she was doing anything else correctly. Ian had her stabilized, and she could feel his hand pull up on her when she slouched or was looking down.
“Taller, Poppy,” he said. “A queen has power over any room.”
Arvo ran up to show them the photos, and how the reflection off the sword cut a perfect line down and to their right, a brash hit of flare that melded Poppy’s stiff body with Ian’s indolence. As if he was still in charge, but didn’t have to worry, because she was equally the ruler. Power rolled between them, starting with her, going to him, cycling back.
And it was good. She looked a little petrified, but her serious face was good for this. Ian always had a bit of smugness, but his hand on her side was nice and her hand on his shoulder was comfortable. They looked like they knew how to be close, and when the camera stopped they might continue to touch just as they were. Poppy was buying the illusion. She still didn’t quite get the close shots of their fake rings, but she nodded and smiled.
“That’s amazing,” Ian said. “You look so good, Pop. Look even better upside down between my thighs.”
Arvo was hurrying back to his spot, so she leaned down and bit his ear to correct him. “Stop that or I’ll ruin this laughing.”
His head tipped to press his cheek down to her hand on his shoulder, baring his throat to her. Poppy playfully put her open palm to it, sword hilt leaned under his ear and her ruby ring biting into his neck as he pulled his head up straight. She knew she was not looking the right way, because she was caught up in the momentary sight of her hand circling Ian’s willing throat with a sword propped casually. Like death and life passing on horseback, blowing kisses.
She had ruined the shot and heard mumbles. Poppy stood up straight again, fixing the sword and doing her best to look imposing. They went through other poses, the sword was taken out of it. She did a few funny faces and Ian flexed too much. The photo shoot went by quickly.
Once they were invited to climb down from the throne, Poppy went to the bed to lie down. She petted a sheepskin. “Is there a wardrobe change?”
Ian stood next to the bed, sword over his shoulder. “No, but I promised we’d get a gif. So Arvo is going to shoot us sitting up suddenly, and swinging out with the sword and the shovel going pretty close to the lens,” he said.
She was enjoying the time off her feet. Maybe she should be looking into a standing desk. It was just that he’d been the first to suggest it, and she didn’t want Ian to take credit.
“From the bed, both of us? Feels like we won’t fit in the shot,” she said.
“I’ll be on my back, with you on top of me facing,” Ian told her. “And we’ll both bring our weapons up from the side of the bed with one hand, which leaves the other hands free to stop ourselves before we go off balance.”
She looked at him and sat up cautiously. “You want to imply we’re stacked on top of each other in bed, waiting to defend against attack?”
Ian shrugged. “It’s just a gif. You know we can’t make it too complicated. So frame one, your body comes up, frame 2 my body, frame 3 is your shovel and frame 4 is my sword. Unless you want the sword?”
She didn’t know why it was harder than hugging him and looking like his queen. Poppy stood up and looked around for Jorma. “What does Arvo say?”
“This isn’t for his magazine. I just asked him since he’s here and we’ll cut him a cheque for an extra fee. Besides, I think he likes us! Did you see that one with the reflection off the sword? You did something with the angle of your chin that was really bitchy, and it was all model.”
Ian turned his back to her and gestured. “Can you unhook the chain mail up around the back of my neck?”
“Wait, you’re taking it off?”
She wasn’t taking hers off. Ian was the one who longed for opportunities to be topless.
“I can’t leave it on, Pop. Chain mail gets tangled. You’re going to be lying on me,” he told her. “Can’t pull your pretty hair.”
“Oh.”
She helped him off with it, and one of the assistants came and took it for them. Poppy looked at herself as Ian turned around and eyed her outfit. “You could lose the vest,” he said. “Pull the shirt out loose and it’ll look like a nightgown. On the first frame I can toss the end of the shirt a little and make it look flowy and longer.”
He settled on the bed, sitting against the headboard. Ian took his crown off and put it on the mattress. “Lose the crown, too. It’s not like it would stay on in bed,” he said.
She felt her eyes go wide. “Sure. Too bad. Kind of like the crown, though.”
He smiled. “Crowns and rings are ours, so you can wear it all you want. Still, probably not in bed. They weren’t really designed for that.”
She felt like he might have a crown that was designed for wearing in bed. But asking wasn’t going to make her day better. Poppy opened her vest and took it off with a sigh. It was hot wearing leather. She dragged her shirt out of the waist of the pants. Everything was long on her, and the shirt would double for a nightgown.
The sword and shovel were propped on the side of the bed, out of sight. She watched Ian shuffle down and over slightly. He was making room for her to put her knees around his hips on the bed.
“You want to practice it a few times?”
She took off her crown with a shrug, and tossed it a safe distance on the mattress. She’d just get in and straddle him easily, then prepare to go to war with a shovel. Another day in the life of a nerdy gal living the dream.
Her movements were slower than getting down from the oversized throne. Poppy adjusted her weight and cringed.
“Don’t worry, you’re not heavy,” Ian told her. “So lie all the way down on me. You’ll have to flatten down as much as you can. Smooth the shirt out so I can fluff it up on the way up.”
Avro was setting up a tripod pointed at them in bed. She was feeling catfished.
“Are we sure we want to give the internet this kind of power?”
“Yeah, you should have thought of that with naked zombie skins,” Ian joked. “Or melting pets. The internet would just deepfake it if they really needed it.”
Poppy sighed on his arm. “No one needs it.”
“Well, they might want it a lot,” he said, giving her a tap. “So you sit up, but don’t go back too far, and I’ll flick your shirt so it billows, Then I’ll come up and sit up, and you go for the shovel, I’ll go for the sword. Poppy on 1, Ian on 2, and you can touch my chest or something if you want, shovel on 3 and sword on 4.”
She sat up fast, and felt the breeze of her shirt fly out. Ian sat up underneath her, and Poppy clutched at his shirt with a gasp. He looked at her with a grin. “Yeah, that’s good. You’re getting startled awake from a deep, deep sleep.”
Poppy had the feeling her deep sleep as his queen was a result of something else deep that happened once they got to bed. She groped for the shovel and swung it out toward the camera, hoping someone had measured a safe distance. Ian’s sword was longer, and she didn’t mean anything by that.
“That wasn’t bad. Now a little faster and we’ll go a few times until it feels good, okay?”
She nodded. Ian actually ran his hand down her spine, like quieting an animal. She turned her chin and took a breath full of his cologne.
“Go!”
Poppy sat up, her hips bouncing once and settling with his grip, she clutched a fistful of his shirt when he sat up with her, pulled the shovel up, and held it steady as Ian did the same with the sword. It was hard not to knock together with either of his swords.
“There’s not much room,” she mumbled.
“I know. We’ll do a couple and take the best frames. Edits are everything.”
She sat up, his hand flicking her shirt and coming back to dig slightly into her hip, Ian sitting up after her and her arm flying around his neck, her hand going for the shovel and his hand bringing up the sword.
“Good. Go again.”
They flattened down, hands less cautious. She jiggled on her hips and found a more steady way to put more of her weight off her camera side, hoping it would make the shovel weight easier on one arm.
“Poppy, go!”
She sat up, shirt tossed, Ian’s hand tightening on her to make her stop going back further, his body lifted to smash into her chest as her face turned to the camera side to meet their enemies, her hand brought up the shovel and held it steady, then his hand came up with the sword straight and gleaming, both of them breathing heavily and intent on the camera lens.
Arvo stopped touching the camera on his tripod and took a shot of them with one of his other cameras. His face was red, and he blew them a kiss. “Sexy! Too sexy, I die!”
Ian’s free hand went around her, and they lay flat as they lost their weapons. Poppy laughed at the absurdity of it all.
“Please tell me you didn’t make someone put this giant bed together in a photo studio just for that,” she said.
“Well, I was going to do some topless shots,” Ian told her. “You can pull the sheets up to your waist and stay in. Keep the shirt on if you want. Or you can skip this part.”
She thought about it. Topless wasn’t going to happen, but well-covered by a sheepskin with a crown on her head and her laptop on her lap felt right.
“I want us both in the crowns and sitting against the headboard. I’m on my computer and you’re doing that mediation thing where you balance on your butt,” she said.
“Gluteal flotation is more of a survival skill for if you lose all your limbs,” he said. “But I can do that. Are you good if I lose the shirt?”
Poppy looked at him, lying underneath her with a Finnish photography crew acting like it was any ho-hum day. “It took being in bed with you for you to even bother asking. There’s a reason why Carol in HR hates everyone,” she said.
“Carol is lovely. Why would you say that about her?”
She wiggled off him and sat up, putting on her discarded crown and realizing when it fell down her neck that she had Ian’s. Just to be funny, Poppy put her own crown on and pulled her shirt over her head. Arvo was still taking photos, and Ian laughed out loud.
“I don’t know if that magazine is ready for us, Pop,” he said. “Hey, if you’re down to your bra, can I make a suggestion?”
She froze, wary. “You can make it.”
“Your glasses didn’t work for all the other shots, but I think they’d be sexy for the ones sitting up in bed.”
Wearing two crowns and a bra was already pretty far, but her glasses were more herself. She thought about it, and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll get my glasses. Here’s your crown back. Shirt off."
Arvo was in raptures, and Jorma was taking notes as the photographer moved his tripod to the foot of the bed. She climbed over Ian and went looking for her glasses.
It was a few weeks before everything came back for approval. The approval was mostly perfunctory. Ian and Poppy were both adults and contracts had been signed to have their likenesses in the magazine. They wanted the publicity. She’d done her interview, and Ian had said some things about her he swore were nice. Select game spoilers had been shared, with a few screenshots available to publish around the time of printing.
Poppy had surprised herself by not caring too much how she ended up looking. It was a Finnish video game magazine. It was silly and tongue-in-cheek. Everyone knew the people behind the games weren’t actually muscular superhumans or supermodels who could disembowel. That was why the conventions hired models in costumes to walk around.
Except when the team met to discuss the photos, everyone seemed to be giving her condolences.
“Poppy,” David began gently, “- I’m going to get a translator and call the magazine directly. These things happen and when they do it’s within our rights to select what they use and demand the other shots be destroyed. It used to be that film was literally sent to us, but this was all digital. So they’ll be deleted.”
She blinked, and wondered how bad she looked that everything had to be destroyed.
“That’s ominous. I thought we had something to work with,” she said.
Brad was oddly restrained where publicity was concerned. “It might have gotten a little out of hand. Maybe they slipped you a little champagne to relax you, a special brownie? And that’s not okay, but we’ll figure out some acceptable photos of you. Something risque of Ian as per his image with the fans, and something serious for you.”
Jo shook her head. “You spread yourself like butter,” she said hatefully.
Carol looked tired. “We don’t say that, Jo. Poppy, upon seeing the photos they intend to use, we had concerns you might be upset how sexually you were presented. Especially the gif, which looks - honestly not even like simulated sex. I know it doesn’t have sound, but when Ian sits up and you grab at his shirt you make this face that has a moan to it. Sex tapes have been less explicit.”
Poppy looked at Ian, who was sedately sipping his way through a green juice. He was there. Had it really been so horrible? He could have said something.
“Can we just see them, please,” he asked.
Carol stood up and slid a box of tissues in front of Poppy, going back to her seat at a distance.
David’s sigh was a good sign the photos were actually terrible. His standards were really low for the promotional side of things. He was of the old school where a dragon on a poster was sophisticated media.
Poppy was ready to be humiliated and stomp out. She was waiting for it. But as David cringe-clicked through images, she blinked at each one and recalled them as basically the same as the day of the shoot. Some had a little flaw, like her slouch, or a weird expression. The rings on top of the sword still looked like an engagement announcement. The gif was quick and it definitely had an implication of penetration but it was a funny kind of sexy. She thought for how sexless it had been, it worked out well.
She looked at Ian, who shrugged at her. “I like them. I liked them then, I like them now. I’m not saying Poppy has to feel the same, but we had a good time,” he said. “Am I wrong?”
“It was a little chaotic with the Finnish language directions, but otherwise good. I mean, I’m not a model,” she said.
“Oh God!” David had dropped his remote.
On the screen, she was playing around, standing over Ian on the throne with her hand grasping his crown and her fingertips in his mouth. They’d had a lull where no one was telling them what to do, and her improvisation had gone to it. Worse, Ian had decided to smolder through it, so Poppy’s grin was countered with his grasp of her forearm like he was enjoying her fingers.
“Oh, that one might have gone too far. I remember that being more of a funny moment,” she said. “I threatened to take off his head and use it to bowl. Like the Queen of Hearts?”
“That was croquet, strumpet,” Jo sneered.
They actually had a pretty good sexual charge just holding the sword together, power posing on the backdrop of the single throne’s thorny shape. And then there were the in-between moments where it was clear they weren’t acting like fancy people with crowns but talking like Poppy and Ian. Arvo had caught her ear bite, and the way Ian folded his head down to the soft back of her hand to show the touch didn’t disturb him at all. Her arm around his shoulders and his around her waist didn’t read like the longest time they’d ever kept contact.
The photos in bed were even more ambiguous if there was any acting involved. Poppy and Ian were known for their long partnership. She had been part of the rumours about his divorce settlement. She had been the cause for more than one of his breakups, because Ian picked up the phone for her more than most people.
Ian’s tight pose with his ass clenched to roll on it, and Poppy’s easy prop on the headboard with the screen of the laptop up to cover her bra was just them. It wasn’t them in the same bed, but it wasn’t as cartoony as the crowns should have made it. It had an inset with signet rings matching and glittering, their hands curling like they touched all the time.
David had to be getting to the end of them, so he was clearing his throat to say something encouraging. “It’s not so very bad, and some of the photos are great. But they do add up to an impression, especially with the message of the interview that Poppy just got a promotion to be co-creative director with Ian. It reads very sexy for a modest pay increase and uneventful redistribution of office creative control.”
Brad rolled his eyes. “I like it. I wish you talked more about the Zombie Zphere,” he said.
Poppy shut her eyes. She felt a lot more shame for allowing that name to persist than her few photos that went too goofy.
“I think the interview makes it clear Ian and I like one another and are each bringing a lot to the projects we do,” she said. “And for non-models, I think the photos are good. They’ll choose the ones that aren’t too crazy.”
“Your partnership seems like a romance,” Carol said. “Our industry has a bit of an image problem around how women are treated. So if there’s any issue with Poppy being a dominatrix queen or curling up in bed with Ian, we need to say something now so we can say we tried to stop it.”
David looked like he was hanging between hoping it was fine and bracing for disaster.
Poppy frowned at the tabletop. “I feel like everyone is afraid to tell me I made a fool of myself and wants me to say it first,” she said. “And other than needing a coffee, I’m fine with them. All of them. Yes, even the ones where my fingers are in Ian.”
He brought a small glass bottle out of his pocket. “I have another green juice,” he said hopefully.
She stood up and over him, deliberately catching his shoulder like their throne pictures and biting the top of his ear. “Now you’re just trying to piss me off.”
Ian brought his empty hands up and rolled his forehead to bow to her arm around him. “I think the photos are good, if you like them, Pop. A green juice would help wash down all this haterade.”
“I’m wandering off from your meeting, David!”
“Yeah, me too,” Ian said brightly. “I mean, I have a phone call. It’s from the war effort, overseas. I’m supporting the troops.”
Their technical boss looked bereft. “So are you available to do follow up interviews if we get requests,” he called.
“Sure, or you can just tell them we’ve been secretly married for years,” Poppy told him.
Ian snickered, but he took both his green juices and escaped with her. “That’s mean. He’s going to think about that all day.”
She shook her head. “It also might be true. Las Vegas in May 2017 at the Lvl Up Expo.”
He gulped green juice and thought hard. “A blur, honestly. Huh.”
“We can do a virtual wedding reception for you in the Zombie Zphere,” Brad shouted. “We’ll charge for rice that blows up doves!”