#*worse/smaller as worse implies smallest room in the house

[fideidefenswhore]

There was only one state suite [at Hatfield], on the south front overlooking the gardens and approached by a great stair, and this must have been assigned to Elizabeth. Under James Nedeham's instructions, carpenters and bricklayers set up rooms for Mary elsewhere, possibly on the ground floor or in the guest rooms on the north front.

Houses of Power: Everyday Life in Tudor Royal Palaces / Thurley, Simon

[drabblecat]

Yandere!Heisenberg x F!Reader Part 2

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: yandere behavior, slight nudity, drugging

Part 1

Slightly longer than i was aiming for but that's ok! My initial thought was more pwp but then I realized I kinda wanted some sort of plot... Anyways, big plans for next chapters! As always I'd love to hear what you think and the ask box is open!

You took a moment to try and calm your nerves. Heisenberg still had your face in his rough hands, and you couldn’t try to run with that chain holding you down. As his thumb ran across your lips anger built inside you. Mother Miranda was supposed to protect everyone in the village, but as soon as shit hit the fan there was no one that came to the rescue. You parted your lips as if starting to speak, his thumb now pressing down on your lower lip. Tilting your head forward ever so slightly, you bit down on the man’s thumb. He pulled back and sat up in shock that someone in your current position would do such a thing.

“Take care of me huh? Like Mother Miranda was supposed to? Yeah, well look how that worked out!” The hand still next to your head quickly gasped onto your neck, lifting you up to meet his eyes.

“That bitch was just using the village. It was a lie she used to make sure we had the right number of bodies to work with and everyone fell for it!” Tightening around your throat you started to gasp for air, hands pulling at Heisenberg’s grip. He let you go, house bouncing against the mattress. “It seems you need some more time to adjust. I’ll be back later and hopefully you’ll realize your place here.” The bed shifted as he stood up. Walking to the door and closing it behind him you heard a loud telltale click of a lock.

You stared up at the ceiling for a moment, not only to catch your breath, but also in attempt to process what exactly was happening. Tears formed in the corner of your eyes, one spilling over your cheek and rolled down to your chin. You let it fall for just a moment, and then gathered yourself. What was done was done. True you saw people that you knew dying in the streets, but you didn’t truly know them. You were just the new girl in town, if they were in your place, they would just be happy to be alive. Besides, Heisenberg was one of the town’s lords, right? It’s possible that this isn’t all that bad, you don’t know anything about him besides owning the old factory. At least he’s not Beneviento or Moreau. The dolls were creepy as hell, and you were never one for going near the waters that looked like they’d eat you if given the chance.

Using the sheet you wiped your eyes, and decided it was best to examine your surroundings further. Getting off the bed, the chain falling to the floor with it, you saw the cuff had a decent amount of length to it. Besides the bed and the heavy door, there were a few other things. There was the chair still at the end of the bed, a small nightstand, a vanity, and two other doors. Walking over to the vanity you were taken back. It had a framed photo of you that you do not remember taking. Especially since it was of you just out of the shower! Hesitantly you tipped it over, not wanting to even think of what that photo implied. Below the vanity were some drawers, opening them you found a hairbrush, and what only could be described as some of the raunchiest lingerie you’ve ever seen. Then came the two doors, one was significantly smaller than the other. Trying the small one first in the back left of the room, no luck. After turning the round door knob a few times you gave it a rest. Next was the larger door, this one opened right away. Nothing too interesting, just an ordinary bathroom. It was a little dirty, but nothing worse than what you’ve seen at certain gas stations.

Starting by opening all the possible cabinets you found they were all empty. Nothing to even try to use to get out. No cleaning chemicals or even medicine in the medicine cabinet. Heisenberg must have thought this through this for some time. The chain finally ran out of length at the toilet, just short of the bath. Seeing as nothing came from this, you returned to the bed to stare at the ceiling and think. Not like there was anything else to do. Who knows how long it took you to explore the room and think your thoughts. Without windows or any sort of clock there was no way to tell. Curling up to one side you snuggled into the blankets. Once again you heard the door click, causing you to bolt upright to face the noise. Heisenberg came through the door, carrying a metal tray holding a plate of food, a fork, a glass with what looked like water, and a small white vase with two wilted yellow flowers.

“Dinner time! Now I know I’m not the best cook, but you should find this to at least be appetizing. After all you must be starving darling.” He sat the tray on the bed and sat back in his chair. The plate was just as he said, didn’t look five stars, but your stomach growled at the mess of food. It looked like some baked beans, accompanied by some thick slices of grilled ham, and a chunk of corn bread. You still didn’t move, despite your hunger.

“Ok ok, you probably think I drugged the food, right? Well, I didn’t. Drugging you would be easier with a dart gun.” He lowered his glasses slightly to look you in the eye. With a sigh he grabbed the fork, picking up an entire slice of the ham, ripping a bite out of it. “See?” he placed the ham with the fork in it back down on the plate, speaking as he chewed. You couldn’t hold out much longer. If now was dinner time, that means you missed an entire day with nothing to eat. Planning any sort of escape or resistance to him couldn’t be done on an empty stomach. Reaching forward you used the fork the cut off a bite sized piece. It was surprisingly well seasoned, and super tender.

“There you go sweetheart! I knew it would just take some time to get used to, I’m not all that bad.” He chuckled and watched you as you ate. Only because he was watching you did you eat just a little faster than you had wanted to. Sure, he was a little off putting, but he seemed happy when you played along with whatever sick fantasy he had conjured up in his head. Once the meal was done, he set the flower on your nightstand and the tray right beside it. He stood up, taking his hat and coat off and throwing it on the chair.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I had a full day today and I am beat. Time to get some shut eye.” He glanced over to the vanity; a small piece of cloth poked out from where you had rummaged around. “I see you had some fun today as well. Your still in that ragged gown, I think you might want to change into something a little more… fresh.” Shit, you thought you’d put everything back to where it was. You mentally curse yourself as he opened the drawers. He was right though; you were still in the stained nightgown from the attack. As much as a fresh outfit was a good idea, you dreaded what his choice might be.

After a few moments of rummaging, he pulled out a gown that looked like it went down to mid-thigh, in a deep crimson color. It would have been a nice gown, if it wasn’t for the fact that the entire section around the breasts were almost see through lace with slits on both sides that went from the bottom and halfway up.

“Absolutely not.” You blurted out, causing him to chuckle.

“Sweetheart I don’t think you have a choice in the matter. Besides you and I both know that if you stay in that grimy thing, it’ll make you more uncomfortable than wearing this. It’s soft to, pure silk.” He tossed it on the bed and gave you a wink. Giving a defeated huff, you picked it up. He was right, it was incredibly soft. Getting off the bed with the garment in hand you headed towards the bathroom.

“Aww, and I thought I was going to see you strip. Maybe some other time…” He looked at you with his shit-eating grin. Your face became flustered, and you slammed the door as fast as you could, not shutting all the way due to the chain. Once inside the bathroom you began to change, making sure he couldn’t see you through the crack in the door. It was only then that you found the slip came with a matching pair of panties. Sighing in defeat and honestly just tired of all the bullshit thrown at you these past days you just put them on. It did give you some comfort, surprisingly feeling clean in this lewd outfit over your much more covering, yet crawling with filth, night gown. Taking a look in the mirror you looked yourself over. At least your tits looked hot in this, a confidence boost is good, right?

Slowly opening the door further, you became almost timid at what you saw. Heisenberg had also begun to strip down to his boxers for the night. He was in the middle of removing his shirt. His muscular back was littered with all sorts of scars. His muscles flexed as he took of the white stained undershirt, the smallest beads of sweat wicked away by the fabric. His tight ass was also a sight to see. Looking over his shoulder, he locked eyes with you, no longer having glasses obscure the direct line of sight.

“Well well, seems we’ve both found ourselves some eye candy huh.” Tossing the last piece of clothing to the chair he approached the door. Opening it and taking your hand he looked down at you, you quickly looked away to avoid feeling more embarrassment. Suddenly he picked up bridal style, your hands immediately reaching for his chest in attempt to hold on. In doing so your hands felt the warm firm handful of his pecks. He chuckled as you quickly folded your hands back into your own chest. Ever so gently he set you back on the bed, a sharp contrast to what had happened earlier.

Settling down next to you, you turned away from him. As you felt the bed dip with his weight, he wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you close. You could feel a slight bulge resting against your ass. You tried to create some sort of distance, but you couldn’t move at all. Resigning to the situation, you tried to settle down, eyes unable to close despite some tiredness. All you could see in the limited range of movement you had was the nightstand, remnants of the meal, and the two flowers wilted but vibrant as they sat in the small vase.

[mostlydysfunction]

From The Stars, Part  8

Summary: Kira moved out of town for isolation and peace and quiet. But that quickly gets turned on its head when a spaceship crash lands not far from her house and a strange creature decides she's its new queen. Luck had never been on Kira's side, but things are going to get a lot worse for her as she's forced into this new role and everything her new alien subject thinks it entails.

Warnings: Bodily fluids, hatching eggs, post-labor, talk of birth and mothering, some hinted at violence at the end. 

Authors Note: So this has been up on my Ao3 for ages, I’ve just been too lazy to post it here. For this story specifically, I suggest following on Ao3 cause it’s updated there faster than it is here. There’s a link on my masterlist. Also, if anyone wants to know what I modeled the babies after, I modeled them after the neomorph concept art that Colin Shulver did for Alien: Covenant. A close idea can be found here. 

MASTERLIST

Kira fades in and out for a while. She vaguely recognizes something moving her, the skin of her legs sticking together as she’s carried closer to her eggs. She still has the eighth in her arms, cradling it protectively. She registers their warmth, a solid mass against her back, hissing in her ear. She remembers pain, weakness. Her head heavy, eyes not staying open as she fades in and out.

She’s sure she’s dying. That has to be it. She had lost too much blood and now she was dying. The eggs had caused her to hemorrhage, and she was bleeding out on the floor of her barn. She waits for the bright light, the pearly gates, or even the lake of fire considering the past couple months, but none of that comes. She’s stuck in an inky darkness, her body slowly knitting itself back together again without her knowledge.

It’s light outside when Kira wakes.

She can see the light of the sun in the space near the window where the black substance hadn’t covered it completely. She feels exhausted, her body aching. She’s sticky, covered in something. Something in her arms is moving, shifting around. There’s something pressed against her back, solid and tough. She tries to move, her skin pulling as she attempts to stretch her legs. Something hisses in her ear, a clawed hand pressing against the floor in front of her. Things slowly begin to come back to her. She’d given birth to the eggs, and she had been sure she was dying. But here she was, however long after, alive and breathing.

Something nudges against the side of her head, making her groan at the movement. She slowly moves her upper body, her limbs unsticking from her torso. She’s still naked, but her skin is covered in some sort of almost resin-like substance. It wasn’t all that different from what was covering the inside of the barn. The eighth egg was still in her arms, still smaller than the others. Something inside of it was moving though, she could feel it bumping against the sides.

Kira slowly presses her body up and into a sitting position. The other seven eggs are arranged close to her, moving slightly as well as her babies move around inside. She watches as one of them cracks, lines spidering through the thick outer shell. She sits up on her knees, watching the shell crack and move, something pushing at it from the inside. Her alien leans over her, watching his spawn work its way out of its egg.

It finally makes its way out with a cry, shrill and high. Kira looks at the creature, something inside her stirring as she looks at it. It’s small, no longer than her forearm. It’s pale, almost white. Its head is oblong like its father, but shorter, ending at a sharp point instead of the rounded curve. It stares up at her with big black eyes, its face almost human like. Its mouth opens wider than any human jaw could, revealing sharp, razor-like teeth. It has a small nose in between its wide eyes and mouth, its body built more like its father’s, lean and delicate looking but with a hard exoskeleton. A tail whips behind it, smooth unlike its father’s.

Kira reaches out a hand, a five-fingered clawed hand reaching out towards her. The other eggs are cracking, the feeling swelling in Kira’s chest as she touches her baby’s hand with a finger.

This was her child.

These were her children.

Her babies.

She watches with her alien as the others claw their way out of their eggs, looking very similar to their oldest sibling, near replicas. The feeling inside Kira builds as she looks at each one, touching each one of them. They’re sticky from the inside of their eggs, but their skin is strangely smooth, almost like human skin.

The eighth egg is the last to crack, her last child struggling to fight its way out. She reaches forward to help it, but a clawed hand wraps around her arm, yanking it back. She’s held against her alien’s chest, forced to watch her child struggle to leave its egg. She feels her heart clench in her chest, wanting desperately to help it, but she can’t.

Finally, it makes its way through, this one smaller than the others, its limbs slightly too long compared to its body, not quite as evenly proportioned as its siblings. The runt of the litter. But despite this, she loves it. It lets out a weak cry, trying to get its legs under it properly. Her alien’s head brushes her shoulder as he watches, still holding her back.

Eventually her smallest baby gets its feet under it, unsteady slightly, but standing. Kira’s alien releases her, crawling over to their babies. They let out high-pitched cries, reaching towards his face as he leans down towards them. Kira watches, emotions bubbling in her chest as she watches her babies and their father. Her alien hisses at them quietly, their hands touching his face, tails whipping back and forth as they get acquainted with him.

After a few moments they all turn to look at her, Kira’s eyes going wide as they all rush at her, clambering over each other to get into her lap. She’s helpless as the eight tiny bodies climb onto her, gripping at her skin with clawed fingers. She quickly numbs herself to the pain, nothing more than insect bites as she holds her babies in her arms. She doesn’t care that she’s still naked and covered in dried fluids and sticky resin. These were her babies. Her children.

Nothing was going to stop her from holding them.

***********

Kira sits in the bottom of the shower, letting hot water run over her. She’s tired, her body still aching from forcing out eight large eggs. She can’t fathom how she’d managed to not only carry eight eggs seemingly to term and birth them when humans weren’t supposed to be able to do that. The amount of blood she had lost had to be more than a human could withstand, but yet, here she was, scrubbing said blood from her thighs.

When she had pictured becoming a mother before this wasn’t what she had pictured. Birthing alien-spawn in her barn and then feeding them ground beef within hours of their hatching wasn’t exactly what she had been prepared for. But she can’t bring herself to complain. She can’t bring herself to find it strange. Those were her alien-spawn. They carried some of her DNA, since they weren’t exact replicas of their father. Somehow they had developed partly from her and partly from him to become what they hatched as.

It didn’t matter to her what they were, though. She loved them. She would do anything for them. Anything.

There’s a sharp pain in her head before she gets the feeling of being hungry. No, it’s not her that’s hungry, she realizes. It’s her babies.

She climbs out of the shower, wrapping herself in a robe. She tries not to stare too long in the mirror. She’s pale and there are bags under her eyes. She looks like she’s been through hell. Like she’d been deathly ill. It’s good. She can use that to firm up her story.

She makes her way down to the kitchen, her own stomach growling. She looks through the fridge, the milk and raw meat she had subsisted on for a month suddenly unappetizing. She’d have to do some shopping, it appeared.

After foraging through the stacks of meat, she finds some bread, deciding on some toast. Just as she’s pulling out the jelly there’s a knock on her door. She looks down, realizing she’s still in her robe, but she can’t bring herself to care. The feeling in her mind is still thrumming, crying out for food. She pushes it aside as she goes to the door, seeing two familiar agents standing on her doorstep.

“Ms. Matthews.” One of them says. She can’t for the life of her bring up their names in her memory.

“Are you alright? You look...” The other doesn’t finish his sentence, his unspoken words implying enough.

“I’ve been sick.” Kira says, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” The first agent says. “We hate to bother you, but we just wanted to check on you and see if anything had happened since we last spoke.”

Kira tilts her head. “What do you mean?”

“Oh, you know, anything strange? Unexplainable?”

Kira shakes her head. “No, not that I can think of.”

“Your neighbors called to report some strange sounds that were coming from this property a few days ago. The local police sent an officer to investigate, but he never returned. His car is parked half a mile down the road. He knocked, but there was no answer.”

She nods. “I was probably asleep. I’ve been taking some heavy duty medicines. Knocks me out real good.”

The second agent nods, and she can tell he doesn’t quite believe her. “Right. Well, we have a warrant to search the house, if you don’t mind.”

Kira shrugs, taking a step back, letting them in. “Please, go right ahead.”

Kira stands in the living room while the agents look through her house. All the while the cries of hunger are getting more and more insistent, making her wince slightly. She wants to help them, but she doesn’t know how. But then it hits her.

“The house is empty.” The first agent says, coming back to the living room.

The second agent is standing by the back door, looking out at the yard. “The barn looks different.”

Kira steps into the dining room. “Yes, I was doing some renovations before I got sick. You’re more than welcome to go have a look if you want.”

Like she said. She would do anything.

Part 9

[heejinnien]

j.jungkook | monsters

word count: 4.5k

pairing: jungkook x reader

synopsis: in the darkness is when the monsters rise.

genre: horror, angst, demon au

warnings: implied minor character death, implied toxic relationship, brief description of gore, death threat, brief violence

author’s note: please do not read this fic if any of the topics listed in the warnings is upsetting or triggering for you. this fic is based on the tale of the hungarian demon, the lidérc. they feed off of nightmares and fear. my beta readers (thank you so much to @voiceswithoutlips-kas, @elcie-chxn, and ryan for beta reading this fic for me) have told me that this fic might be confusing to read at first, so please read it in its entirety. i promise that every detail serves a purpose. that being said, the entire fic will be placed under the read more cut, as triggering content is mentioned right from the start. the banner was made by @voiceswithoutlips-kas​, thank you so much.

cross posted to ao3 here

Now

He's dead, the doctors tell you.

The surgeon in charge of the procedure that was supposed to save your husband's life murmurs his condolences, explaining how your husband's body rejected the new organ. They tried their best, he explains, but once your husband's body had decided to reject it there was not much they could do.

It's almost ironic how he died, considering the numerous ways you thought he would go over the years due to the reckless activities he constantly engaged in. Each time he would leave the house you feared for his life, feared that one day he would no longer return to you. Now, it seems, your worst fears have come true.

When the news finally sinks in you let out a sob, although whether it is one of relief or one of despair you can't quite decipher.

Despite the fact that he loved berating you, loved tearing you down until you were entirely reliant on him, you still loved him. Until death do us part, you had promised on the day of your wedding, and you still loved him as much as you did when you were both teenagers in high school. Going on a date with him sparked the same chaos of butterflies in your stomach as it did on your first date, and you were giddy over the smallest amounts of affection, willingly bending over backward trying to please the man who used to be your husband even at your own discomfort.

In the first days of your marriage, your friends and family would visit you. You had bought an apartment together in the city so that he would be close to his work. You had your reservations at first, but he slowly convinced you of the idea. Of course, he could convince you to walk across glass and you gladly would, for him.

And, at first, you were delighted when somebody would visit you. Your husband had insisted he would provide for your every need, so you didn’t work. You also didn’t leave the apartment, as your husband had also insisted it was too dangerous for you. You had initially become hurt at his words, but when he explained it was merely because you weren’t used to the city and that he would take you out whenever you needed to go out, you accepted his words without argument.

Then

“Y/N,” one of your friends had said abruptly during her visit. You were conversing casually over tea, yourself perched on the edge of your sofa and her on a loveseat opposite you. She leaned forward, worry creasing her face. “I think you should come back home.”

“I’m fine, Soodam,” you replied, startled at her words and setting your tea cup down loudly. “I love my husband, and I love the city.”

Soodam pursed her lips. “From what I’ve seen, your husband keeps you prisoner here.”

You stood indignantly, anger flaring inside you at her words. “He does not! He just wants what’s best for me.”

“How many times have you been into the city then, Y/N?” Soodam pushed, standing up after you. She stepped closer, and you shied away, suddenly nervous.

“I… That doesn’t matter.” You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest and turning to put space between you and Soodam. No matter how much you desperately wanted her to stay away from you, she continued to follow you, grabbing your arm to prevent you from running away from her.

“Y/N, please listen to me,” she begged. “You haven’t been the same since you married him and you know it. The apartment is the only place your husband allows us to meet, and he keeps you like a dog on a leash.”

You yanked your arm out of her hold, anger bubbling inside you like a volcanic vat near explosion. How dare she talk ill of you and your husband like that, she didn’t know anything about you.

“Get out,” you spat harshly, wiping furiously at the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes.

Soodam’s eyes widened, and her voice softened. “Y/N, please. I miss you.” She stepped forward again. “Come home with me.”

“I — ” You trembled, suddenly unsure. Your previous anger dissipated within a second, and you stared at your longtime friend. Sensing your hesitation, Soodam continued, this time with a renewed vigor.

“Your parents miss you, Y/N, I miss you. Please, just come back with me and — ”

“That will be enough, Soodam.”

The aforementioned girl gasped, and you looked to see your husband standing in the doorway to the living room, face stoic but eyes burning with anger. He spared you a brief glance before moving into the room, making your friend suddenly cower back in fright.

“I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Scared, Soodam stared at the floor, grabbing her purse from the coffee table and immediately walking in the direction of the door. Before she could get there, your husband grabbed her arm, much as she had done to you earlier, and whispered in her ear. She nodded, face ashen, staring at the ground and refusing to meet your pleading gaze. Moments later, she was gone.

Silence permeated the apartment. Then, “She won’t be returning.”

You knew better than to question your husband’s wishes so you nodded, throat dry. Your husband let out a harsh laugh at your obedience, before dropping his briefcase by the front door. Without so much as another word, he strode down the corridor leading to his office, the sound of a door slamming ringing through the same passageway moments later. The silence afterwards was even worse than your husband’s wrath, the emotions of the past few seconds catching up to you once again and settling upon you like an unwanted blanket.

That was the last time you saw your friend.

Now

You can't remember the first time you feel as though you are being watched. It might have to do with the first time you see him, as after your first encounter you never consciously feel safe again.

The days following your husband's death seem to pass by in a blur, and sometime during them he appears, slowly forcing himself into every aspect of your life until he is a constant fixture you can no longer ignore.

The first time you see him is during your husband’s funeral. The sky is a somber grey, as if it can sense your mood, and an icy wind nips at anything within its grasp. It is the beginning of winter, and the cold is sharp, chilling you to the bone despite the numerous layers you have on. The funeral is brief, more of a formality than anything. Strangers give you their condolences, and it only serves to remind you of how little you truly know about your husband.

It is when the casket is being lowered into the ground that you see him, standing among the group of mourners.

He is huddled in the center of the group, head bowed. Something about his presence draws you to him, and you don’t realize you’re staring until he looks up, making direct eye contact with you. You quickly look away, face burning with shame. Imagine how it must look, you mentally chide yourself, the wife of a dead man checking out another at his funeral.

You chuckle, the sound empty and devoid of any humor. Luckily for you, at that moment, the casket is finished being lowered. The priest in charge of the funeral’s addresses hands you a shovel, effectively drawing your attention away from the mystery man. As you send shovel after shovel full of dirt flying onto the casket, he is effectively pushed further and further away from your mind.

It is not until after the procession is over, guests beginning to head back to their cars that he approaches you. You have just thanked the priest for his words, turning to walk back to your car when you let out a gasp.

He is standing right in front of you, broad frame seeming imposing against your smaller one. He cocks his head to the side, holding out one hand for you to shake.

“Hello love,” the man’s voice is silky, and he grasps your hand firmly. Even though it is a simple handshake, the contact sends a shiver down your spine. The man stares at you, his expression unreadable, and you have the sinking feeling that he knows the effect he has on you. “I’m Jungkook.”

“Y/N,” you say similarly, albeit a bit hesitant. He feels familiar, the subtlety of his features causing your memory to tingle, an identification of who he is just outside of your grasp. You assume he is just another one of your husband’s associates, shoving away the niggling feeling to give Jungkook a polite smile, hoping he picks up that to you, the conversation is over.

He does, because he steps to the side, allowing you to pass. As you hurry to your car, the skin on the back of your neck prickles, the feeling of someone watching you causing your hair to stand on end. When you look back, however, Jungkook is gone.

~~

From the funeral, the feeling of being watched follows you everywhere. Coincidentally, so does Jungkook.

You run into him at the store, the park, even the lobby of your apartment complex, since it turns out he is a resident who recently moved in. Each time, he gives you a charming but guarded smile, attempting to strike up a conversation with you. Each time, you give short, uninterested responses, something about Jungkook’s presence causing you unease.

A month after the funeral, you are woken up in the dead of night by a pounding on your apartment door. Heart racing, you jolt away to the sound, fumbling in the dark for your phone. Squinting to read the harsh digital light, you manage to make out that it is three am.

Swearing at the heathen who dares interrupt your sleep, you throw off the covers of your bed, swinging your legs onto the floor and using your phone light to navigate the dark hallway.

By the time you finally reach your front door, the pounding has stopped. Annoyed, you unbolt the lock and yank open the wood, ready to give whoever it is a piece of your mind.

The hallway is empty.

~~

The mysterious incident sets you on guard, only serving to increase your paranoia. Several nights later, you hear it again, only this time you swear you hear something else, too.

A voice, calling your name.

“Y/N,” it says sweetly, almost crooning. Even though you are locked in your room and buried beneath the security of a multitude of blankets, the voice manages to reach your ears, sickeningly sweet. “Come out, sweetheart.”

You spend the night huddling in your bed in fear, praying for the noises to go away. You are surprised your neighbors haven’t filed a noise complaint about it by now since they’ve complained over lesser, you think, a thought that dryly amuses you.

Much to your chagrin, the noise continues for the next few nights. Each time you stay huddled in your bed, irrationally hoping that the blankets around you will protect you from whatever it is outside your door.

During the day, you don’t fare much better. You swear you are beginning to lose your mind. You find keys moved, doors left ajar. The fear you feel of being watched only increases.

The last straw that breaks the camel’s back comes when you finally seek out your landlord, demanding to see the security cameras.

“Y/N,” the landlord glances from out of the corner of his eyes at you worriedly as he slots the keys to the security room into the lock. He pushes open the door, gesturing for you to enter first. “I know things have been… stressful for you lately.”

He pauses, flipping on the light switch and illuminating a set of monitors. “Are you sure that someone has been…” He trails off, struggling to repeat what you had told him earlier. “Knocking on your door at three am?”

You glare at the man, and he gulps, effectively silencing himself and preceding to busy himself with the monitors. Hell hath no fury a woman scorned, and you are tired of the constant paranoia that has settled deep in your bones. An uncomfortable silence settles upon you, and you stare unnervingly at your landlord, too sleep deprived and furious to be aware of your rude actions.

“Ah, here it is,” the landlord flashes you a weak smile, pushing a monitor towards you. He clicks his mouse a few times, and footage displaying the hallway outside of your apartment begins to play.

You stare intently at the screen, watching the numbers signaling the time in the corner slowly tick away until finally they reach three am. You hold your breath, and see

Nothing.

Your mouth drops open in shock, and you whirl on your landlord. “Did you tamper with the footage?”

If possible, your landlord looks even more nervous, and he gulps. "I haven’t been in here in the past few days.”

“Try another night,” you demand, desperation welling inside you.

Obediently, he speeds up the tape until it is the following day. And, like in the previous footage, as the clock hits three, the hallway is deserted.

Silence permeates the room.

“Y/N,” the landlord lets out a sympathetic sound, and you don’t realize you have begun to cry until a tear splatters on your shirt. “I think it’s best if you just go back to your apartment.”

Embarrassed and frustrated, you nod, storming out of the room...

And right into Jungkook. Your chin collides with his chest, and you reel backwards, angrily swiping at your tears. The aforementioned individual stares at you, concern lacing his gaze.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” you mutter angrily. “Just let me pass.”

Jungkook wordlessly steps to the side, and you quickly hurry past him, now mortified more than anything.

What you didn’t know was that you had just made two, fatal mistakes.

If you had looked into his eyes, you would’ve seen the gleam of delight in his orbs.

If you had turned around, you would have seen the way he smiled.

~~

The footage replaying in your mind, you finally seek out a therapist and book an appointment for the following day. You don’t fall asleep that night, body tense in terror and dread exponentially filling you as the clock ticks closer to three. The knocking, however, never comes, and sometime around the rise of the sun this realization sinks upon you.

You barely make it to your session that day, state in disarray. The many nights of sleeplessness and terror are catching up to you, and you drag your feet down the street, fatigue crashing down upon you.

Somehow, you manage to locate the therapist’s office and scribble down all of your personal information on the clipboard that the receptionist hands you as you enter. You sit in the waiting room, legs bouncing anxiously.

“Y/N?”

You look up as the door opposite you opens and a kind looking man stares down at you.

“Hi, that’s me,” you say, standing and striding over to him. He takes in your worn appearance, eyes kind and compassionate.

“I’m Dr. Kim, but please, call me Taehyung.”

He leads you to a small room just off the main corridor. Several closed doors line the passageway, and at your curious glance Taehyung explains that they are the offices of his coworkers.

His office is small but cozy, a desk on one side and a couch on the other. Bookshelves line the far wall, and a lamp next to the couch gives the room a soft glow. He gestures in the direction of the couch, pulling a chair from his desk over as you sit stiffly.

“Would you like to tell me why you’re here today, Y/N?” Taehyung asks, steepling his fingers on top of his lap and the papers lying there. Your gaze flickers down to the top paper, the sheet you know you had scribbled information on earlier, and he smiles. “I know you already answered that in the pre-screening questions, but I just wanted to ask you instead. It’s always different when someone says it I find.”

Taehyung flashes you a reassuring smile, and you take a deep. With the landlord’s footage playing in your head, you finally manage to open your mouth and say, “I haven’t been able to sleep well lately.” Taehyung nods, as if this is a normal thing, and you push on. “I keep waking up in the middle of the night to this pounding on my door.”

“A pounding?” Taehyung frowns, and the expression sends dread plummeting to your gut.

“I went to the landlord about it,” you say quickly. “But when he showed me the security footage, there was no one there. I swear I’m not crazy, though. It’s almost as if…”

You trail off, forcing your jaw shut before you suggest something crazy.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” Taehyung says soothingly. “You’re in a safe place.”

You nod, closing your eyes and attempting to calm your breathing. When you open them, Taehyung is staring at you worriedly.

“Almost as if what, Y/N?” Taehyung gives you another encouraging look. “It’s okay.”

“Almost as if…” You take a deep breath. “As if I’m being haunted by a monster.”

“Monsters?” Much to his credit, Taehyung doesn’t sound mocking at your confession. You nod, throat dry, and he leans forward. “Monsters aren’t real, Y/N.”

“I know that,” you say, your words ending up in an almost whisper. “I just…”

“You wrote that your husband passed away recently, did he not?” Taehyung asks, and you are grateful for the subject change, even if it is to another depressing topic. You nod, and Taehyung continues. “Grief is powerful, and manifests itself differently in everyone. I think that this is just your grief trying to find an outlet.”

“I don’t — ” You protest, but Taehyung quickly holds up a hand to silence you.

“I know it might not seem that way, but trust me, there are no monsters, Y/N.”

You nod slowly, and Taehyung smiles. This time, it’s sharp and sends a shiver down your spine. A dark look passes over Taehyung’s expressions briefly, so briefly you wonder if you imagined it, and then he smiles once again, this one the same, gentle one as before.

“I’ll write you a prescription that should help you sleep.”

“But, Taehyung, that’s not the problem — ”

Taehyung hums, already turning away, and your protests fall on deaf ears.

You end up leaving the session several hundreds of dollars lighter, one prescription heavier, and the worries pressing down upon you still prominent within you.

That evening, when you return to your apartment complex you see Jungkook in your apartment lobby. You had stopped for groceries on the way home, and you are carrying two large paper bags, each one nestled in the crook of your arm.

Jungkook is standing by the elevators. He turns at the sound of you, lip quirked at the sight of you struggling to carry two bags.

“Do you want some help with that?” He asks lightly, brow creasing in concern.

“No, I’m fine,” you reply, your usual answer whenever he asks if he can help. This time, he purses his lips, and you feel a pang of guilt. You think about your therapist’s words, that the sinking sensation you have around him is probably just guilt, and shove down the feeling before saying, “Actually, if you could, that would be great.”

Jungkook beams, taking one of the bags from its precarious grip against you. Moments later, the elevator dings, and the doors slide open. He motions for you to step inside first before following you, pressing the number for your floor. You open your mouth to ask how he knows your floor, but you quickly close it, the therapist’s words ringing in your head. Coincidence, you think.

The ride is silent, the only sound the occasional shuffling as you adjust your grasp on the bag. You find the silence uncomfortable no matter how much you try to convince yourself of your delusion, the sound of the elevator signaling your floor causing you to exhale in relief.

You are the first one off, leading Jungkook to your apartment door. You fumble with your key, shoving it unceremoniously inside the lock and pushing open the door with your hip. You flip on the lights, already heading in the direction of the kitchen before the lights have even fully powered on.

“You can set the groceries down here,” you nod your head in the direction of the counter, setting the groceries down there yourself. Jungkook does the same.

After setting the groceries down, you expect Jungkook to leave but instead he stands, observing you. Unease twists once more in your stomach, and the fact that you two are alone, together, in your home sinks down upon you.

“Thank you for your help,” you say in what you hope is a clear dismissal. Jungkook doesn’t move, continuing to stare at you unflinchingly. You subconsciously step back.

Jungkook steps forward.

“What are you — ”

“Do you not remember me?” Jungkook tilts his head to the side, question innocent but voice laced with venom. You swallow, your throat dry, and take another step backwards.

“Uh, no? I’m sorry, you were one of my husband’s associates, right?”

Jungkook scoffs, and in that moment his stance reminds you of a predator. He prowls forward, matching each step you take backward.

“You know who I am, Y/N L/N,” he sneers.

“I don’t — ”

“Yes, you do!” Jungkook spits angrily, slamming his hand into the counter, the loud sound causing you to jump. He cocks his head to the side, eyes twinkling in a mischievous way that has fear coating the inside of your stomach.

“Curiosity killed the cat, didn’t it, Y/N?”

To anyone else, the statement may seem harmless, a well known idiom used to caution the overcurious mind. To you, they tear at your memories. You gasp as one particular memory flies to the forefront of your mind.

Then

You gently pushed open the already ajar door of your husband’s office, looking around the room for your husband. You had just finished making dinner and were ready for him to come to the dining room so you two could eat, but he was nowhere to be seen. On his desk, you spotted the tray you had left him for lunch.

You hesitated on the room’s threshold, your husband’s warnings to never step foot in his office ringing in your ears. After a brief mental war with yourself, you finally slipped inside, quickly and silently heading in the direction of his desk.

You picked up the tray, and before you could look away papers resting beneath the tray caught your attention.

“Oh my god — ”

You let out a gasp, the tray slipping from your grasp and crashing to the floor, the sound deafening in the still silence. Face up on your husband’s desk, beneath the tray, was a photograph of a young man. His face and body had been badly mutilated, and the sight made you sick.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You forced yourself to tear your eyes away from the photo, instead meeting your husband’s steely gaze. The body was pushed to the back of your mind, your heart beginning to race for an entirely different reason.

“I saw the door ajar and just wanted to get your lunch tray,” you stammered, cowering beneath his gaze.

He’s silent, staring at you unnervingly before, “Get out.”

You were all too eager to obey, quickly scrambling in the direction of the door. The entire way you felt your husband’s burning gaze, and you had just passed him when his hand shot out, gripping your arm painfully tight. He leaned down, his lips hovering above your ear and sending shivers down your spine.

“Curiosity killed the cat, Y/N,” he says, words causing your heart to feel as though it has stopped and your stomach to drop out from beneath you. “Be careful of where you look, or else you’ll end up like him.”

You ate dinner alone that night.

Now

“Oh my god.”

You barely register as your legs give out beneath you, weak beneath Jungkook’s menacing gaze as the missing piece to Jungkook’s identification that had been nagging at you ever since you had first seen him finally clicks into place.

Before you had suppressed it, you had wondered why your husband had that picture on his desk. Now, everything clicks.

Your husband had been responsible for Jungkook’s death.

You had never been a violent person, and the sheer gore that you had seen from the photographs had caused you to repress that memory. Now, it is vivid and fresh in your mind, and you shake your head furiously as if that will cause the memory to dissipate.

“It’s not my fault,” you insist, staring into Jungkook’s burning gaze pleadingly. “I’m sorry for my husband’s actions, but — ”

“Shut up,” Jungkook hisses, and suddenly he is in front of you, hand against your windpipe. Your breath hitches in fear, and you swear you see a gleam of satisfaction deep within his dark orbs. “You could’ve done something to stop him.”

“I didn’t know what he was up to, I promise,” you sob, vision blurring with tears. Jungkook coos at the sight, gently stroking the bottom of your chin with his thumb. His touch feels as though it burns against your skin, and you flinch.

“Shh, baby.” Jungkook leans forward until his mouth is against your ear. The moment feels strangely intimate, and his breath sends shivers down your spine, just serving to heighten your fear. Every muscle within your body is tense.

“Your therapist was wrong about me, you know,” Jungkook chuckles, the sound sending warning bells signaling throughout your head. “Monsters do exist.”

His hand suddenly tightens, and you choke as your air supply begins to dwindle. The world around you begins to spin, and as everything fades into darkness you hear Jungkook’s voice one more time.

“I can’t wait to break you.”

You gasp awake, heart pounding. You sit up in bed, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm yourself. As you piece together the details from your nightmare, your hands quickly fly to your throat, gently pressing against it where Jungkook’s hands were. You wince, and you quickly shove your covers aside, flipping on your bedside lamp and stumbling into your bathroom.

When you flip on the switch, you are greeted by a ring of purple and grey bruises around your throat. Your eyes widen in horror as the realization that it wasn’t a nightmare crashes down upon you.

And that’s when you hear it.

The pounding on the door.

[pax-2735]

GoT Fanfic: Come Into My Parlor (3/3)

Words of caution: This part has supernatural elements (sort of), implied murder, smut and dark! Jon - consider yourselves warned.

If you wanna play catch up, here’s part 1 and part 2. 

Summary: When Sansa goes to the Targaryen’s annual Halloween bash, the last thing she expected was to come face to face with her demons.

Come into my parlor

It was only after his footsteps faded, the sound of a door closing in the distance, that Sansa forced her own feet to start moving. Not towards the now dim sounds of the party, no. The last thing she wanted at the moment was to go back in there and risk another chance encounter. It was hard to imagine this night getting any shittier but the way the universe was treating her lately… she wasn’t about to take any chances.

Turning around, she went in the opposite direction.

Which is how she finds herself in her current predicament.

This must be the Halloween party from hell, she thinks grimly, as she rounds yet another corner and comes face to face with four different corridors, all leading in opposite directions.

How the fuck did I get fucking lost INSIDE this motherfucking house? How is that even fucking possible?

She knows her English Lit teacher would probably be appalled at the lack of creativity behind that sentence but right now she doesn’t give a flying fuck. Isn’t this the shittiest ending possible to the shittiest night ever?

Her initial escape from the damn party had quickly evolved into the excitement of exploring the old house. Sansa has never been the bravest of all the Stark siblings – she has, on occasion, even heard unflattering comparisons to a kitchen mouse (not even a garden mouse, for fuck’s sake) – but she has always loved exploring abandoned places. There’s something that speaks to her on a deep level, to come face to face with trinkets and artifacts that have been used and cherished long ago by people she will never know.

Harrenhal isn’t abandoned, but it had quickly become a study in contrasts, as she wondered across rooms that had been completely refurnished to its previous beauty and straight into rooms where no one had apparently set foot in more than a few decades. She’s not exactly an expert on recuperating old houses but she’s pretty sure this isn’t how they do things on The Property Brothers. The excitement had eventually soured though, once her feet had started to hurt and she had decided it was time to get back, only to discover she had no idea where ‘back’ was.

Way to go Alice. Straight into the rabbit hole.

In her defense, she has realized – belatedly, she’ll gladly admit – that this house is an absolute maze. Harrenhal was the pinnacle of Lord Whent’s dreams of grandeur and it definitely shows. Everything is huge and completely disproportional, as though it was built for giants and not men, and the inside is just as senseless. There are stairs that lead to nowhere, rooms where one would expect passageways and everything seems to be tied together in a loop from where there is no escape. She may have to resign herself to the fact that this is where she’ll spend the rest of her life, endlessly going up stairs and turning corners and never finding her way out.

You can check out anytime you’d like, but you can never leave. No wonder they say the place is haunted. At least, if everything turns out for the worse, she’ll have plenty of company.

She chooses the smallest of all four, climbs over the three crooked stone steps at the end of it and turns the corner, and comes face to face with two narrow hallways. None of this looks even slightly familiar which is good – in the sense that she hasn’t been walking in circles as she’d feared – but also bad, as it means she’s not retracing her steps back into the party.

Seven fucking hells. She really needs a drink right now. Or a cigarette. Or her cellphone so she can call the police, the fire department or even her mum. Anyone will do at this point really.

Alright, yoga remember? She takes a couple of deep breaths, starting from her belly and all the way up to her chest, to try and calm the fuck down. This isn’t impossible. All it takes is a little common sense.

There is what looks to be an open door near the middle of the corridor to her right, a soft silvery hue wrestling its way against the shadows lingering in the corners, and she makes her way there. If she can look outside maybe she’ll be able to pinpoint where exactly she is now.

Reference points and all that shit. Dad would be so proud.

The room isn’t very big and it’s crowded with old furniture underneath layers of dust, but the window is huge. The full moon stands directly in front of it, tiny wisps of clouds being pushed by the wind occasionally obscuring its glow. It’s like something right out of a witches story. That, or a slasher movie, she thinks gloomily.

Sansa remembers when she was little, how Old Nan used to tell her that she was lucky for having been born on this night, that there was something special about this time of year. She had never felt particularly lucky though. Right now, she just feels stupid. Still, she supposes, as she makes her way to the massive window, there is something beautiful about this night. Something special, that seems to call out to her.

The gardens that surround the estate are still mostly in disrepair. The grass has grown as tall as a toddler and covers the stone pathways in shades of dark greens and greys. Wild weeds have long since strangled the flower beds, leeching their way into the barks of trees that look older than time. Scattered around the edges of the greenery, antique lamp posts that have long ago grown dark stand as tall as giants, their shadows like black ghosts staring back at her.

She’s startled when she hears it at first, a low rumbling sound that seems to be coming from one of the smaller buildings to her left. Probably the kennels Ramsay was talking about earlier from the looks of it.

She frowns as she peers down at it. The thing looks mostly abandoned, with its barred windows and huge cracks lining the roof and she has a hard time imagining Jon, who is a notorious dog lover, allowing for some poor animals to be stuck in there. But there’s no mistaking the sounds coming from it.

Something heavy clenches at her chest and she suddenly feels the hairs at the back of her neck prickling, the way Lady bristles whenever she senses something foul. The gnarls coming from down below are steadily increasing in volume, something wild and untamed tearing and snarling and scratching at something, until they stop suddenly and everything is silent again. A startled bird takes flight from a nearby tree and the quiet is shattered with a long, powerful howl. Other voices soon join the first one and the black night is suddenly alight with the gut wrenching sound.

The chorus dies down gradually after some time and the night is silent once again. After the sudden howling everything seems deadly quiet, not even a speck of wind disturbing the few leaves still stubbornly clinging to the wiry branches. The only thing Sansa hears is her blood rushing in her ears.

“Sansa?”

The air hisses as she draws it in through suddenly clenched teeth as she swirls violently around. The shadow looming in the doorway jumps back and lets out a startled – and very unmanly – yelp. Her heart is still hammering away as her brain slowly begins to fire back on, her eyes widening at first and then narrowing in recognition. “Jon?”

He has a hand against his chest, the other one running through his hair in a nervous gesture she has seen on him thousands of times, and she can hear him clearing his throat before fixing her with a glare. “Seven hells, you just scared the shit out of me.”

“I scared the shit out of you? What the hell are you doing here?” she huffs.

“I was looking for you. Margaery said she left you in the bathroom but no one’s seen you since. I was worried.”

Ok, so maybe that melts her heart a little bit. “So you came looking for me?”

He shrugs in a casual manner but it does nothing to hide the pink that’s faintly coloring his cheeks underneath his beard. “Just wanted to make sure you weren’t lost or anything.”

And now it’s her turn to blush as he gives her a knowing grin. “Don’t you laugh at me,” she says, as sternly as she can.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He holds up his hands to emphasize his point but she can see the gleam of amusement twinkling in his eyes. “Shall we head back then?”

She huffs as she passes him and he chuckles as she stops dead in the doorway, looking left and right. “Do you want me to lead the way?” he whispers close to her ear, so close she can feel his breath on her neck and the faint smell of the beer he was drinking earlier. Gods, he could lead her straight to hell with that voice and she’d gladly follow.

She elbows him in the ribs instead. “If you’d be so kind.”

They walk mostly in silence as they make their way through winding corridors and steep stairways. Jon seems to know where he’s going, barely hesitating whenever they reach a new crossway before he leads them left or right accordingly, and Sansa begins to believe there might actually be a light at the end of this particular tunnel, and one that doesn’t include a train at that.

It’s only when they turn yet another corner and start making their way down the hall that Sansa suddenly stops, breaking the silence that has settled like a blanket over them to call out his name.

“Jon?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Course I do. You think I’m just walking around aimlessly?”

“You sure?”

He frowns at her, looking genuinely hurt. “You don’t trust me?”

“Normally, with my life. In this particular instance, however…” she trails off, nodding her head to her right before fixing him with a stare. His frown deepens and he retraces his steps back to where she stands leaning against a doorway and peers inside the room she just pointed at.

“Shit,” he murmurs.

She narrows her eyes. “I take it that means what I think it means.”

He gives her a sideways glance before turning back to the room, his hand running through his raven curls before he lets out a frustrated sigh. “This is the room I found you in.”

“Which means we’ve been walking around in circles this whole time.”

He turns back to her with a scowl on his face, apparently not finding any of this amusing. Well, tough luck baby. Before he can answer her though, the room erupts in a sudden flash of white light, the walls around them trembling with the force of the thunder that follows right after, making the glass rattle on the weathered windows. Sansa jumps, her jaw clenching as she bites down on the startled scream that threatens to follow suit.

“It’s just a storm Sans.”

She fumes at him. “Just a storm? Just a storm? Are you shitting me right now? This isn’t just a storm! This is Halloween, and there’s a full moon, and we’re lost inside a haunted house –“

“The house isn’t haunted,” he says, quirking his brow. “I can’t believe you believe in such –“

“And NOW there’s also a storm! I’m all for the horror mood of the season but this is getting ridiculous!”

“Hey, hey,” he says, “it’s alright Sansa.” His hands are incredibly gentle as he steps forward to rub them up and down her arms, trying to soothe her. “Look at me. We’re alright.” He’s really close now, their noses almost touching, and the breath she takes in to calm her nerves smells only of him, something earthy and warm and familiar. “Better?” he asks after a few seconds, and she nods.

“Sorry. This has been a weird night.”

He smiles, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, look at it this way. At least we don’t have an axe wielding psycho on our tail.”

The shaky smile she’s sporting dies on her lips. “I don’t know about any axe wielding but we have the psycho part down.” He stares at her, clearly not getting it, and she sighs. “Ramsay’s here.”

“What?” His voice resounds through the walls as another roll of thunder comes crashing in. “What the fuck’s he doing here?”

“He says he was invited,” she explains, as she stares at him, gauging his reaction.

“No,” he says, and there’s an absolute finality in his tone that makes her relax a bit. “There’s no way. Rhaenys and Aegon would never do that, not without talking to me first and I’d never agree to it. At least, not with these many witnesses around.” He smiles as though he’s cracking a joke but it never reaches his eyes. Instead, she sees something hard flashing in its greys depths.

Sansa shivers as another thought suddenly pops into her mind. “Do you have any dogs in here?” Jon keeps silent, his face an unreadable mask as he stares at her, no doubt trying to make sense of the sudden change in conversation. “In the kennels. I thought I heard them howling a while back,” she clarifies.

He shakes his head, giving her a puzzled look. “No one lives here. Besides, I’m the only one who has a dog and if I had brought Ghost, I wouldn’t have put him in the kennels.”

Of course. That makes sense.

Jon gives the room one last dismal look before turning back to her with a sheepish smile. “Maybe you should lead this time.”

“Yeah, because I was doing such a bang up job of it before you showed up.” Still, she starts moving, leading them back the way they came, up until the corner where she turns the opposite way. She can hear Jon’s footsteps following close behind. It’s reassuring somehow, even if he’s just as lost. She’s not alone anymore.

At the very least, he’ll make for good company even if they never find their way out.

“So let me get this straight,” he says after a while, “you ran into Joffrey, Harry and Ramsay? All three of them?”

She shrugs. “My kind of party.”

“I’ll bet,” he murmurs. “I mean, what are the odds?”

“Maybe I should try the lottery next.”

He smirks. “I have to admit though, it was very satisfying seeing you telling Joffrey off.”

She looks at him over her shoulder. “You were about to see me do the same to Harry if you hadn’t been so quick to step in.”

“He was hurting you,” he says, and that hard edge is back in his eyes.

“And my boot was about to hurt him right back. Hard.” She smiles wickedly. “I was channeling Arya. He should be thanking you.”

He lets out a startled laugh as his eyes fall to the mentioned boots. They’re black leather, soft and pliant all the way up to her knees, with some killer heels. Rickon had joked about how she could easily stab a man with those. Or maybe fuck one. Jon’s eyes are now raking up her body, over her legs and lingering slightly at the apex of her thighs, sweeping over her bodice and trailing her neck before settling on her mouth. It’s a thorough eye-fuck if she’s ever seen one. And when he licks his lips before finally locking eyes with her, she feels it like a caress over her skin.

“I wouldn’t want you to ruin them. They look…” he hesitates before giving her a devastating smile, “nice.”

She grins at his cheekiness. They have been doing this for what seems like forever now, the friendly back and forth of friendship always skirting around the edges of flirting, the eternal will-they-won’t-they that has most of their friends rolling their eyes and, in Theon’s case, probably making bets. But there’s something definitely different about tonight. Something far more deliberate, that seems to be taking them much more towards the when-will-they.

The corridor comes to a sudden end, opening up into a large room with massive floor to ceiling windows, wood paneling all around and a gigantic chandelier hanging over their heads. There’s a huge dining table at the center, complete with velvet backed chairs, the brightly polished wood seeming strangely out of place when everything else is covered in what looks to be years’ worth of dust.

“Wow.”

She cocks a brow at him. “You’ve never been here before?” she says, remembering his earlier misguided bout of confidence about knowing his way around.

He seems to be remembering the same thing as he looks sheepishly at her. “In the house? A couple of times. In this room?” His eyes take a long sweep around. “I think I’d remember something like this.”

“Well, I don’t know about you but I need a break.” She struts inside, the carpeted floors muffling the click clack of her heels. The storm is still raging outside but the lighting seems to be holding up so far, several lamps bathing the room in soft yellow hues, a stark contrast against the dark woods and blood reds of the décor. Jon follows her in, pulling up a chair for her to sit before sprawling himself in the one next to it.

“This house was always more of my father’s project. He said there was something about it that reminded him of his Valiryan roots.”

She doesn’t really know what to say to that. The stories about Old Valirya – the ones she’d heard about as a child – were always filled with gore and bloodshed, gruesome tales of incest and madness, sprinkled with just a tad of magic and witchcraft. There’s something strange about this house, that’s for sure. She can feel it in her very bones, to borrow one of Old Nan’s sayings. But she always thought there was something strange about Rhaegar Targaryen as well.

There is something she wants to tell Jon though. Something she feels is way past its due. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you at the hospital.”

The twitching of his fingers as they drum against his jean clad thigh is the only indication that he’s heard her as he keeps his eyes glued to the carpet. “It’s alright.”

She sighs as she contemplates his answer. His quiet dismissal is nothing short of expected but it isn’t what she wants. “No, it isn’t. We’ve known each other ever since we were kids. We’re friends. I should have been there.”

“You were dealing with Ramsay at the time.” His eyes have seemingly lost their interest in the swirling patterns adorning the floor and he looks straight into her own blue gaze. Somehow, it gives her the courage to forge ahead.

“Robb said you died.” She sees him flinch at her words. “He said that when he got to the hospital the doctors told him they were trying to revive you. That you had died and they didn’t know if they could bring you back.” Her voice breaks but there’s nothing she can do about it, the helplessness she always feels whenever she thinks of that terrible night threatening to pull her under until there’s nothing she can do with it but drown.

He must hear it too and suddenly he’s leaning forward, holding her hands and invading her space, breathing her in. “But they did. They brought me back.”

Her smile is probably more like a grimace, her voice barely above a whisper. “What was it like?”

He lets her go and leans back in his chair, his hands running over his face. “I don’t remember much of it. I remember the stabbing.” He shrugs as though he’s talking about something meaningless but his eyes betray the pain the memory still causes him. “I remember thinking how cold everything was, how it felt like I was drowning…” he trails off as he sees her shuddering. “And then I just remember waking up with my father beside me.”

This times it’s her that leans forward, placing her hands over his thighs in what she intends to be a comforting gesture until his eyes darken and he raises his hand to trace a finger gently over her cheek. “I could have lost you that night,” he says, and something both warm and dangerous sparks in his eyes.

She swallows before giving him a shaky smile. “I think that’s my line.”

“No, it isn’t.” He leans forward again and his face is now just inches apart from hers. “I could have lost you without never truly having you.”

He moves, just the slightest bit forward and Sansa knows he’s going to kiss her. Her hand moves up, her palm pressing flatly against his chest and he immediately stops, making her feel a surge of power. It’s intoxicating, the knowledge she can stop him with just the barest of touches, that he will submit to her so willingly. She can see the hurt and regret swimming in his eyes but for once she doesn’t regret putting them there. If they’re going to do this – finally, at long last, actually do this – she wants to be the one to take that final step. She wants to make sure neither one has cause to doubt ever again.

His fingertips are still grazing softly against her neck, as though he fears this is both the first and the last time he has the chance of doing so. Her left hand finds purchase on his arm, holding him against her, as the other one cups his face gently. His beard is scratchy against her palm as her midnight blue nails graze his skin and he closes his eyes when she finally bridges the gap between them.

Behind her closed eyelids she can see flashes of lightning and hear the rolling of thunder from the storm outside. Or maybe it’s fireworks and the mad beating of her own heart and the storm actually exists inside of her. All she knows is that his lips are soft and yielding as they move against her own, giving her complete control over the kiss, and her brain is scrambling to catch up, trying to memorize his reactions. A soft nip at his bottom lip has him groaning, the tug of her fingers in his hair makes him tilt his head as his arm snakes around her waist to pull her into his lap.

She can feel him poking against her ass, the hard plains of his chest rubbing against her nipples as she presses herself against him, and she moans. That seems to be all the encouragement he needs as his control snaps and he grabs her thighs to lift them both up, never breaking the kiss, before settling her down on the table.

Her legs are splayed open and he settles himself in between, her knees cradling his hips and reeling him in. She can feel him rubbing against her most sensitive spot, white hot sparks of pleasure searing through her body and she tears her mouth away in a gasp. His lips never leave her skin, trailing fire across her jaw line and nipping at her ear lobe before venturing down to suck at her neck. His right hand is splayed against her back, keeping her up, but his left is slowly trailing under the hem of her dress and over her thigh, his fingertips toying with the edge of her panties.

She feels the rip against her skin more than she hears it, and she means to give him a dirty look and a slight scolding – those were some of her more expensive panties, after all – but all she manages is a keening, needful sound as he takes half a step back before placing his hand fully against her core. His fingers dip beneath her folds, easily parting them, and the lady in her should feel embarrassed about how wet she already is but she can’t, not when his thumb is brushing her clit in the most delicious manner, not when he slips one and then two fingers inside of her and she can feel her toes already curling in pleasure.

Gods, but the man knows what he’s doing. Her hips buck against his hand and he snaps his eyes back to hers, a smug grin on his face, but right now he has every right to be smug, she thinks, as she grabs his face and pulls him back up to her mouth. It’s only a fleeting kiss before she’s throwing her head back, his arm around her waist the only thing keeping her up, and she lets out a wordless scream.

When she opens her eyes again her whole body is still shuddering. Jon is looking at her as he brushes a lock of hair behind her ear, the gesture incredibly sweet after what he just did to her with that hand, his eyes filled with lust and something else she doesn’t dare to name just yet.

Her fingers play with the soft hair at the back of his head, her nails raking lightly against his neck and she’s delighted when he closes his eyes, letting out a low rumbling sound. They’re still so close that she bumps her nose against his as she tilts her head to the side to whisper in his ear, “I want more.” Her hands smooth down slowly over his chest until they reach his belt, her fingers making quick work on the buckle.

“Sansa” he rasps out through gritted teeth, “we don’t have to…” Whatever else was going to come out of that gorgeous mouth is lost as she pops the button on his jeans and lets her hand play along the fine hair over his abdomen.

“I know,” she says, her hands pushing his jeans and boxers down over his hips, fingertips touching the velvety hardness before she looks back into his eyes, a coy look on her face as he bucks against her. “I want you Jon.”

His uncertainty turns into a wolfish smile, his hands gripping onto her hips to pull her towards the edge of the table, the tip of him brushing against her wet folds. “As the lady commands.”

When he slides inside of her, the only thing she can think of is that it won’t take long for her to peak again. He sets a brutal pace, his hips snapping against hers in all the right ways, his cock hitting that delicious spot inside of her with every stroke. His right arm encircles her waist, keeping her close even as his left hand moves between them to circle her clit. Her legs have wrapped themselves around his hips and her arms move around his shoulders, their tongues mimicking the movements of their lower bodies as they swallow each other’s moans.

Lightning flashes just as Sansa wrenches her mouth free to scream his name as her orgasm washes over her. She thinks she sees something violet sparking in his grey eyes as he leans forward to whisper you’re mine now against the skin of her collarbone but a second later thunder crashes, and Jon roars her name as he spills inside of her.

She’s still limp and completely boneless when he collapses against her, his weight pushing her backwards against the table, his hands moving rapidly to cushion her fall. She lets out a contempt sigh as she combs her fingers through his sweat dampened hair, willing her racing heart to finally settle back down.

He’s grinning when he finally raises his head from her chest to look down at her. “This isn’t how I thought this night would go.”

“Second thoughts already? Man, you’re fast.” Her attempt to look miffed is shattered by a squeal of laughter when his hands tickle her sides.

“Never,” he says, moving his hands up so he can settle on his forearms and give her a heart melting kiss. “My only regret is how much time I’ve wasted.” The tips of his fingers toy with the loose strands of her hair before he brings a lock up to his lips. “But I’ll never regret how tonight turned out.” His cock twitches against her inner thigh and he gives her a playful smirk.

She cocks her brow before giving him a slight shove. “Down boy.” He laughs, leaning down to give her a quick peck on the lips before straightening, his hands gripping her elbows to help her along, even as she uses her stomach muscles to lift herself up to try and chase his lips back to hers.

Jon is tucking himself back into his jeans as Sansa stares at the mess between her legs, looking around for something to clean herself up with. “Where are my panties?”

“Those are mine now,” he smirks, and she huffs at him.

“I bet you’re gonna look great in them.”

He moves back against her, his arms boxing her in as he grips the edges of the table on each side of her. His breath is warm against her neck and she feels his teeth bluntly nipping at her ear. “Want me to clean you up?”

Oh Gods, does she ever. Even though she seriously doubts her body is capable of another orgasm right now – another knee-weakening, mind-blowing, earth-shattering orgasm – she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t very, very tempted. She feels him smiling before he moves back, allowing her brain to start working again. “Raincheck?”

“Whenever you want love.” He nods his head to a small greenish door, partially hidden by the wooden paneling. “There’s a bathroom over there where you can clean up.”

She’s throwing the paper towels down the toilet, checking herself in the mirror to try and make herself look presentable – never mind the marks Jon has left on her neck and collarbone as there’s nothing she can do about that – when it suddenly hits her.  How did he know about the bathroom? Hadn’t he said he had never been here before?

She’s still frowning, trying to collect her thoughts, when a strange noise, followed closely by a moan, startles her. There’s a door on the other side of the bathroom, probably a connection to the adjoining room, and as she strains to hear it, it’s obvious there’s something happening on the other side. The door isn’t locked, or even closed properly, the hinges creaking as Sansa pushes it open and her eyes widen.

Harry is half sitting, half lying on a couch, someone Sansa instantly recognizes as the blonde zombie from the party sprawled on top of him, her hand palming him over his trousers. She can’t see the blonde’s face as it’s hidden on the crook of Harry’s neck, but Harry sees Sansa. He lets out a strangled noise, his eyes widening at her before he lifts up his hand, beckoning her to come closer and she frowns. Is that dick really inviting her to join them?

A shadow moves in her peripheral vision and the door bangs shut abruptly. Jon is looking at her in concern as he grabs her elbows and gently steers her back. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, as he gives the now closed door a dark look. “This night can’t end soon enough.”

“I’ll say,” she mutters. He pulls her against him, his arms wrapping around her as his lips graze her temple and she nudges her nose against the crook of his neck.

“What do you say we head back to the party?” He pulls back slightly to give her a boyish grin. “I promise it isn’t half as bad as it seems.”

She’s about to make a joke over the fact that they’re still as lost now as they were an hour ago, but now that the storm is finally over, she can hear the faint strains of music coming in from somewhere down the hall. She nods, tucking herself against his side as they make their way outside. And just as they’re stepping out, she catches their reflection in the mirror, hair still pretty much disheveled, the remains of her red lipstick marring the black of his shirt, his beard burn making her neck look as pink as a new born.

He looks at her through the mirror, angling his head so he can kiss her cheek while still keeping his eyes locked on hers. “Happy birthday baby,” he whispers. And this time, she can swear she sees something violet flashing in its grey depths.    

                                                            ***

Epilogue

This time, as they start back towards the party, Jon knows exactly where he’s going. It takes them only a short while before the music is blasting its way into the corridor, pulling them back into the mass of bodies drunkenly swaying across the room.

Jon brings her hand to his lips, gently kissing her knuckles before smiling. “Do you wanna dance?”

She nods and he pulls her along, twirling her around as they reach the center of the room before pulling her firmly against his chest, eliciting an excited giggle from her lips. His arms reach around her, a palm planted against her lower back, the other finding its way up her spine to tangle gently in her red locks. Her own arms have wound themselves around his neck and she tucks her head against the crook of his neck. Right where she belongs.

He knows better than to blame this pull she has on him on anything other than his own heart. He has loved her for far longer than anyone would ever suspect.

It had been his reaction to her infatuation with that asshole Joffrey that had first opened his eyes to his real feelings for his best friend’s little sister. He had watched as she lost herself in her feelings for the blond jerk, how he gave her nothing but contempt and threats in return. The desire to see him choke over his own words was so dire Jon was sure his own hands would end up doing the job.

In time, she will learn how Joffrey died on the way to the hospital, choking on his own spit as bloody foam spurted from his mouth. Allergic reaction, the people will call it. But Sansa will know the truth.

When her path to college had taken her miles away from him, he had briefly thought about following her. But his father had cautioned him against it. She needed time, he had said, time to grow into herself and learn what she wanted. Jon hadn’t liked it, but he had agreed.

He had learned about Harry from Robb and once again jealousy had reared its ugly head. But it was Robb’s own rageful comment about how that prick had cheated on Sansa that had truly sealed his fate.

In time, she will discover how the pretty zombie from the party was really someone Harry knew – or thought he knew, in any case. Rhaenys is good at getting these things arranged, even if she doesn’t have the stomach to stick around for the fallout. Sansa will be shocked, no doubt, when Harry’s body is discovered, livid and cold and mangled in one of the mansion’s secluded rooms. Too much alcohol, the people will whisper, his heart gave out. But she will know.

His own death had changed something deep inside him. He didn’t exactly lie when he told her he couldn’t remember much. He doesn’t. But what he does know is that there was someone else in the room with his father when he had woken up, and one look into the woman’s face had made it clear he wasn’t supposed to have come back. But whatever else death might have done to him, the one thing that never changed was his love for her. If anything, it just made everything clearer. He needed her. He wanted her. And he was going to have her.

He knows why she hadn’t visited him in the hospital. While he was lying in that hospital bed, she had been in a different one, recovering from wounds inflicted upon her by the prick who was supposed to love her. Ramsay is the one he’s sorry he couldn’t kill with his bare hands. She doesn’t know it – at least Jon doesn’t think she does – but soon after his release from the hospital he had paid Ramsay a visit. His knuckles had been scraped raw as he had beat the sorry motherfucker into a pulp, his face a distorted, bloodied mass by the time Jon had stopped. Sometimes he wishes he hadn’t. Stopped, that is.

In time, she will hear about the disfigured body found in what used to be the mansion’s old kennels, too eaten and torn to pieces to allow for a positive ID. There will be speculation about how it was probably some homeless guy attacked by wild animals – and won’t Aegon be pissed when he hears his hounds being referred to as such. But Sansa will know the truth.

He nudges his thigh between her legs as he presses closer to her and she lifts her head to shoot him a dirty look. Her dress is short enough as it is and he still has her panties safely tucked away in his pocket. He kisses the tip of her nose in apology as he sways her gently across the floor. He’ll behave for now. His plan is finished and Sansa is safe in his arms.

In time, she will come to learn what he is. She will know the truth about the Targaryen bloodline and heritage, how the stories of madness were mere tales to mask a much uglier truth. In time, she will accept that everything he’s done has been for her.

He twirls his fingers through her hair, gently tugging her head until he can capture her lips with his own in a whisper of a kiss. Her eyes are sparkling as she pulls back to look at him.

“I love you Jon.”

“I love you too sweetie.”

It’s time to reap his reward.

[brynwrites]

The Marshmallow Aesthetic:                         A Romantic, Fantasy Short Story.

Blurb: A socially anxious man with a magical condition known as Spontaneous Anti-Singularity Syndrome accidentally teleports into the house of an audacious woman.

Themes: Light and fun, showing people who are both flirtatious and dorky at the same time, and putting value on the ability to laugh at yourself and move forward. I tried to mimic a more witty, carefree style. You’ll be the judge of whether or not I pulled it off.

Length: About 3,400 words.

** Warning for typos. 

Read it below or on AO3.

He appeared there, an instantaneous shadow hovering in the dark corner of the lavish woman’s bed chambers. He appeared there as an instantaneous shadow for two main reasons: mostly because he forgot to appear anywhere else, and partially because he forgot to appear as anything other than a shadow.

He quickly righted that.

Now he stood properly situated as a Tall, Dark, and Handsome figure. He was Tall specifically in a way that made him slightly taller than everyone else without appearing gangly or disproportioned. He was Dark in the sense that his hair gleamed like ebony and his features revealed a darkness of soul — not his soul of course, but a soul, somewhere, and a very dark one indeed — but he was dark also in the sense that his skin shone like the moon, which is to say that once a month it went entirely black. He was Handsome in a manner which could bring most women to their knees, as well as all men, and some species of small animals for a reason he could never figure. This annoyed him greatly because it meant he spent far too many hours a day telling people would you please just stand up and no, no point those lawsuits somewhere else! It’s my fairy god-uncle’s fault, damn him.

His name — his Tall, Dark, Handsome name — was Cabreyustian Crustaciono Cyanrebellum the XIII. The one and only peace that awful name brought him was the knowledge that before his birth, twelve other men, women, in betweens, and exceptions had been given the despicable curse of bearing it too. He commiserated.

Cabreyustian Crustaciono Cyanrebellum the XIII, who much preferred to be called simply Lord Cabrey the Almighty Vanisher — just Cabrey for short — stood in this lavish woman’s bedchamber like the least almighty person ever to live.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he said. He shouldn’t have been talking out loud either, but thinking things felt far too anti-climactic. He was already about to do something very anti-climatic by fleeing for his life, and two anti-climatic things in such a small period of time would be much too dull.

Cabrey fled.

His high black boots made ominous squeaks against the polished wood flooring, and then splooshes across the plush rug, until the squeak of hinges cut him off. One of the room’s two smaller doors opened, revealing a woman in a nightgown. This nightgown was probably a very thin, silky nightgown, revealing curves of just the right amount of curvature and a chest with just the right amount of those things that women generally have on them, though he didn’t know what just the right amount was so he couldn’t be certain. He also couldn’t be certain, because, like any respectable man caught fleeing a woman’s bed chambers, he immediately looked away.

“Who are you?” the woman shouted. “How in the purple pigeon’s name did you get in here!”

Cabrey stared aggressively into the small fire crackling in the hearth across from the bed. If he looked hard enough, perhaps his face would begin to smolder in a brooding, mysterious expression, and his fingers would simultaneously stop trembling.

“Speak!” She sounded closer. Or perhaps only louder.

Fires are very nice, all elegance and passion. Cabrey had read that in a book somewhere. He wondered if fires looked just as nice when you climbed into them, and whether there was a burning inferno big enough to incinerate his damming social anxiety and terrible luck. Giving the hearth a glower of death, he managed to make a noise somewhere between a grunt and the letter h. It sounded rather low and foreboding, somehow. Perhaps the brooding mystery of scowling into flames was taking effect.

“How did you enter my room!” she repeated, her tone all but scorching.

Agonizingly, Cabrey forced out a reply, his voice moving deeper from the effort. “I cannot tell you that.”

A shuffling followed, though he dared not look away from the fire lest he find her aiming some deadly weapon at him. If it came to that, he much preferred to die without knowing what had hit him.

“Cannot tell me, or will not?” the woman asked.

Cannot, actually. He wished he could. If he knew why he suddenly plopped into a random, nonsensical places whenever his mind wandered too much, then he would have some hope of changing it. But in the literal heat of the moment and the hearth, entirely different words came out of his mouth instead. “Are you implying I’m a liar?”

“A liar…” She moved again, stepping in front of him. “No, not a liar. A snake.”

Instead of a large, sharp weapon, she had a robe covering her gown, fluffy and teal. It hid curves, probably, but it was her face it accentuated, her wet, blond hair hanging in waves around sharp features. Her large, perfectly hooked nose made the delicacy of her brows look brave and triumphant. A smudge of eye makeup smeared under her right eye, a dark red to accent the dazzling brown of her irises.

She was beautiful.

As though that beauty had a life of its own, it rose to choke the words from Cabrey’s throat. “I suppose I— I must have inherited the snake from my mother. The— the snake-likeness, that is. Snakliness— snake-ili-ness… ness…” His face lit up like a stroked hearth, threatening to burn him from the inside out, yet not quite hot enough to murder his pathetic ass where it wavered.

She laughed, a sound more lovely than anything in the visual realm. “And your cunning tongue? From where did you inherit that?”

“My dastardly cunning tongue,” Cabrey objected, managing to pronounce every word without a hiccup. “That skill is purely my own.” He took a step, drawing so close that he could gently boop her nose if he wished.

The line of her shoulders grew stiff. Then she moved forward, forcing him to tilt his head down to meet her gaze properly. “What do you see in me, hmm?” A smile pierced her features, filling them with hunger and purpose. “A mouse, perhaps?”

Cabrey swallowed. “Mice should not look at snakes like that.” Somehow the words sounded almost sensual when the left his lips.

“Are you the mouse then?” She tapped a single, delicate finger to the center of his chest, her motion so light he could barely feel it.

He inclined towards her. “Do I look like I fear you?”

When she stepped away, she trailed a hand along his collar, tugging him forward with the smallest twitch of her wrist, yet one which extended through her body, her entire being calling him to come. “Not anymore.” Her shoulders hit the mantel above the fireplace as she backed up, but her smile only widened, the twinkle in her eyes brighter than any flame.

Cabrey leaned in. Her face blurred as he neared, replaced by golden curls on skin and the flutter of lashes as his breath met hers. Then her words fully hit him. “Not — not anymore?” He stammered, standing straighter on wobbly heels. “That was not fear!”

“Pray, do tell?” She smirked, her lips twitching in something which might have been laughter.

Laughter. Well, I do deserve it. He put on his smuggest mask, spreading his arms wide. “Self-preservation.”

She did the same, her palm pointed towards the room’s decorated entrance. “The door’s just there. No one will stop you from fleeing.” Her shoulders rose and fell as she spoke, and she brushed past him, moving toward the bed. “But I certainly wouldn’t force you to leave either.”

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he turned to watch her move. “Where else would you propose I go?”

“I can think of a few places.” Her eyes moved down the length of his body, her smile broadening.

He swallowed. And then followed her. “I’m accustomed to seeing other people on their knees before me.” Somehow he made it sound sexy, instead of a frustrating occurrence his fairy god-uncle had caused while he was yet a pathetic, squirming mess in crib.

“Prove it.” She lifted her brow.

“First, your name.”

“Inessa,” she replied. Her voice dropped, and she grumbled a series a words which caught his heat. “Inessa Ironika Imunician the second.”

Another alliteration. Someone else had as dumb of ancestors as he did. We’re made for each other. “Cabreyustian Crustaciono Cyanrebellum the XIII.”

A brilliant bout of laughter rose in her chest. It filled the world like a thousand stars, catching in Cabrey’s chest and weakening his knees. Or perhaps that was only a giddy lightheadedness.

“Your name is so much worse!” Inessa scolded, cupping her mouth with her hands, her cheeks flushed ever so slightly. “No wonder you need self-preservation.”

The sight of her made his not-so-dark soul leap. “Cabrey does well enough,” he muttered. He pressed a smirk across his face as her features only grew more lively. Carefully, he wrapped a hand around her waist, waiting for her body to sink in to the touch before lowering his face to her neck.

Inessa tipped her head back, a sigh escaping her lips. Cabrey’s heart rattled in his chest, but her scent engulfed him, dreamy and soft with a hint of flowery bath scents and chamomile. Somehow the combination made him tingle. He pressed his mouth to her skin. She trembled in time with him, but her body gave in just as his did, a moan escaping her like music.

“Mm, you’re right,” she whispered. “Cabrey is a fine name for a snake — a tall, dark, handsome snake.”

“That’s a gross stereotype, which I reject.” He kissed her neck again, tugging at the skin with his lips. She seemed to melt, both putty in his hands and a fire under his touch. Tender yet fierce, he pushed her backwards, pressing her towards the wall. Whatever tension remained in her bones vanished then, her breath leaving her like a sigh as he worked his mouth up her neck and along her jaw.

With one hand, Cabrey caught her wrist, holding tightly to her as though his whole world might become a dream if he drew back even a moment. He set his lips against hers waiting for her to return the motion in full force before pressing her any harder. The simple fire in the hearth seemed long gone, his own soul alight in a way no meager flash of energy could portray.

He shoved his hips against Inessa’s, forcing her body to the wall. A sharp squeak left her, and her form went rigid. In an instant, Cabrey pulled back.

“I’m sorry!” he whispered the words, lifting them higher as he repeated the apology. “I’m so sorry. I never meant to push so far. I encroached.” He backed away — two steps, then a third, glancing towards the door. “I… I can leave?”

“No! No.” Inessa leaned against the wall, her shoulders curled forward, suddenly looking much smaller than she had before. But she gave him a soft smile, shaking her head quickly. “Please stay, if you’d like. I’d love just to talk for a while. If you’re interested in that.”

Cabrey paused. His gaze went to his feet, the shiny tops of his black boots somehow helping him find the words. “I would like that. I talk real good — I mean nice — real great? Real… talkity.”

Inessa released a soft laugh. “So you’re a snake and a liar.”

“Both now?” He smiled, shrugging. “Two things is better than just one, isn’t it?”

A faint quirk drew Inessa’s lips into an off-set line, amused and a bit dorky. “I suppose in this case, yes.”

“The case where I’m a fool and you’re perfection?”

“Don’t sell yourself short.” The stray curl along her temple trembled as she bounced her eyebrows. “We are both each of those things, to some extent.” She walked toward the bed, her robe billowing like a cloud behind her. It swirled as she spun, and settled only once she perched on the edge of the mattress. “Besides, I find fools to be adorable.”

“That’s the highest compliment I’ve ever been given.” Cabrey laughed beneath his words, shaking his head slowly “That and, thank the gods, a beautiful dork is standing on your new painting of the Constipated King! Bless him!” He snorted. “I’m still not sure if she was blessing me or his poor majesty…”

“You are a liar; I know it!” Inessa’s words held a playful tease, and she lifted a leg to point her bare toes at him. “Why did you come here, dastardly Cabrey?”

His mouth dropped open a moment before the words finally fell from his lips. “It’s not my fault!” He threw his arms out, palms up. “I have a magical condition — Spontaneous Anti-Singularity Syndrome. It just — just happens, from time to time, whenever I’m not fully grounded in wherever I am that moment.” Frustration laced his voice, as it always did in consideration of his frequent, accidental teleportations.

But talking to Inessa, he felt something more, some strange desire to laugh at his abnormality and throw a crude symbol in its direction before strolling gleefully away. “I went for groceries this morning and it’s happened three times since. Three times! I haven’t even made it home yet—” He stopped short then, dread pooling in his gut. “Groceries!”

With a yelp, Cabrey tore through the room, Inessa watching with silent look of bemusement. He dropped to the ground to peer under the bed and shoved himself against the wall to peek behind the furniture, checking anywhere the day’s food stuffs might have vanished to. He discovered a pile of books, a lacy pair of high heels, and far more dice than any sane person needed. But no groceries.

“Dammit!” Groaning, he sunk onto the bed.

“They aren’t here, I take it?” She leaned over him, her shoulders bouncing as she giggled. “You poor thing. I’m sorry you’ve lost them.”

Cabrey bobbed his head, feeling rather pathetic. “Probably still sitting in The Seer’s Museum of Future History.”

“The one in Paithe?”

Hope swelled in his chest for a moment. “Are we near there?”

Inessa sighed, her face dropping. “Four hours by carriage.”

“Oh.”

The bed rocked as she flopped down beside him. “Are you going to vanish on me, then? Poof off to some other, better place?”

“You think I could forget for a moment that I’m laying beside someone I’ve kissed and still managed to have a full conversation with?” He asked in return. Inessa’s presence felt easy, somehow. A giddy, light rush flew through his heart whenever he looked at her, but it held happiness and comfort, instead of the awful mixture of anxiety and shame most people brought.

“Are full conversations difficult?”

Cabrey’s brow tightened. “Are they not for you?”

“I suppose on occasion…” She propped her elbow onto the bed, laying her head in her hand. “But they’ve been expected of me since I was very little. Parties and political conventions. My mother was always in the lime-light, and so I was too, by default.”

Cabrey winced. “That sounds painful.”

“Oh, sometimes. But it could be fun too.” She smiled, a dreamy sort of expression, like a million little fairy lights dancing in an enchanted field. “I met all kinds of spectacular people, experienced life from around the world. It was an adventure, in a way.”

A groan rose in Cabrey’s chest. “Between my fairy god-uncle and my frequent, spontaneous relocations, my life has held more than enough adventure for me,” he grumbled, rubbing the front of his face. “Though if I could enjoy the moving about, perhaps things would be different. I have always wanted to see the eight astonishments of the Archramidies.”

“You haven’t seen them — not even the Velacian?!”

“Twice I’ve seen the top of it peering over the roofs, but I didn’t make it all the way there on either occasion.” He closed his eyes, picturing the emerald spires piercing the sky above glorious hanging gardens. “It’s hard to exist in one place if there isn’t someone to ground me. But throughout my life, most people have been too busy for a boy who might not be there when you come back.”

“I would make time for that boy.” Inessa’s voice was so soft, he wasn’t quite sure he heard her, the dainty sound paired with rustling as she leaned towards the other side of the bed. Her weight shifted back into place before he could be bother to open his eyes. “At least,” she added, louder. “If he were a liar and a snake who brought people to knees.”

He laughed, a little off-key, peeking at her through his lashes. “What if that last one wasn’t a joke?”

She only looked more intrigued. “Do explain?”

“It’s a nonsense curse. For some reason it affects certain small animals too.”

Inessa’s face lit up, the edges of her eyes crinkling. “They know how charming you are, is all,” she said, playfully. “They’re paying you tribute.”

“It they wanted to show their devotion, they could bring me groceries instead…”

“Well, I have no groceries for you, but how do you feel about hot chocolate?”

“As a drink, or a weaponized projectile?”

“Drink, preferably.” She drew a bit closer, fitting her head into the crook of his neck, her breath on his skin. “I would feel awful if my maids were forced to clean aggressive brown splash marks off all my vanquished furniture.”

Cabrey’s whole being latched onto her closeness, and he had to entice his mind away with thoughts of chocolaty drinks. “I like mine with extra cocoa and three little marshmallows.”

She hummed, quizzically. “Only three?”

“They’re for the aesthetic,” he explained. “The whole point is that they melt by the time you’ve finished the mug.”

“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Inessa tapped a finger to his nose. She promptly sliding off the bed, the absence of her warmth leaving him empty and alone. “But if you’re insistent on having terrible taste, then exactly three marshmallows it is.” Her partially dried, blond locks sprung about as she left the room, her feet light.

The soft weight of her fingertip on his nose seemed to linger, warm and a little tingly. It filled Cabrey up, not quite a kiss, but in some ways better — a dorky acknowledgment of his life, a silly, platonic token of affection. He lay there, running his eyes along the lines of the ceiling, unable to keep the smile off his face.

His gaze found a crack in the corner nearest the head of the bed, and his brow scrunched. She should have that repaired. He mused over it: where it had come from, when it had first appeared. Perhaps it had been there since before she moved in, formed by an earthquake or a sudden shift in the wooden infrastructure. Wood did change with time, after all. Though it looked so lovely on his floor at home, he—

The lines of Inessa’s room flashed away, replaced by the darkness of an alley, clattering with the sound of a busy street nearby. He pulled himself out of the shadows, standing there properly: tall, dark, and handsome. The light drifting of his heart seemed to drop in one sudden, terrible motion.

Inessa.

But she was gone, along with her room. Four hours from Paithe. That could be anywhere. She could be anywhere.

“No.” He said the word out loud, the whimper bouncing aggressively off the dim walkway. That could not have been their last and only meeting. He would not let his blasted syndrome take her away without her say so. Four hours from Paithe, and he would find her, if only to ask her if she wanted to see him again.

He would.

Cabrey shoved his hands into his pockets, the darkness of the soul that wasn’t his billowing around him fiercely. His hands brushed paper. Shaking, he drew the scrap out, holding it in the direction of the nearest light. An address scrawled across the top, followed by two sentences in simple cursive: In case you get lost. Come find me again.

He held to the note as though it contained the meaning of life. She wanted him to return, and he would. He would.

If Cabrey had been in Inessa Ironika Imunician the second’s bedroom at that moment, he would have seen her walk in with two mugs of hot chocolate — one with a total of three, perfect marshmallows, and the other overflowing in every manner of fluffy, sugary goodness — and her mouth hung wide. Slowly, it would have closed into a soft smile as she sighed and held the mugs against her chest.

“Oh, Cabrey, you snake. Come again soon.”

The End.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this short story, please consider reblogging it so that others can too :)

[homeimprovementsltd]

Bathroom Remodeling Verwood - TBF Home Improvements Ltd

Call: 012 0205 9111

Bathroom Remodeling Verwood

Home >> Verwood Building And Construction Services

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Nicholas Nickleby

Mr. Godfrey Nickleby decided late in life to marry. Being neither rich nor young, he married an old girlfriend out of attachment. She married him for the same reasons.

 Mr. Nickleby’s income fluctuated between 60-80 pounds per year, and both looked for any opportunity to improve their earning capacity. He becomes more morose, for he is unsuccessful in finding a friend who might help him.

 Five years past, and the couple have two sons. Mr. Nickleby considers insuring his life and committing suicide. However, he receives news that his uncle has died and left him some property that is worth 5,000 pounds. Mr. Godfrey Nickleby cannot believe his uncle left him this inheritance, for he never fraternized with him much in life. All he ever did was send Godfrey’s eldest boy, which was named after the uncle, a silver spoon. However, this seemed done more out of spite, to rub it in that the boy wasn’t born with one.

Initially, Ralph Nickleby, Sr. (the uncle), had planned to leave his property to the Royal Humane Society. He changed his will when this society, much to his outrage, saved the life of a poor relation.

CHAPTER 2

 Of Mr Ralph Nickleby, and his Establishments, and his Undertakings,

and of a great Joint Stock Company of vast national Importance

  Mr Ralph Nickleby was not, strictly speaking, what you would call a

merchant, neither was he a banker, nor an attorney, nor a special

pleader, nor a notary. He was certainly not a tradesman, and still

less could he lay any claim to the title of a professional

gentleman; for it would have been impossible to mention any

recognised profession to which he belonged. Nevertheless, as he

lived in a spacious house in Golden Square, which, in addition to a

brass plate upon the street-door, had another brass plate two sizes

and a half smaller upon the left hand door-post, surrounding a brass

model of an infant's fist grasping a fragment of a skewer, and

displaying the word 'Office,' it was clear that Mr Ralph Nickleby

did, or pretended to do, business of some kind; and the fact, if it

required any further circumstantial evidence, was abundantly

demonstrated by the diurnal attendance, between the hours of half-

past nine and five, of a sallow-faced man in rusty brown, who sat

upon an uncommonly hard stool in a species of butler's pantry at the

end of the passage, and always had a pen behind his ear when he

answered the bell.

 Although a few members of the graver professions live about Golden

Square, it is not exactly in anybody's way to or from anywhere. It

is one of the squares that have been; a quarter of the town that has

gone down in the world, and taken to letting lodgings. Many of its

first and second floors are let, furnished, to single gentlemen; and

it takes boarders besides. It is a great resort of foreigners. The

dark-complexioned men who wear large rings, and heavy watch-guards,

and bushy whiskers, and who congregate under the Opera Colonnade,

and about the box-office in the season, between four and five in the

afternoon, when they give away the orders,--all live in Golden

Square, or within a street of it. Two or three violins and a wind

instrument from the Opera band reside within its precincts. Its

boarding-houses are musical, and the notes of pianos and harps float

in the evening time round the head of the mournful statue, the

guardian genius of a little wilderness of shrubs, in the centre of

the square. On a summer's night, windows are thrown open, and

groups of swarthy moustached men are seen by the passer-by, lounging

at the casements, and smoking fearfully. Sounds of gruff voices

practising vocal music invade the evening's silence; and the fumes

of choice tobacco scent the air. There, snuff and cigars, and

German pipes and flutes, and violins and violoncellos, divide the

supremacy between them. It is the region of song and smoke. Street

bands are on their mettle in Golden Square; and itinerant glee-

singers quaver involuntarily as they raise their voices within its

boundaries.

 This would not seem a spot very well adapted to the transaction of

business; but Mr Ralph Nickleby had lived there, notwithstanding,

for many years, and uttered no complaint on that score. He knew

nobody round about, and nobody knew him, although he enjoyed the

reputation of being immensely rich. The tradesmen held that he was

a sort of lawyer, and the other neighbours opined that he was a kind

of general agent; both of which guesses were as correct and definite

as guesses about other people's affairs usually are, or need to be.

 Mr Ralph Nickleby sat in his private office one morning, ready

dressed to walk abroad. He wore a bottle-green spencer over a blue

coat; a white waistcoat, grey mixture pantaloons, and Wellington

boots drawn over them. The corner of a small-plaited shirt-frill

struggled out, as if insisting to show itself, from between his chin

and the top button of his spencer; and the latter garment was not

made low enough to conceal a long gold watch-chain, composed of a

series of plain rings, which had its beginning at the handle of a

gold repeater in Mr Nickleby's pocket, and its termination in two

little keys: one belonging to the watch itself, and the other to

some patent padlock. He wore a sprinkling of powder upon his head,

as if to make himself look benevolent; but if that were his purpose,

he would perhaps have done better to powder his countenance also,

for there was something in its very wrinkles, and in his cold

restless eye, which seemed to tell of cunning that would announce

itself in spite of him. However this might be, there he was; and as

he was all alone, neither the powder, nor the wrinkles, nor the

eyes, had the smallest effect, good or bad, upon anybody just then,

and are consequently no business of ours just now.

 Mr Nickleby closed an account-book which lay on his desk, and,

throwing himself back in his chair, gazed with an air of abstraction

through the dirty window. Some London houses have a melancholy

little plot of ground behind them, usually fenced in by four high

whitewashed walls, and frowned upon by stacks of chimneys: in which

there withers on, from year to year, a crippled tree, that makes a

show of putting forth a few leaves late in autumn when other trees

shed theirs, and, drooping in the effort, lingers on, all crackled

and smoke-dried, till the following season, when it repeats the same

process, and perhaps, if the weather be particularly genial, even

tempts some rheumatic sparrow to chirrup in its branches. People

sometimes call these dark yards 'gardens'; it is not supposed that

they were ever planted, but rather that they are pieces of

unreclaimed land, with the withered vegetation of the original

brick-field. No man thinks of walking in this desolate place, or of

turning it to any account. A few hampers, half-a-dozen broken

bottles, and such-like rubbish, may be thrown there, when the tenant

first moves in, but nothing more; and there they remain until he

goes away again: the damp straw taking just as long to moulder as it

thinks proper: and mingling with the scanty box, and stunted

everbrowns, and broken flower-pots, that are scattered mournfully

about--a prey to 'blacks' and dirt.

 It was into a place of this kind that Mr Ralph Nickleby gazed, as he

sat with his hands in his pockets looking out of the window. He had

fixed his eyes upon a distorted fir tree, planted by some former

tenant in a tub that had once been green, and left there, years

before, to rot away piecemeal. There was nothing very inviting in

the object, but Mr Nickleby was wrapt in a brown study, and sat

contemplating it with far greater attention than, in a more

conscious mood, he would have deigned to bestow upon the rarest

exotic. At length, his eyes wandered to a little dirty window on

the left, through which the face of the clerk was dimly visible;

that worthy chancing to look up, he beckoned him to attend.

 In obedience to this summons the clerk got off the high stool (to

which he had communicated a high polish by countless gettings off

and on), and presented himself in Mr Nickleby's room. He was a tall

man of middle age, with two goggle eyes whereof one was a fixture, a

rubicund nose, a cadaverous face, and a suit of clothes (if the term

be allowable when they suited him not at all) much the worse for

wear, very much too small, and placed upon such a short allowance of

buttons that it was marvellous how he contrived to keep them on.

 'Was that half-past twelve, Noggs?' said Mr Nickleby, in a sharp and

grating voice.

 'Not more than five-and-twenty minutes by the--' Noggs was going to

add public-house clock, but recollecting himself, substituted

'regular time.'

 'My watch has stopped,' said Mr Nickleby; 'I don't know from what

cause.'

 'Not wound up,' said Noggs.

 'Yes it is,' said Mr Nickleby.

 'Over-wound then,' rejoined Noggs.

 'That can't very well be,' observed Mr Nickleby.

 'Must be,' said Noggs.

 'Well!' said Mr Nickleby, putting the repeater back in his pocket;

'perhaps it is.'

 Noggs gave a peculiar grunt, as was his custom at the end of all

disputes with his master, to imply that he (Noggs) triumphed; and

(as he rarely spoke to anybody unless somebody spoke to him) fell

into a grim silence, and rubbed his hands slowly over each other:

cracking the joints of his fingers, and squeezing them into all

possible distortions. The incessant performance of this routine on

every occasion, and the communication of a fixed and rigid look to

his unaffected eye, so as to make it uniform with the other, and to

render it impossible for anybody to determine where or at what he

was looking, were two among the numerous peculiarities of Mr Noggs,

which struck an inexperienced observer at first sight.

 'I am going to the London Tavern this morning,' said Mr Nickleby.

 'Public meeting?' inquired Noggs.

 Mr Nickleby nodded. 'I expect a letter from the solicitor

respecting that mortgage of Ruddle's. If it comes at all, it will

be here by the two o'clock delivery. I shall leave the city about

that time and walk to Charing Cross on the left-hand side of the

way; if there are any letters, come and meet me, and bring them with

you.'

 Noggs nodded; and as he nodded, there came a ring at the office

bell. The master looked up from his papers, and the clerk calmly

remained in a stationary position.

 'The bell,' said Noggs, as though in explanation. 'At home?'

 'Yes.'

 'To anybody?'

 'Yes.'

 'To the tax-gatherer?'

 'No! Let him call again.'

 Noggs gave vent to his usual grunt, as much as to say 'I thought

so!' and, the ring being repeated, went to the door, whence he

presently returned, ushering in, by the name of Mr Bonney, a pale

gentleman in a violent hurry, who, with his hair standing up in

great disorder all over his head, and a very narrow white cravat

tied loosely round his throat, looked as if he had been knocked up

in the night and had not dressed himself since.

 'My dear Nickleby,' said the gentleman, taking off a white hat which

was so full of papers that it would scarcely stick upon his head,

'there's not a moment to lose; I have a cab at the door. Sir

Matthew Pupker takes the chair, and three members of Parliament are

positively coming. I have seen two of them safely out of bed. The

third, who was at Crockford's all night, has just gone home to put a

clean shirt on, and take a bottle or two of soda water, and will

certainly be with us, in time to address the meeting. He is a

little excited by last night, but never mind that; he always speaks

the stronger for it.'

 'It seems to promise pretty well,' said Mr Ralph Nickleby, whose

deliberate manner was strongly opposed to the vivacity of the other

man of business.

 'Pretty well!' echoed Mr Bonney. 'It's the finest idea that was

ever started. "United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet

Baking and Punctual Delivery Company. Capital, five millions, in

five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each." Why the very name

will get the shares up to a premium in ten days.'

 'And when they ARE at a premium,' said Mr Ralph Nickleby, smiling.

 'When they are, you know what to do with them as well as any man

alive, and how to back quietly out at the right time,' said Mr

Bonney, slapping the capitalist familiarly on the shoulder. 'By-

the-bye, what a VERY remarkable man that clerk of yours is.'

 'Yes, poor devil!' replied Ralph, drawing on his gloves. 'Though

Newman Noggs kept his horses and hounds once.'

 'Ay, ay?' said the other carelessly.

 'Yes,' continued Ralph, 'and not many years ago either; but he

squandered his money, invested it anyhow, borrowed at interest, and

in short made first a thorough fool of himself, and then a beggar.

He took to drinking, and had a touch of paralysis, and then came

here to borrow a pound, as in his better days I had--'

 'Done business with him,' said Mr Bonney with a meaning look.

 'Just so,' replied Ralph; 'I couldn't lend it, you know.'

 'Oh, of course not.'

 'But as I wanted a clerk just then, to open the door and so forth, I

took him out of charity, and he has remained with me ever since. He

is a little mad, I think,' said Mr Nickleby, calling up a charitable

look, 'but he is useful enough, poor creature--useful enough.'

 The kind-hearted gentleman omitted to add that Newman Noggs, being

utterly destitute, served him for rather less than the usual wages

of a boy of thirteen; and likewise failed to mention in his hasty

chronicle, that his eccentric taciturnity rendered him an especially

valuable person in a place where much business was done, of which it

was desirable no mention should be made out of doors. The other

gentleman was plainly impatient to be gone, however, and as they

hurried into the hackney cabriolet immediately afterwards, perhaps

Mr Nickleby forgot to mention circumstances so unimportant.

 There was a great bustle in Bishopsgate Street Within, as they drew

up, and (it being a windy day) half-a-dozen men were tacking across

the road under a press of paper, bearing gigantic announcements that

a Public Meeting would be holden at one o'clock precisely, to take

into consideration the propriety of petitioning Parliament in favour

of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking

and Punctual Delivery Company, capital five millions, in five

hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each; which sums were duly set

forth in fat black figures of considerable size. Mr Bonney elbowed

his way briskly upstairs, receiving in his progress many low bows

from the waiters who stood on the landings to show the way; and,

followed by Mr Nickleby, dived into a suite of apartments behind the

great public room: in the second of which was a business-looking

table, and several business-looking people.

 'Hear!' cried a gentleman with a double chin, as Mr Bonney presented

himself. 'Chair, gentlemen, chair!'

 The new-comers were received with universal approbation, and Mr

Bonney bustled up to the top of the table, took off his hat, ran his

fingers through his hair, and knocked a hackney-coachman's knock on

the table with a little hammer: whereat several gentlemen cried

'Hear!' and nodded slightly to each other, as much as to say what

spirited conduct that was. Just at this moment, a waiter, feverish

with agitation, tore into the room, and throwing the door open with

a crash, shouted 'Sir Matthew Pupker!'

 The committee stood up and clapped their hands for joy, and while

they were clapping them, in came Sir Matthew Pupker, attended by two

live members of Parliament, one Irish and one Scotch, all smiling

and bowing, and looking so pleasant that it seemed a perfect marvel

how any man could have the heart to vote against them. Sir Matthew

Pupker especially, who had a little round head with a flaxen wig on

the top of it, fell into such a paroxysm of bows, that the wig

threatened to be jerked off, every instant. When these symptoms had

in some degree subsided, the gentlemen who were on speaking terms

with Sir Matthew Pupker, or the two other members, crowded round

them in three little groups, near one or other of which the

gentlemen who were NOT on speaking terms with Sir Matthew Pupker or

the two other members, stood lingering, and smiling, and rubbing

their hands, in the desperate hope of something turning up which

might bring them into notice. All this time, Sir Matthew Pupker and

the two other members were relating to their separate circles what

the intentions of government were, about taking up the bill; with a

full account of what the government had said in a whisper the last

time they dined with it, and how the government had been observed to

wink when it said so; from which premises they were at no loss to

draw the conclusion, that if the government had one object more at

heart than another, that one object was the welfare and advantage of

the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and

Punctual Delivery Company.

 Meanwhile, and pending the arrangement of the proceedings, and a

fair division of the speechifying, the public in the large room were

eyeing, by turns, the empty platform, and the ladies in the Music

Gallery. In these amusements the greater portion of them had been

occupied for a couple of hours before, and as the most agreeable

diversions pall upon the taste on a too protracted enjoyment of

them, the sterner spirits now began to hammer the floor with their

boot-heels, and to express their dissatisfaction by various hoots

and cries. These vocal exertions, emanating from the people who had

been there longest, naturally proceeded from those who were nearest

to the platform and furthest from the policemen in attendance, who

having no great mind to fight their way through the crowd, but

entertaining nevertheless a praiseworthy desire to do something to

quell the disturbance, immediately began to drag forth, by the coat

tails and collars, all the quiet people near the door; at the same

time dealing out various smart and tingling blows with their

truncheons, after the manner of that ingenious actor, Mr Punch:

whose brilliant example, both in the fashion of his weapons and

their use, this branch of the executive occasionally follows.

 Several very exciting skirmishes were in progress, when a loud shout

attracted the attention even of the belligerents, and then there

poured on to the platform, from a door at the side, a long line of

gentlemen with their hats off, all looking behind them, and uttering

vociferous cheers; the cause whereof was sufficiently explained when

Sir Matthew Pupker and the two other real members of Parliament came

to the front, amidst deafening shouts, and testified to each other

in dumb motions that they had never seen such a glorious sight as

that, in the whole course of thier public career.

 At length, and at last, the assembly left off shouting, but Sir

Matthew Pupker being voted into the chair, they underwent a relapse

which lasted five minutes. This over, Sir Matthew Pupker went on to

say what must be his feelings on that great occasion, and what must

be that occasion in the eyes of the world, and what must be the

intelligence of his fellow-countrymen before him, and what must be

the wealth and respectability of his honourable friends behind him,

and lastly, what must be the importance to the wealth, the

happiness, the comfort, the liberty, the very existence of a free

and great people, of such an Institution as the United Metropolitan

Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking and Punctual Delivery

Company!

 Mr Bonney then presented himself to move the first resolution; and

having run his right hand through his hair, and planted his left, in

an easy manner, in his ribs, he consigned his hat to the care of the

gentleman with the double chin (who acted as a species of bottle-

holder to the orators generally), and said he would read to them the

first resolution--'That this meeting views with alarm and

apprehension, the existing state of the Muffin Trade in this

Metropolis and its neighbourhood; that it considers the Muffin Boys,

as at present constituted, wholly underserving the confidence of the

public; and that it deems the whole Muffin system alike prejudicial

to the health and morals of the people, and subversive of the best

interests of a great commercial and mercantile community.' The

honourable gentleman made a speech which drew tears from the eyes of

the ladies, and awakened the liveliest emotions in every individual

present. He had visited the houses of the poor in the various

districts of London, and had found them destitute of the slightest

vestige of a muffin, which there appeared too much reason to believe

some of these indigent persons did not taste from year's end to

year's end. He had found that among muffin-sellers there existed

drunkenness, debauchery, and profligacy, which he attributed to the

debasing nature of their employment as at present exercised; he had

found the same vices among the poorer class of people who ought to

be muffin consumers; and this he attributed to the despair

engendered by their being placed beyond the reach of that nutritious

article, which drove them to seek a false stimulant in intoxicating

liquors. He would undertake to prove before a committee of the

House of Commons, that there existed a combination to keep up the

price of muffins, and to give the bellmen a monopoly; he would prove

it by bellmen at the bar of that House; and he would also prove,

that these men corresponded with each other by secret words and

signs as 'Snooks,' 'Walker,' 'Ferguson,' 'Is Murphy right?' and many

others. It was this melancholy state of things that the Company

proposed to correct; firstly, by prohibiting, under heavy penalties,

all private muffin trading of every description; secondly, by

themselves supplying the public generally, and the poor at their own

homes, with muffins of first quality at reduced prices. It was with

this object that a bill had been introduced into Parliament by their

patriotic chairman Sir Matthew Pupker; it was this bill that they

had met to support; it was the supporters of this bill who would

confer undying brightness and splendour upon England, under the name

of the United Metropolitan Improved Hot Muffin and Crumpet Baking

and Punctual Delivery Company; he would add, with a capital of Five

Millions, in five hundred thousand shares of ten pounds each.

 Mr Ralph Nickleby seconded the resolution, and another gentleman

having moved that it be amended by the insertion of the words 'and

crumpet' after the word 'muffin,' whenever it occurred, it was

carried triumphantly. Only one man in the crowd cried 'No!' and he

was promptly taken into custody, and straightway borne off.

 The second resolution, which recognised the expediency of

immediately abolishing 'all muffin (or crumpet) sellers, all traders

in muffins (or crumpets) of whatsoever description, whether male or

female, boys or men, ringing hand-bells or otherwise,' was moved by

a grievous gentleman of semi-clerical appearance, who went at once

into such deep pathetics, that he knocked the first speaker clean

out of the course in no time. You might have heard a pin fall--a

pin! a feather--as he described the cruelties inflicted on muffin

boys by their masters, which he very wisely urged were in themselves

a sufficient reason for the establishment of that inestimable

company. It seemed that the unhappy youths were nightly turned out

into the wet streets at the most inclement periods of the year, to

wander about, in darkness and rain--or it might be hail or snow--for

hours together, without shelter, food, or warmth; and let the public

never forget upon the latter point, that while the muffins were

provided with warm clothing and blankets, the boys were wholly

unprovided for, and left to their own miserable resources. (Shame!)

The honourable gentleman related one case of a muffin boy, who

having been exposed to this inhuman and barbarous system for no less

than five years, at length fell a victim to a cold in the head,

beneath which he gradually sunk until he fell into a perspiration

and recovered; this he could vouch for, on his own authority, but he

had heard (and he had no reason to doubt the fact) of a still more

heart-rending and appalling circumstance. He had heard of the case

of an orphan muffin boy, who, having been run over by a hackney

carriage, had been removed to the hospital, had undergone the

amputation of his leg below the knee, and was now actually pursuing

his occupation on crutches. Fountain of justice, were these things

to last!