#Chateau perfume for women

[kurtie4life96]

Song request: Chateau by Djo with Steve Harrington of course! But with OLD MONEY STEVE. smut if that's okay :) I love you!!

Chateau, Careless Whisper

S.H. × F! Reader

Summary: Steve runs into an old fling from high school at a party. He's very sought after, but she doesn't know about his money and popularity, and he is intrigued to say the least.

CW: MDNI 18+, old money!Steve, fem!reader, old flings, fluff, angst, drinking, jealousy, soft(ish) smut

AN: I decided to add Careless Whisper by George Michael with this, it just fit with the plot in my head, sorry!

Part 2 here!

Standing in the warm, summer night in front of a château style home in August, 1990, you ran shaky fingers through your hair, and tugged your black dress down at the hem, smoothing it, then staring at the large, lit up house before you, nearly having an anxiety attack at the sight of it.

It was gorgeous- a diamond in the rough of Hawkins, Indiana. The exterior of the large home was crafted with white wood paneling, grey steeply pitched roofs and shutters, accompanied with tall, arched windows. You stood in the courtyard, a quaint and simple fountain in the middle, a walkway compiled of stone surrounding it that lead to a similar looking guesthouse towards the back, with lush green grass and trees all around.

Music roared from within it, and you took a deep breath, your skin buzzing with nervousness and anticipation. You took a moment to reach into your small purse, spraying a cheap, but decent perfume on your chest, then began to walk towards the tall, double front doors, your heels clicking under you as you headed towards the black tie event that you'd heard gossip about for nearly a week.

A man you'd never seen before greeted you at the entrance, wearing a black suit and tie, his hair slicked back neatly, carrying a tray of glasses half full of champagne, offering one with a warm smile.

You accepted it, perhaps a little too eagerly, but needed something to calm your nerves. You thanked him with a nod and a smile, and stepped inside.

The interior was lit up brightly with a soft yellow glow, the design of the home elegant, elaborate, yet quite modern with a humble feel to it, tasteful paintings hanging on the walls, and a grand staircase. A large crowd of people dressed in black, designer clothes were scattered about underneath a crystal chandelier, chatting amongst themselves loudly enough to drown out the music.

You took another deep breath, your anxiety nearly taking over, as you tried to calm yourself by remembering the five senses.

What can you taste? The bubbly champagne, of course.

What can you smell? A mixture of unknown women and men's perfumes and cologne- a bit strong and a little nauseating.

What can you hear? Classical music and obnoxious voices.

What can you see? A crowd of people that you could only assume were pretentious and full of themselves, yet cleaned up extremely well.

What can you feel? Goosebumps on your skin. You can feel the cold glass in your hand. You can feel the fabric of your dress as you smoothed it down your body again, feeling self conscious.

Well, that didn't help.

Your stomach did backflips as you made your way throw the crowd aimlessly, apologizing over and over again, trying to compose yourself, feeling exposed, like you didn't belong there.

You stood in the corner, people watching, feeling like a wallflower, a part of you looking for familiar faces, although you knew none would be there.

Another well dressed gentleman walked by you gracefully with another tray of champagne just as you'd finished your first, and you grabbed a second, feeling grateful for the slight buzz that ran through your body.

As you sipped the alcohol, trying to gain the confidence to approach someone in the crowd, someone else approached you to your left to greet you, a familiar voice that startled you, making you gasp.

"Woah, shit, didn't mean to scare you!" He smiled, putting his hands up in an attempt to steady you.

You chuckled, a hint of annoyance and disbelief in it, as you turned to face the old fling standing before you.

He was wearing a black suit and tie like the rest of the men, an expensive looking watch on his wrist, his classic long, sun kissed waves framing his face- and damn it, you couldn't deny that he looked striking, and his cologne of cedarwood and citrus was intoxicating.

"Harrington," you grinned arrogantly, raising an eyebrow and standing up straight, crossing one arm over the other.

Steve slightly bowed, reaching an arm towards you in a cheesy fashion as he held his own glass of champagne in the other.

"In the flesh."

You smirked at his silly action, feeling a little caught off guard.

"What is a guy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Well," he leaned back, taking a sip, "I could ask you the same question."

You gave him a skeptical look.

"Oh, well," he stammered, laughing awkwardly, "not that you're a guy, I mean, obviously you're not- you know what mean, right?"

You took another sip, chuckling at him, "You haven't changed at all, have you?"

Steve shrugged his shoulders, smiling sheepishly.

"You've still got the same big, long hair, same demeanor, still cocky... isn't that right?"

"Yeah, well I never lost my charm, so I guess I haven't really changed," he winked at you, "So, it's been what- four years?"

"Yep, four years since we last saw each other, through all the Upside Down shit. And six years since you... broke my little heart?" You crossed your legs and leaned back against the wall.

He frowned at that statement, making you feel a little bad, but you would never let it show.

"I'm just giving you some shit, Harrington. No hard feelings." You laughed.

He smiled again and nodded, running his hand through his hair.

Couples began to gather around the common area, dancing intimately to a slow song that started to play throughout the large house.

Steve glanced over at the crowd, then back at you.

"Might I say, you look ravishing tonight. May I have this dance?" He set down his glass and reached an arm out towards you, a hopeful look on his face.

"I think that's the weirdest fucking thing I've ever heard you say. What are you, Shakespeare?" You laughed, downing the rest of your champagne.

"Well, no. I just thought that maybe you'd like to talk, over there?" He motioned towards the flock of couples. "Cause, I know you've been kinda wandering around here awkwardly, wouldn't you like to be with a familiar face?"

He held a hand to you again, waiting for your response.

"Fine," you groaned, setting your glass down, "but that was uncalled for."

Steve smiled as he took your hand in his, leading you gingerly through the crowd, and they made note to move out of the way.

He intertwined his left hand with your right, placing the other along your lower back. You rested your hand on his shoulder, as he began to sway you gently.

"You know, you should feel lucky, Harrington," you remarked, grinning at him, "because I don't dance."

He ignored your comment, instead gazing into your eyes, softly smiling at you with his stupid, perfect teeth.

"You know, you should really just call me Steve now." He suggested, a voice of honey.

You scoffed, "Okay, Steve... just still feels a little weird to say your first name."

"And why is that?" He questioned, pulling you a little closer towards him.

Careless Whisper began to echo throughout the room, and the song was a little too fitting for the situation you were in, making you feel a bit unfocused.

"I don't know... maybe it has to do with the fact that you used me as a rebound for that summer in high school, only to tell me you couldn't get over Nancy."

Steve furrowed his eyebrows together, seemingly deep in thought before he answered, "I don't think that's necessarily true."

"And why is that?" You repeated his question, still swaying to the music.

"You weren't a rebound. I really do- I mean, did like you, a lot. I was just confused. I didn't even know what I was feeling. I haven't seen her in-"

"It's okay, Steve. It's been years. I'm over it." You chuckled nervously.

"Are you?" He asked, smirking at you.

You nodded, a hesitant smile on your lips as you took note of each other's faces.

"Best summer of my life," he admitted quietly, "I've always thought about you, was never able to get you out of my head, you know."

Your chest grew warm and bloomed at his statement, "Me neither."

He was a bit taken aback, but beamed at you.

"So," you teased, "considering that you're here, dancing with me, I'm assuming your dream of 6 kids, living life on the road in an RV didn't work out?"

"Nope." He enunciated the word with a pop of his lips, looking around the room.

You heard whispering around you, and looked around too, finding people staring at the two of you, practically gawking.

"Why the fuck are they staring at us?" You asked, glaring right back at them.

"I don't know, they're just weird people, I guess," Steve replied, looking back at you with an amused smile, "so, you never answered my question."

"What question?" You focused back to him.

"What are you doing here?"

"Well," you sighed, still lazily swaying with him, "I heard through the grapevine at work that a lot of, you know, big shots were gonna be here. I thought I'd take a chance at talking to one of them, try to score a job. I'm barely able to afford my own apartment. Hard to do that when you're just a waitress."

Steve nodded, motioning for you to continue.

"Obviously, I can't even do that," you laughed, "cause now I'm just here, dancing with you."

He smirked, staring at your face for a moment before responding, making butterflies dance in your stomach, only now realizing the close proximity of your faces.

"I think I can help with that."

"Really?" You perked up, "How?"

The song began to fade away, the crowd of people dressed in black beginning to gather in groups, chatting amongst themselves again.

Steve gently let go of you, pulling a card out of his coat pocket and handing it to you. It had his name and phone number on it, but no other information.

"Here," he placed the card in your hand, "why don't you give me a call in, let's say... tomorrow?" He suggested. "Tomorrow morning."

"Oh, okay," you smiled gratefully, putting the card in your purse, "well thank you, Harrington. I really appreciate that."

"Don't thank me," he took your hands in his as he spoke, "it's the least I can do for you."

You gazed at each other with stars in your eyes, squeezing his hands for a moment, wondering if he felt the same tension as you.

"So," he let go of your hands, "I hear they're shutting this party down soon. You should go before they do, beat the traffic, you know."

"Okay," you nodded, "well, thanks again."

Steve nodded back, and you began to walk away.

"Hey!" He exclaimed, making you turn around to look at him again.

"Yeah?"

"Call me, Steve, okay? Talk to you soon."

You scoffed playfully, and turned around to walk out the door, feeling excited, hopeful, giddy as you walked to your car, squealing in joy as you drove away.

You were awoken by the god awful sound of your alarm clock, groaning as you rolled over in your bed to shut it off with an annoyed smack of your hand. You closed your eyes, getting comfortable for a moment longer, before they shot open again, realizing that you had a very important phone call to make.

You sat up abruptly, snatching the comforter off of you, heading to your small kitchenette to make a cup of coffee, hastily pouring the creamer in, mixing and taking a sip, preparing for the call you were about to make.

A part of you wondered why you were so nervous to call him. Were you worried that he wasn't being serious when he said he'd help you? Was the job going to be a big flop? Or did Steve Harrington still make you feel nervous after all these years?

Maybe a mix of everything.

You picked up his card from the kitchen counter, walking over to the phone on the wall. With a big inhale, exhale, you picked up the phone and dialed his number.

It only rang for three seconds before he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Uh, hey Steve, it's-"

He interrupted you, chuckling, "Finally, I've been waiting for you to call all morning!"

You laughed, "What? It's only 9 a.m."

"I know, I know," he emphasized his words, "I guess I've just been absolutely buzzing with excitement."

"Oh...kay," you teased, "why's that?"

"I don't know, just lonely, bored nowadays," he replied, "so, anyway, I've set up an interview for you at that coffee shop, you know, the one on 6th Street? There's this guy that's very interested in speaking with you."

"Oh, sweet, thank you! Um, what's the job again?"

Steve ignored your question, "So be there around 11. Also, give me your address. I'm gonna send a taxi over to your place to pick you up. Don't bring your car."

"Okay," you went on to give him your address, "but why?"

"I hope it goes great! Let me know after, okay? Talk to you later." He stuttered between his words and abruptly hung up the phone.

You removed the phone from your ear, staring at it for a moment, feeling puzzled to say the least, before you reacted.

"What the fuck?"

You hung the phone back up on the wall.

"That was fucking weird," you continued to talk to yourself, heading to your bedroom, "who just hangs up like that? Fucking Steve Harrington. What in the fuck was that?"

You quickly took to getting ready, slipping out of your pajamas, showering, putting on some makeup- not too much, just the right amount.

"Business casual," you reminded yourself, "not too casual, but not too much."

You finished your hair and opted for a pencil skirt, flats, and a simple blouse.

You stood before your reflection in the mirror, repeating comforting words of affirmation to yourself, as you smoothed your outfit down and checked the time on your watch.

10:53.

"Shit!"

You grabbed your purse and ran out the door, down the stairs of your apartment and outside, to see a yellow taxi waiting for you in the parking lot.

You opened the backdoor and got in hastily, anxiety taking over again.

"Hi- hello, sir," you spoke to the driver, "the coffee shop on-"

"6th Street, I know." The cab driver smiled and began to drive.

"Oh, um- thank you." You responded and smiled at him, fumbling with your hair as he drove.

Once he arrived at the destination, you grabbed your purse, reaching in to grab your wallet.

"How much do I owe you sir?"

"It's been paid for, ma'am." He assured. "You have a nice day."

"Oh shit- fuck- I mean, thank you. You too!" You stepped out of the car, facing the coffee shop.

What the fuck?

You smoothed down your outfit again, brushed your fingers through your hair and composed yourself, forcing a smile on your face, though your anxiety was through the roof.

You walked in, smelling freshly ground coffee beans and feeling the air conditioning in the shop blasting as you looked around the room for who you might be meeting.

It was easy to see who it was, considering there was only one person, sitting in the corner of the coffee shop with a shit eating grin on his face.

What the FUCK?

"Harrington?!" You exclaimed, a beyond confused look on your face.

He leaned back, his hair tousled perfectly, annoyingly wearing a simple t-shirt and jeans, his hands clasped together.

"In the flesh."

"What-"

"And remember, call me Steve."

You walked slowly towards him, wondering if there was a possibility you were hallucinating.

"Please, sit." He pulled out a chair for you, looking a little too cocky.

You reluctantly did as he asked, setting your purse down, keeping eye contact with him.

"What can I get you to drink? On me." He stood up, still grinning, like he'd won some sort of game.

"Um... just a mocha, thanks."

Steve nodded and walked to the front counter.

You sat deep in thought as you waited. Is he playing some mindgame with you? Is he still just an asshole? Why did he lie to you?

"Here's your mocha," he set it down on the table for you, "and I got one too, though I'm not much of a coffee drinker myself-"

"Why did you lie?" You interrupted him.

He sat down in front of you, furrowing his brows, "Lie?"

You nodded, impatiently waiting for a response, frustration coursing through your veins.

"Well, I didn't necessarily lie. I told you I'd help you, and you'd have an interview," he laughed quietly, "and, it was me the whole time!"

"Yeah, I've figured that out by now." You huffed. "Are you just trying to mess with me, embarrass me or something? If so, I'm just gonna walk out right now-"

"No, no!" Steve assured you, putting his hands up, "no, I'm sorry, I'm not trying to mess with you. I guess it was kinda stupid that I did it like this."

"Then why am I here?"

He took a sip of his coffee, leaning back in his chair, "For a job."

"What job?"

"Well," he sighed, trailing off for a moment, "please just listen to me. Just let me talk, and trust me. Please?"

You leaned forward in your chair, crossing your arms on the table and raised an eyebrow at him, "I'm listening."

He exhaled nervously, running a hand through his hair and scooting his chair closer to you, resting his hands on the table.

"So, during the time we kinda... drifted apart, I inherited some money. And if you remember, my dad had a lot of money."

You nodded, motioning for him to continue.

"Well, and please don't get mad, but that house party last night? It, uh... just so happens that house is... mine." Steve chuckled awkwardly.

"What?!"

"Let me finish, okay?"

You groaned, a look of worry on your face.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you that last night. It was just nice to see you again and talk to you, talk to someone that knows who I am as a real person and doesn't just try to talk to me for... my money, you know? And when you brought up that you needed a job, it got me thinking-"

You cut him off, "Thinking what?"

"Ugh, let me finish!" He groaned, "It got me thinking that I've needed someone to... run my house?"

"Like a house manager?"

"Yeah, like a house manager," he smiled, "you know, travel arrangements, manage my budget, organize parties or social stuff... I'm not exactly good at... those type of things."

"Yeah, I could see that." You teased, finally cracking a smile.

Steve scoffed playfully, "Shut up! I know, I know. The thing is, I've never hired anyone to do it because I don't really trust any random person with things like that. I saw a friend, someone I trust, and I thought, why not?"

He shrugged and smiled, waiting for your answer, his leg bouncing nervously.

"So," you sat up straight, crossing your legs, "would I be a maid, clean up after you? What's the catch?"

"No catch," Steve shook his head, "I already have a maid. You'd have to move in with me-"

"Woah, woah, woah," you interrupted, "move in with you-"

"Jesus, sweetheart, let me talk," he laughed, motioning his hands for you to calm down, "not in my house. I have a guesthouse in the back. It's got a kitchen, bathroom, bedrooms, everything you need for your own privacy. And you'd live in it for free. And I would pay you."

You perked up, "How much?"

"Let's say..." He thought for a moment, "$100,000? Just to start off?"

Your jaw nearly dropped to the floor, your eyes widening.

"Steve-"

"Don't say no." He said kindly, smiling at your reaction. "Unless you want to. That's okay, too. I just thought... it's the least I can do. Win-win situation?"

You stared at your coffee in disbelief, your heart beating so loud, surely he could hear it. Time slowed down, the world coming to a halt. So much so that you hadn't even realized that Steve reached out his hands to hold yours gently through your shock.

"I'll do it." You exhaled and glanced back over to him, smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

"Really?" He beamed, squeezing your hands.

"Yes," you squeezed his back unknowingly, "only because I need this so badly. I could go back to school, I could take care of my family... Steve, I don't even know how to begin to thank you-"

"You don't have to," he reassured, "like I said, it's the least I can do."

You gazed at each other for a few moments, smiling so cheesy you almost couldn't stand it, and you again wondered if he felt the same tension between you as the night before.

It was only then did you finally notice that you were holding hands.

"So, um," you cleared your throat, pulling your hands back.

Steve did the same, his throat bobbing as there was an awkward bit of silence.

"So..." you finished your question, "when do I start?"

"Oh, today, if you want." He leaned back in his chair nonchalantly, as if what he just said wasn't a big deal.

"Today?!" You reiterated.

He nodded, a cheeky look spreading across his face again.

"Um, okay, but what about my stuff, my apartment-"

"The movers will take care of all that," Steve assured you, "you don't need to lift a finger. They'll start moving your stuff into the guesthouse today. If you want."

You wondered how any of that could happen so fast, but excitement pushed the thought to the back of your brain.

"Welp," he stood up, hands on his hips, "are you ready to go?"

You stood up after him, grabbing your purse, "Go? To your house?"

"Yep," he pulled his keys out of his pocket, swinging them around his fingers, "let's go."

You quickly followed him out the door, giggling with joy as Steve opened the passenger door of his red Cadillac for you. You got in, admiring the interior as he sat in the driver's seat and started the car.

"Steve?" You asked as he began to drive towards his house, the hot summer breeze flowing through each other's hair.

"Yeah?"

"This isn't gonna be, like... a weird sugar daddy situation, is it?"

He nearly choked on his own spit nervously, clearing his throat, "No, no, definitely not."

"Cause it's almost too good to be true, you know?"

"Definitely not." He repeated, looking over at you with a warm smile, then reverted his eyes back to the road, and you swore you saw a hint of a tense look on his face.

The next four months went by far too quickly. You were the happiest you'd ever been, feeling so grateful for the opportunity Steve had given you. You meticulously orchestrated the most extravagant house parties, took care of his finances, made sure his bills were paid on time, arranged his travel arrangements with perfection, and made his life much easier for him, which he showed great appreciation for.

The guesthouse you'd been living in was much more than you thought it was going to be. Two stories, fully furnished with the finest materials, a large kitchen with marble counter tops, the most luxurious bathroom, and the softest bedding you'd ever had the pleasure to sleep in, not to mention the insane salary, which Steve had already increased greatly on multiple occasions.

You were living the most amazing life, far past your highest expectations, but there was a feeling you couldn't shake, and you couldn't stand it.

Every time you put together a large gathering for a house party, you couldn't help but feel a little jealous when other women interacted with him, laughing at his jokes a little too loudly, having conversations with him a little too intimately, and dancing with him a little too long for your liking. But Steve still took the time to dance with you, of course, in a friendly manner, and you reminded yourself that he was a highly respected, well sought after man, and you just had to accept that. But god, did you hate it.

Every time Steve left for a business trip, whether it'd be a few days or a week, you found yourself feeling awfully lonely, isolated even. You kept busy by managing the house, doing your job, but you couldn't help but to feel insignificant, even abandoned, which you scolded yourself for, feeling embarrassed of yourself. He was your boss, after all. But god, you just fucking hated it.

But Steve did make up for it, of course. You never told him how lonely you were feeling, but he must have gotten the hint, as he would shower you with gifts. He'd bought you a new, much more reliable car in your favorite color. He'd gifted you a wardrobe of designer clothes, shoes and bags. He'd sent you on spa days that he'd pay for, massages, manicures, pedicures, and sent you to luxury salons to get your hair done. You hadn't even needed to touch your own money. You felt bad for all the gifts, telling him it wasn't necessary, that you were just there to do your job, but Steve always insisted, always reiterating that it was the least he could do.

The least he could do. Sometimes you wondered about that statement.

You were facing the fact that you, indeed, had feelings for Steve Harrington. And you wondered if you'd always had, ever since that summer in high school.

You felt ashamed of yourself, as it was so inappropriate to be in love with your own boss. But you'd known him long before he became a big shot, long before all these other people had known him, and so it was a difficult feeling to shake away.

You felt guilty for having these feelings, because Steve had done so much for you. You didn't want to be in love with him, as he showered you with things you'd only dreamed of. What if he meets the love of his life, and continues to be so generous towards you? That wouldn't be fair to them.

But at the same time, you couldn't tell him that you'd fallen for him. He'd always had trust issues, and you didn't want him to feel like you were taking advantage of him, or be accused of it. You didn't want to hurt him and break that trust.

It was all so conflicting, it drove you mad.

It didn't help that the two of you would spend your free time with each other, having dinner together at his large house, watching movies, laughing, friendly brunch dates, all of which included lingering stares, curling up on the couch a little closer together than platonic friends would do, Steve's endearing nicknames for you, his compliments, hands barely touching as you conversed, dancing slowly, warm bodies close together.

And you pondered the thought that maybe, just maybe, he was feeling the same electric buzz on on his own skin, the same butterflies in his stomach, the same fireworks, the same pull, the same tension as you did. Because you swore you could see it in his eyes when he looked into yours, in his smile, his body language.

Surely, you were just imagining things.

It wasn't something you could focus on right now anyway, so you shoved those feelings as far away as you could. You had a Christmas party to plan.

December 18th, 1990.

Steve's house was bustling with large crowds of people, holiday music softly playing throughout the large common area, a 20 ft large Christmas tree tucked away neatly in a corner, decorated accordingly with expensive ornaments, gold and silver lights wrapped around it, with a stupid little angel right on the top.

Five senses.

There was a fragrance of white pine, vanilla and cinnamon in the air. Cheerful, well dressed people chatted amongst themselves with an optimistic tone to their voices. Twinkling lights hung from the ceiling and red ribbons wrapped around the grand staircase in an elegant fashion. Your hand was wrapped around a glass of wine, and damn, did that cabernet taste a little too good.

All of this was happening because of your careful planning, but you definitely weren't feeling the holiday spirit.

You'd been standing by the Christmas tree alone for 2 hours now, sipping your fourth glass of red wine as you people watched with a bitter look on your face.

Despite how you felt, you were looking good. Really good.

You were wearing a satin red dress that hugged your body just right, a slit along the side of the dress to your upper thigh. Your hair was done elegantly, and on your lips was the perfect shade of red just right for your skin tone, fit with diamond jewelry and strappy heels- courtesy of Steve, obviously.

Speaking of Steve, you watched him in your usual wallflower fashion, conversing with people you didn't recognize, laughing, and having a grand old time with his usual black suit and tie, and his stupid perfect hair.

You took another sip, feeling a little forgotten about, and a little vulnerable as you stood alone, watching the party near its end.

A few minutes went by, and Steve suddenly gathered everyone around for a toast. You hesitantly walked towards the crowd, and watched as he thanked everyone for coming, thanked the chefs, the decorators, the butlers, and then thanking you, taking you by surprise.

"And I'd like to thank my beautiful house manager here," Steve gestured towards you, raising his glass as the crowd turned to look at you, "she single-handedly planned every bit of this get together, and I'm so gratetul to her for making this such a wonderful party, and for being my greatest friend. You're amazing."

"Cheers!" Everyone exclaimed, nodding at you in approval, and Steve winked at you.

You couldn't help but smile, your cheeks getting hot, taking another sip of wine, and for a fleeting moment, you didn't feel so alone anymore, so inferior.

That all came crashing down quickly.

Just as you thought Steve was about to take your hand and ask you to dance, another woman practically threw herself onto him, insisting she dance with him. He was a little taken aback, but reluctantly agreed to dance with her, and you swore that she had flashed you the most evil grin you'd ever seen.

Maybe it was the feelings you had for Steve, maybe it was the alcohol, maybe both, but rage coursed through your body at the sight. You felt annoyed, revolted, hostile, jealous.

You began to step backwards from the two of them, tears stinging the corners of your eyes, your lip nearly quivering as you backed away.

You made your way to a nearby table and downed the rest of your glass, setting it down as you glared at the two of them. Steve glanced over to you and caught your eye, his smile quickly fading and a worried, almost remorseful expression taking over.

You didn't want to act out, ruin Steve's party, ruin your friendship with him, so you stormed away, navigating through the large, drunken crowd and walking out the backdoor to head to your own private house, trying not to let hot tears spill down your face.

You walked in and slammed the door behind you, locking it and kicking off your heels. You turned on the lights and headed to your bedroom, sat down on the soft blankets of your bed, and finally allowed your emotions to pour out of you, sobbing to yourself and cursing yourself, mascara running down your cheeks.

Why am I like this? Why do I feel like this? I'm so stupid. So fucking stupid. We dated for 3 months when we were just kids. We hardly even kissed. What the fuck is wrong with me? I'll just have to quit. Tell him I'm moving. Find him a new manager, one he can trust. One that won't fall in love with him. God, how could I be so fucking ungrateful?

You sat up from the bed, absolutely bawling, and stumbled on the plush carpet to your full length mirror. You stared at yourself for a while, taking in shaky breaths, taking note of the expensive dress, the expensive jewelry, the expensive makeup- now a mess on your face.

"So fucking ungrateful!" You scolded the reflection in the mirror.

It was only then did you hear your front door close shut, and Steve's voice calling out your name softly.

Your heart dropped to your stomach.

You quickly wiped the smeared makeup off of your face and tried to compose yourself, taking a deep breath.

You walked out to the living room where Steve stood awkwardly, holding a ring of keys in his hands.

"Hey, Harrington." You tried to muster a smile.

He frowned at your greeting, looking concerned.

"Hey. Uh, sorry, you looked upset, and I heard you crying, so I kinda let myself in."

"Oh." You sniffed.

There was a moment of silence, and you felt that he was standing much too far away from you. There was a lump in your throat, too hard and too much to explain yourself.

"Are you okay?" Steve asked, cautiously taking a step towards you.

"Yeah," you wiped another tear from your cheek, smiling, "yeah, I'm okay."

"Are you sure? Cause, you know, you're crying."

Silence again.

Steve sighed, "Do you wanna sit?"

"Um... sure." Your voice cracked.

You both sat down on the loveseat in the living room. You crossed your legs, fumbling with the rings on your fingers and avoiding eye contact with him. He held his hands together.

"I'm sorry for running out," you spoke up, "is everything okay back at the party?"

"Oh, don't be sorry, sweetheart," Steve assured you, "the party is ending now. Mostly everyone is gone."

"Oh, okay. I hope it was a good one."

"It was great, you always make it great," he smiled, resting a hand on your knee, making you feel a little nervous, "but can I ask... why are you crying?"

You attempted to laugh, brush your pain away like it never existed in the first place.

"Honestly, I just felt overwhelmed, and probably had too much to drink."

"Yeah, probably," he agreed, "but... there's something else, too."

You shook your head slightly, tears stinging your eyes again, not responding.

"Was it because of that girl I was dancing with?"

You finally glanced over to him.

"No." You replied in a small, fragile voice.

Steve sighed, leaning forward and gave your knee a squeeze.

"Well... I won't bother you. Maybe you can talk to me about it tomorrow. For now," he stood up, putting his hands on his hips, "why don't you eat something, drink some water, and get some sleep, okay?"

You nodded, still sitting down, "Okay. I'm so sorry, Steve."

He didn't speak for a moment, only peering down at you with an empathetic look, before slowly leaning over and holding your face gently with his hands, pausing as his face hovered yours, and placing a small kiss to your forehead.

"You've done nothing wrong. There's nothing for you to worry about," Steve whispered against your skin, making you look at him in his eyes, "okay?"

You gave him a sad, half smile, still feeling guilty despite his words, "Okay."

He stood back up, and walked slowly to the front door, turning the knob and opening it.

"Good night."

"Good night, Steve."

The next day, your alarm woke you, not having dreamt at all. Your eyes burned from crying, and your lips were chapped from heavy breathing. You turned off the alarm and stared at the ceiling, lost in thought, remembering everything that had occurred the night before. The party. Steve's toast. The woman. Running away. Crying. Talking to Steve. His hand on your knee. His words of reassurance. His kiss on your forehead.

You tried to put the puzzle pieces together in your mind.

Shouldn't he be mad at me? He's my boss. He's given me everything, just for me to throw a drunken hissy fit. He should have fired me. Or at least been upset with me. Is he upset with me? No, he said he wasn't. Wait, does he have feelings for me, too? No he doesn't. There's no way. Is there?

You begrudgingly got out of bed, and walked towards the same mirror you had the night before, looking at the disheveled, emotional wreck in front of you.

Nope. No way.

You went on to do your usual morning routine of coffee, showering and getting ready, thankful that you didn't have a hangover, when there was a sudden knock on your front door.

What the fuck?

You opened it hesitantly to find no one standing there, but a beautifully wrapped gift bag was on the ground, with a note attached to it.

You looked around outside, and grabbed the bag, bringing it inside and shutting the door. You took it to your bedroom and sat the gift on the bed, and opened the note that had your name on it.

I felt like I needed you to know that you're my closest friend above anything else. Take the day off, on me, okay? And please accept the gift I got for you, and don't say no, like you usually do. Consider it an early Christmas gift. Please put it on and meet me in my bedroom upstairs for a movie night at 8. See you then.

-Harrington (call me Steve)

You couldn't help but bite your lip and smile, your stomach fluttering and feeling excited, grateful for his generosity and patience with you.

You placed the note to the side and dug into the gift bag, and audibly gasped and nearly sobbed at the sight of what you pulled out.

It wasn't Calvin Klein, or Ralph Lauren. It wasn't a designer dress, or expensive high heels.

It was cheesy Christmas pajamas, and a pair of fuzzy slippers. Complete with a reindeer and snowflake design, and it was cheap, from JC Penny's.

You could've died happy right then and there, to receive such a humble and thoughtful gift from Steve. The old Steve, the Steve he still was, the one you'd always kept close to your heart for years.

You chose not to go out and treat yourself that day like he'd offered, instead, staying in your home, relaxing with some good books and watching TV. You tried to take a nap, but you were too overjoyed, too overwhelmed in all the right ways to even think about falling asleep as you watched the clock tick by, minute by minute.

At 7:50, you put on your pajamas and slippers, looking into the mirror, this time, with a much more optimistic look on your face. You decided not to opt for makeup, as tonight was movie night- a night of friendship, a night of Steve, a night that had occurred many times before during a summer years ago.

You exited your house and walked towards the backdoor of Steve's, nearly skipping with joy, and let yourself in.

You were surprised to not see any of his other staff around the house as you walked up the staircase, thinking he must have given them the night off.

You tiptoed down the long, dark hallway filled with glee, and saw a dim light coming from Steve's bedroom.

You approached the open door and gave it a little knock, making him turn around.

"Oops, seems as if there's been a wardrobe malfunction."

He was wearing the same fucking pajamas as you.

"Steve!" You laughed, eyeing him up and down as you walked in.

He lifted his arms up in the air and smiled.

"You like?" He motioned at his outfit, and bolted towards you, lifting you up and making you squeal.

"That's what I like to hear," he sighed with relief as he put you back down, "it's good to see you smile."

"Steve, you're such a dork." You giggled and shoved his shoulder playfully.

"The most handsome dork you've ever seen," he teased, "so, what do you wanna watch? I've got everything set up."

He motioned towards the wooden table on the bed. On it was a bottle of white wine accompanied with two glasses, a big bowl of popcorn, and an assortment of candy.

"I grabbed the cheapest bottle of wine I could find, I promise," he chuckled, running his hands through his hair, "tonight is gonna be like old times. Gotta remind you that I'm still a humble guy."

"I never doubted you were." You beamed at him.

Steve's cheeks turned red, and his body language went a little shy.

"So, I know I asked you what you wanna watch, but I picked up your favorite you told me, Heathers-"

"Yes!" You exclaimed, "yes, I love that movie!"

He smiled, "I know you do. Now... let's get comfy."

There was definitely something in the air, and it was heavy, as the two of you watched Winona Ryder act on screen, eating popcorn, laughing, finishing a glass of wine, and bodies increasingly getting closer and closer together throughout the movie.

You both lay back in his bed, eyes glued to the TV under soft blankets, when Steve reached his arm out behind you, and commanded a soft "C'mere."

You glanced at him, wide-eyed, as adrenaline raced through your body at his request, and you hesitantly scooted towards him a bit. You leaned down your head down gently to rest on his shoulder, but you were still much too far away from him.

Steve pulled you closer to his body, and hooked his other arm under your knees, curling your legs on his lap. You lightly gasped and chuckled nervously at the action, but he just let out a hum of contentment.

You reached an arm across him to hold his side, and nuzzled further into his warm chest. He placed a gentle kiss to your hair, and rested his face on your head, holding you closely to him with both of his arms.

Suddenly, it was really hard to pay attention to the movie. Suddenly, you almost forgot how to breathe. Suddenly, you were so close to Steve, but somehow still too far away. Suddenly, the world paused around you as you felt his soft heartbeat against his chest. Suddenly, nearly all your nerves ceased to exist. Suddenly, Steve felt like home.

Steve was home.

The ending credits started to play on the TV screen. You had the nagging urge that you should let go of him, that movie night was over, but you didn't want to move, didn't want to let him ago, wanted this feeling and this warmth to last forever.

He sat up for a moment, and your heart dropped at the loss of his closeness as he grabbed the table from the bed and placed it on the ground.

You pulled away from him, preparing to say goodnight and go back to your own home, when Steve asked, "Where are you going?"

You glanced over to him, lips parted, but didn't respond, didn't know how to.

"Stay."

He took his shirt off, staring at you with soft eyes, and laid back down onto his bed slowly, patting the sheets, motioning for you to join him.

You eagerly did, as you crawled back onto his mattress, laying down next to him. He pulled the blankets over the two of you and pulled you in closer to him with strong arms until your faces were mere inches apart, nearly nose to nose, heads resting on soft pillows.

Steve ran his fingers up and down your back delicately, gazing into your eyes, you gazing back into his own, the only light in the bedroom now coming from the moon through the windows, enough to study the details of each other's faces in comfortable silence.

You traced your fingers along his back, breathing in his intoxicating scent, as he tucked your hair behind your ear and whispered to you, feeling his warm breath on your lips.

"You look so beautiful like this."

"Steve..."

No more words needed to be spoken, as the moment the two of you existed in gave you all the answers you ever needed.

He held the back of your head, and with a shaky breath, pressed his mouth against yours gently. His lips felt like silk as you quickly kissed him back, cradling the side of his face with your hand.

He broke the long, drawn out kiss, opening his eyes slowly to stare into your own, as if to make sure it was okay, before doing it again, his fingers splayed messy along your cheek.

You hummed against his mouth, roaming your hand from his chest, up the soft skin of his shoulder, to the nape of his neck, the both of you kissing between heavy sighs, resting your foreheads against the other.

Steve sat up a bit, grasping your face and pulling it to his, kissing you a little harder, a little faster each time, soft inhales between them, and he pulled at your bottom lip, impatient, hungry, asking for more.

You gave into him immediately, eagerly, deepening the kiss and raking your fingers through his soft hair, pulling him into you as tongues collided, desperate but languid.

You whined into him and Steve swallowed the sound, driving him mad and making his breath shudder, licking across your bottom lip and sucking it into his mouth, letting it go with a pop.

You lightly gasped and grasped at the skin of his back, hands heavy all over each other as he tugged you even closer to him, pressing gentle but eager kisses along your jawline. You threw your head back to give him access, and he leaned his face into your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin. His hands roamed up your abdomen but stopped, and you quickly leaned back and pulled your shirt over your head, exposing your chest to him with needy eyes.

Steve groaned, whispering swears as you gave him permission to explore you, cupping your breasts and smoothing his fingers over your nipples as he continued to kiss and suck down your chest, which only made your body fill with heat, needing more.

You sat up and pushed yourself up against him, your lips finding his easily as you wandered your hands down his chest to the waistline of his pants, giving it a small tug.

He hissed against your mouth and broke the kiss, whispering, "Are you sure?"

"Please," you pleaded softly, "want you."

"Fuck," he let out a breathy laugh, "you're gonna kill me, baby."

You kissed along his collarbone, roaming your hands down again, and sighed as you felt his hard length against his leg, lightly stroking it.

Steve groaned at your touch, and frantically pulled his pajamas and boxers down his legs, throwing them to the side and freeing himself. He leaned down towards you again, making you lay flat against the bed, kisses sloppy and needy as he hovered over you, his hand smoothing from your breasts, down your stomach to tug at your own pants.

"Take 'em off." You whined on his lips.

He snaked his fingers in your waistline, and pulled your panties and pajamas down your legs swiftly, tossing them somewhere in the room.

He leaned back from you, lips parted, as he took in the sight of you, cheeks flushed.

"So pretty."

You bit your lip and reached for him, desperate to feel his closeness, but Steve had other ideas.

He smoothed his calloused hands up and down your thighs, before spreading them open, murmuring helplessly to himself as he leaned down, pressing open mouthed kisses to the soft skin of your stomach, trailing his mouth down until he was above your heat, making you quiver underneath him.

He slowly traced his fingers down your lower stomach to the apex of your thighs, gently swiping them between your folds, cursing to himself at how wet you were.

You moaned, voice wrecked, arching into Steve's hand, giving yourself to him, a sign of permission.

He lifted a leg up over his shoulder and slowly slipped a finger inside of you, a second joining quickly, hooking inside of you.

You gasped loudly, and he leaned over and pressed his lips back to yours, an attempt to calm your reaction, to soothe you, as he thumbed at your clit, sliding his fingers in and out of you.

You moaned softly, your hands grasping and pulling at his hair, and he hissed at the action, and you took note of how much he liked it.

Steve pressed one more gentle kiss to your swollen lips, before descending down your body, kissing your heat and removing his thumb, replacing it with his tongue as he swirled it around your clit heavy, taking it into his mouth and sucking on it greedily.

You grinded against his face, coming undone and moaning a mixture of his name and expletives as your orgasm took a hold of you quickly, Steve humming against your heat, working you through your high until you were a panting mess.

He pulled his fingers out of you, sitting up slowly and placing them in his mouth, sucking on them and groaning at the taste of you.

"Good girl," he praised you through whispers, kneading his thumbs into the plush of your thighs, "you did so good."

You huffed, sitting up, your legs trembling and took his hard length into your hand, stroking it and kissing him desperately.

His breath stuttered against your lips as your grip tightened around him, hissing as Steve grabbed your wrist to stop you.

"Sweetheart," his voice was strained, husky, "if you do that, I'm not gonna last long."

His palms smoothed up and down your sides, then groped your breasts, making your breath hitch.

"Me neither," your voice thick with emotion, "need you."

"Sh, okay, I got you baby girl."

Steve laid you back down on the bed gingerly, and just as you thought he was going to hover over you, he laid down next to you, pulling you close to him, face to face, and lifted your leg to rest on his hip.

"Need you close. Okay?" He looked in your eyes, glazed over with lust.

You nodded, breath shaky, cradling his jaw with your hand as you felt his bare length press against your wet heat, squirming for friction. He snaked his arms under yours to hold you tight, his left hand on your lower back, his right grasping your ass.

He shifted his hips to align himself with your entrance, sucked in a sharp inhale, and pushed himself inside of you.

You both gasped loudly at the feeling, clutching at each other desperately, and Steve kissed you, swallowing your moans as he continued to inch inside of you, pushing in and out of you slowly until your walls took him in fully, his cock disappearing inside you completely.

Your bodies were flushed, skin warm as you felt him stretch you out every place you needed so badly, massaging your inner walls, the both of you in a state of utter bliss, euphoria and love, your lips kissing lazy and sloppy against each other, your slick making it easy for him to rock into you at a pace that wasn't too slow, wasn't too fast, but was amazingly deep and romantic.

You whimpered into his mouth as Steve continued to fuck into you, making him snap his hips into your spongy spot abruptly, and the both of you cursed, moaning each other's names, your voices stuttering, and your tongues gliding over each other messy.

Steve wasn't going to last long, you could tell by the way he bit back his moans, the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, his hips jerking as you felt his length grow even harder inside of you.

Thankfully, you were on the edge too- heat beginning to pool in your lower back, your muscles tightening, goosebumps spreading across your skin as he continued to hit that delicious spot inside of you, the friction of his trail of body hair rubbing against your clit with each thrust, making you lose composure.

You raked your hands through his soft, mussed hair and tugged, earning a moan from him as he pressed open mouthed kisses along your jaw and neck, and Steve smiled against your skin when your walls tightened around him, getting the hint.

"You gonna cum?" He panted through thrusts, his voice gravelly.

"Yes- oh, fuck Steve-"

"Me- jesus christ- me too," he rasped, "cum with me, please, you look so pretty-"

His words were enough to send you over the edge as the world crashed around you, tears prodding at your eyes as your gut tightened and shockwaves gripped every inch of your skin, your orgasm bursting within you.

Steve felt you tighten and pulse around him as he rocked into you through your high, kissing you feverishly along your cheek and neck. The sound of your voice when you cried out his name made him bite down on your shoulder.

His hips stuttered and with a few more deep, powerful thrusts, his vision blurred as he spilled himself deep inside of you, groaning against your mouth as you kissed him sweetly until his movements stilled.

You slumped into each other, your limbs liquid, as the both of you tried to catch your breath. Steve pressed his forehead against yours, eyes hooded and heavy, skin warm and sticky, feeling lightheaded, and you both let out a breathy laugh of relief, a content sigh, as if this is what the two of you should have been doing all along.

You both held each other this way for a while, in comfortable silence, enjoying the closeness of each other's presence, the warmth and coziness of one another's bodies, hands smoothing over hair and skin, lips kissing the other's softly until you both finally caught your breath.

Steve eventually slid himself out of you with an exhale, and you shuddered at the loss. He pulled you in tightly to him, cradling you, limbs entangled and he rubbed circles into your cheek.

"Can I talk first?" He asked in a hushed voice.

You nodded, pursing your lips.

"I trust you. I know you. And I don't want anyone but you."

You beamed at him, tears glossing over your eyes, your heart blooming.

"I love you."

You lightly gasped at his confession, and he waited patiently for your response.

You kissed him, long and drawn out before speaking.

"I love you, Steve."

"Really?"

You nodded eagerly, "Really."

"Good." Another sigh of relief.

"So," you traced your fingers along his back, "What happens now?"

Steve chuckled, "Now? Now, you're mine," he cradled the side of your face, "you don't work for me. You're my girl. You're mine."

You smiled, and you could've died happy right then and there.

"And I want to give you everything."

Spicier Part 2 here

[jiubilant]

17 and/or 29 for the worldbuilding prompts <3

29. a baffling fashion trend among the youth

4.E. 40

It is not unusual, on the island of Alcaire, for the rain to blow in sideways for a week or more. Two weeks is to be expected. Three, thinks the young clerk squishing up the chateau stairs, is some god’s vendetta against fur coats.

“Excuse me, madam,” he calls to the lady at the stairtop, and holds up the sodden wad of roadkill that had slithered off her shoulders outside. It is, to the best of his knowledge, a sable stole. Or was. “Excuse—ah, pardonnez-moi, madam—”

The lady, a powdery-faced matron whose gown glistens with cabochons, twists in her chaperone’s silk-sleeved arm. She blinks down at him.

Then she laughs. “It’s only mink, poor dear. Keep it.”

The clerk, standing soaked in his thin tabard, squidges his mouth to one side. He slings the stole over one shoulder.

Fredas nights are when the factor, the man who sometimes pays him, throws his soirees. He’s hosting some Colovy merchants tonight, if the clerk remembers right; he opens the drawing-room door to an explosion of clinking cups, laughter, and the sweet strains of someone torturing the spinet. Men in dagged sleeves embroidered with fleurs twirl local women—daughters of Company men, a few wealthy widows—adorned with scrimshaw beads. Someone’s brat runs by with a toy harpoon. The air shimmers with perfume and the deep, fishy smoke of whale-oil lamps.

The clerk slips in minklike, unnoticed. He spots the factor at table, his moustaches glazed with grease, crunching businesslike through a plate of ortolans on toast. On his left, a lady tolerates his hand on her shoulder, shivering when he toys with her necklace of pearls. On his right, a man in a fur-lined houppelande puts his nose in a cup of wine. The clerk arranges his face to look polite and unassuming, then leans between them to murmur the day’s exchange rates in the factor’s ear—

The man with the wine jumps, spilling it. Then he turns to the factor with a laugh. “You employ such sinister sorts.”

“He scares the crows,” the factor says amiably. “Diverting little fellow, too. Je suis ravi—that’s what he says when he introduces himself.” He pats the clerk on the shoulder. “Go on, then, Ravi.”

Polite, the clerk reminds himself. Unassuming. “Monsieur?”

“You’re at a party,” says the factor. “There’s drink. There’s dancing.” He fishes a kerchief from his pocket, shakes it out, and dabs a drib of gristle from his chin with the gold-embroidered corner. “Does Veloth let you dance?”

The clerk tries on a smile. The lady, a long-faced woman in the silliest plumed hat that the clerk has ever seen, stands and curtseys to him.

“You had better ask me,” she says gravely, “now that I am up.”

“Er,” says the clerk, eyeing the hat like a birdwatcher. Its feathers tremble. He half-wonders if it will take flight. “Ah. Yes, um—”

“Um,” the lady agrees with great sobriety, and takes his dripping arm.

She has wobbled him, on wine-sweet nights when the factor is away, through a few giggling steps of a valse. Now the factor is here, watching. The clerk checks that the man is looking, then plays the plouc by stumbling over his partner’s shoes. When the laughter at the factor’s table dies down, he waits for a beat—polite, unassuming—then dares to look the lady in the face.

“I hope,” she says, “he chokes on a bone.”

The clerk raises his eyebrows. He’s holding her at arm’s length, gingerly, like a botellier holding a birdcage; he would like to do otherwise, but he is conscious of his audience. “You’re cross with him.”

“I always am,” says the lady, smiling. “Not least when he treats us like prize puppies.”

The clerk smiles, too. His face is stiff from smiling. “Woof.”

“Arf. Do you like my hat?”

“Is it wise,” says the factor’s clerk, “to do this in front of him—”

“You’re always,” says the factor’s wife, “putting questions to questions.”

The clerk firms his mouth and twirls her. A feather brushes his cheek like a kiss.

“Suppose,” he says under his breath when she’s spun back again, “we run for it.”

“Now?” The lady is breathless from dancing. The lamplight pirouettes in her eyes, in the pearls at her bright throat. “Here?”

“Now,” the clerk agrees, straight-faced. He looks over her shoulder at the factor, who is deep in conversation. “Here.”

She laughs, of course, as usual. Her laugh is like a cool hand on a bruise. “We’d live on stale bread.”

“Mm.”

“I would grow old,” says the lady, and tucks the clerk’s hair behind his pointed ear. “And lose all my teeth. You’d have to chew my food for me.”

“Mm.” The clerk smiles. He can’t help it. “Your stale bread, yes. Though we might indulge in some gruel.”

“You don’t even like my hat—”

The music stops. In the busy hush that follows—the rustling of damasks and soft silks, the polite murmurs as their fellow dancers trade partners—the clerk and the factor’s wife stare at each other.

“All right,” says the lady. Beneath her hat, her face is set and pale. “Now.”

“Yes,” says the clerk. He feels as though the rain has washed something out of him. “Now.”

Neither of them move. They look instead to the factor, placing the last ortolan in his mouth, snapping small bones between his teeth.

[33 worldbuilding prompts]

[elejah-wonderland]

Rebound_2

_elejah au

a/n: Elena leaves Mystic Falls after Alaric and Jo's wedding. After travelling for a while, she ends up in New Orleans as a certain Original vampire needs her as she has traveller magic. Also, she didn't take the cure. She is still a vampire.

*

Chateau Allemagne-en-Provence, France, 33 km away from Manosque

"The Provencale witches used Amara and Silas' blood to seal this door." Elijah said.

"And they never thought anyone would be able to open it. But the craziest thing actually is that Katherine had unlocked the traveller's magic in me when she possessed my body." Elena said.

"Something bad for something good." Elijah remarked as he collected the box with the scrolls from a niche behind the door.

"So, we're done here?" Elena asked closing the secret door shut.

"We are." Elijah replied. "I do have one meeting in Aix-en-Provence in a few days."

"Right. So, I can do some sightseeing - drink wine and just chill."

"Yes. In that respect - would you care for some lunch now?" Elijah asked.

"Yes - ok." Elena nodded a little and spun around walking out of the library.

Now that they had the scrolls, time out from the world was, as promised, next on the agenda.

Elena instantly loved everything about Manosque and its surrounding area.

The bell towers that speak of the medieval, Roman and even prehistoric history of the place, the cobbled alleys, the cafés, welcoming shops that give a glimpse of the good life in Provence.

Arriving back in Manosque, they sat down in a bistro.

"I could actually stay here for a while.

"If you seek silence and peace, this is the place. You will be sure to find your rest here, even through the peak of tourist season." Elijah said.

"When did you first come here?" Elena asked.

"In 1206, I persuaded Guillaume IV, the last count of Forcalquier, to grant the city certain privileges. Then it was nothing like it is now, but the area, the nature, had a magical appeal. Every so often I would take time away from the world and my family and spent it here."

"You mean - away from Klaus." Elena, forward as always didn't take any prisoners.

"Yes. As you know that after everything with Katerina - Katherine," the Original corrected himself, "we disagreed on many things - I needed an escape. This places had always provided it."

Elena nodded a little. She knew all too well about his family's history.

Taking a sip of the wine they were served, her attention reverted to a group of women, who were chatting about their visit to the L'Occitane Factory and its Boutique Museum store. The perfumes they opened took her back to the infinite lakes of lavander fields, moors of thyme, oak groves.

She felt that was actually in a strange kind of magical wormhole, something she had experience once before. She suddenly fluttered her eyes closed and then opened it again.

Elena took her glass of wine and walked over to the painting that caught her eye as they entered.

"The beauty of movement captured" Elijah said as he joined her, taking a sip of the wine.

Elena was quiet, her eyes were glued to the painting.

"Is everything all right?" Elijah asked.

"Yes." Elena said softly, looking at Elijah. "Just - this place - I feel like went through a looking glass. It's so unreal."

"It does have this affect on people." Elijah said.

"Yeah - you said - escape."

"From time to time it is so very much needed. Find one's ground again."

"That's why I took off and travelled. I needed to - find myself again."

"You've been through a lot and - a lot is due to us. My family - me."

"You apologized. I accepted it. It's done. Let's not talk heavy stuff. This is an escape - so let's escape"

"Let's" Elijah said, putting his hand out to her, "Dance?"

Elena made a cute smile and took his hand.

Breathing in silently, she battled with her emotions, swaying in to the sounds of music, so close to him. Too close.

The incessive buzzing of his phone, made them break the dance.

Elijah sighed displeased. He pulled the phone out of his inside pocket.

It said Klaus on the display.

"I'm really sorry." Elijah muttered.

"I know." Elena said and stepped back.

Elijah took the call and walked out the bistro.

Elena stood for a moment inside and drew a long breath.

Part of her wished she'd snap out of the fairytale haze that she found herself enwraped in. And then, the other part, didn't want it to finish - ever.

Stepping out of the bistro, she swished to her room in the hotel they were occupying.

She reached for her phone, and scrolled the contacts list to Caroline's name.

She was in need of her best friend. To pour her heart out. Kill the frustration that was on breaking point.

But there was only the voice mail.

Inside, she cursed the day she decided to go to New Orleans.

Elijah was not even her type. Why did she get so wrapped up in him? How did it happen even?

Grabbing her bag, and her jacket, she was about to leave Manosque. Get away.

But then there he stood in her room. Appearing like a ghost out of nowhere.

"I am really sorry about earlier. I should have shut the phone off."

"It's ok. The magical craziness always comes first, same as family." Elena dropped her bag and the jacket on the bench at the foot of the bed.

"Yes - but this time, I have my other siblings that can handle things - and him." Elijah said and motuoned his hand towards her bag on the bench. "You were about to leave?!"

"Yes. To do more escaping. Go and travel again. I just did South America. I've always wanted to travel through Europe."

She gulped. Inhaling silently.

An awkward silence fell between them.

The musky smell of him was magnetic, playing on all her senses.

He was nothing like anyone she had dated.

Every nerve ending in her body shifted as his gaze deepened. She could feel the fire in her belly rise. Her body ached with wanting him.

If someone knew what was in his soul, it was her. She knew that he once again bitterly regretted opening his heart yet again and letting someone in.

Another mistake.

And then she broke the silence. "What is it that we are doing here, Elijah? What is this?"

_to be continued

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Ma vie ne me plaisait pas, alors j'ai créé ma vie.

- Coco Chanel

Clothes convey ideas about what is admirable or exciting, they influence mood and help define identity. Fashion is potentially a very serious part of life – but it has largely been abandoned to pretension, eccentricity and foolishness.

The person who did the most to realise the positive potential of fashion – and direct it to its true task – was the French designer Coco Chanel. She was born on 19 August 1883 in Saumur in the Loire valley. Her mother died when she was a child; she grew up poor and isolated. She was educated by charitable nuns.

She was called Gabriel until her early twenties, when she was trying to make it as a cabaret performer and changed her name to the more distinctive ‘Coco’. She started out as a designer of hats, made a lot of influential friends and had several liaisons with British and Russian dukes – perhaps in compensation for her early very fragile social status.

Everything Chanel encountered among the very poor became material for the fashions she’d later design for the very rich. Coco invented the genre pauvre, or poor look. She put women into men’s jersey sweaters, created a simple dress based on a sailor tricot. She used a ditch digger’s scarf, a mechanic’s blouse, a waitress’ white collar and cuffs, popularised slacks, backless shoes, cotton dresses.

Of course, the very simplicity of her fashions was part of their charm. Their straightforward design and use of ordinary fabrics and just as importantly could be easily copied, cheaply mass-produced.

Chanel herself said, “Some people think luxury is the contrary of being poor. No, it is the contrary of vulgarity.”

Her childhood had instilled in Chanel resourcefulness and razor-sharp survival instincts, which were the keys to her success - but didn’t necessarily make her likeable.

Although Coco Chanel couldn’t sketch and didn’t like to sew, she established herself in the fashion world through a series of liaisons with wealthy men, starting with a French officer who installed her in his chateau, taught her to conduct herself with high style on horseback and, generally, gave her the skills she needed to make her way up through society.

But her opportunism caught up with Chanel after World War II, when the maker of one of the world’s best-selling fragrances came away smelling not-so-sweet. She had a wartime love affair with a German officer, collaborated with the Nazis in France and may even have spied for them. And, under the anti-Semitic laws of Vichy France, she sought to dispossess the Jewish business partners who had helped finance production of her famous perfume, arguing that the company “should be Aryanised,” according to the author of a recent book, The Secret of Chanel No. 5.

The stain of her wartime misdeeds lingered. When she reappeared on the fashion scene in 1954, her name still had ‘disgraced’ attached to it. Americans, however, managed to forgive and forget, at least enough to snap up her clothing line. The Chanel suit, if not Chanel herself, retained its lasting appeal.

By the 1960s, she was more controversial for lashing out against the most beloved fashion of the time: the miniskirt.

“Dégoütant,” she said of the trend in 1966. “Now I know why men don’t like women anymore.” She kept the hemline of her iconic skirt suits where it had always been: just below the knee.

[goldenmaybank]

no strings ~ scout’s writing challenge

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: jj and y/n have had a no strings attached agreement for years, but that statement couldn’t be farther from the truth.

warnings: swearing, cheating, implied sex, and slight fluff 

word count: 2.2k

this is my entry for @ptersparkers​ writing challenge! hope you all enjoy :)

no strings attached. that was the agreement we made back in freshman year. it's now junior year and that agreement still stands. no feelings involved, just pure fun, but how do you not fall for his big blue eyes and bright smile. it was only meant to be for one night, but one night soon turned into two then three and now i've lost count how many nights we've spent together. almost every night for this past year he’s slept in my bed under my silk sheets with our bodies intertwined with one another. i constantly convince myself it's nothing more than having fun but every time i hear his name i get butterflies and whenever he's near me my heart starts to beat a million times faster. i try to convince myself it's not love, but after being with someone in that way for three years it's impossible for it not to turn into that. but clearly it's possible for him at least. that's why i don't say anything and continue to hide my true feelings because i know he doesn't feel the same way as me and probably never will. i stay up every night with him on my mind and thoughts of what we could be consumes my every thought.

freshman year was the hardest of them all mainly because jj had a girlfriend at the time. i know what i did was wrong but the taste of his lips and the way he touched me that first night was so captivating. i knew from that moment i would never be able to let him go. i tried not to get sucked into him and his player ways, but soon the second night happened and from then it was history. we would meet every thursday night at my place at midnight. he was never late and it made me wonder if he craved my touch as bad as i craved his. we would walk past each other in the streets like we barely knew each other when in reality he knew every curve and mark on my body.

sophomore year was easier than the last since he no longer was with his girlfriend, but also harder because that's when i started catching feelings for him. now since he was single, we could actually be seen together, but still had to be cautious since i was a kook. i never understood the rivalry between the kooks and pogues, but i knew if any of the kooks found out i was with jj all hell would break loose. me and sarah were known as the kook princesses, and since she was dating topper, everyone expected me to date a kook too. before i met jj, i went on a few dates with rafe since thats who my parents wanted me to be with, but after realizing all kook guys are self absorbed assholes, i knew i could never be with any of them. the only kook i can tolerate is sarah, and at times she can even be blinded by the things topper tells her. a couple months into freshman year, i already started to get suffocated at the kook academy and went to the beach to escape, which is where i met kie. the moment i met her we instantly clicked and she invited me to the kegger that they were having that night. thats when i met the rest of the pogues, including jj. we spent the whole night attached at the hip drinking and laughing together. soon enough the guest room at the cheateu was filled with nothing but the sound of our moans. that was the first of many nights we spent there together. 

almost every single day i would meet jj by the beach to spend time with him. whether we were surfing, hanging out on the hms pogue with the others, or eating at the wreck, i just loved being around him. although we weren't together people acted like we were. kie would always say we were unofficially official. soon enough our every thursday night meet-ups became every thursday and friday meet-ups and eventually every night meet-ups. we spent every night together at my place until my parents found out and we needed a new place, so we started hanging out at the chateau.

junior year has been the best one so far. jj and i hung out more in public not caring what anyone else would think and gone on what he calls "non-dates" even though it's exactly what dates are. he's met my younger sister and she absolutely adores him, which now makes me wish we never got our families involved in this since i know he doesn't reciprocate my feelings. i've spent so much time with him that i feel almost empty not being in his arms at night. he knows everything about me and i know everything about him. we've shared all of our secrets and deepest thoughts with each other. i've seen his vulnerable side so much that it's almost impossible for me not to fall in love with him. he's opened up to me and let me in more than anyone else in his life even his best friends. every night is something new with him and i never want it to stop even though i know inevitably it will.

"you remember the second night you stayed at my place and you got scared of my dog" i said laughing as we laid next to each other on my bed talking about our favorite memories together.

"look in my defense, your dog is huge and she woke me up out of my sleep." jj said chuckling slightly.

"she was just being friendly and you wouldn't stop screaming. almost woke up my damn parents."

"don't act like you haven't almost woken up john b before with your clumsy ass. you almost knocked over his whole desk trying to get into the room."

"i'm sorry i'm not an expert at climbing through windows like you."

"well when you've had a lot of practice you know how to." he said cockily.

"oh shut up." he laughed as i tiredly punched his arm, "you know damn well i was the first window you came through." i said sassily.

"you're right. you were."

"wait really? so jj maybank has never snuck into another girl's house before? i'm surprised."

"why?" he asked as he turns his body towards me and moves me so i face him.

"i don't know i guess with your reputation i thought you would've been with a bunch of girls before me."

"you wanna know the truth? you're the first girl i've ever slept with."

"wait what?" i sat up against the headboard looking at him confusingly, "what about your ex or all those tourons you would flirt with?"

"all we would do is flirt and make out a little, but it never went any further. either i was always drunk or they were and i never wanted that to be my first time, you know? and with my ex we were only fourteen and dated for a few months. i told you before i never really felt anything for her. it was all just so i could know what it felt like to be a boyfriend.”

“but we were only fourteen, when we..”

“i know, but it was different with you. you are different.”

"so, that means you were a virgin when we first-"

"yup." he said admittedly.

"wow. well i couldn't tell." i joked.

jj looked at me and chuckled slightly, but i could tell something was off with him. his eyes didn't have the same brightness as usual.

"what's wrong?"

"what do you mean? nothings wrong."

"jj, you can't lie to me. i've known you for way too long and i know when somethings wrong, so what's up."

"i don't know. i-" he sighs deeply as he looks at up at me, "it's just- is that what you think of me? that i'm just some player who fucks any girl that throws herself at me."

"what? no. of course not. i just assumed-"

"because that's not who i ever wanted to be." he said cutting me off, "i never wanted to be like- like my dad, you know?” he says as he looks down at his hands, fiddling with them, “as much as he claims he loved her, he treated my mom like shit. he would get drunk and mess around with a bunch of women because he could never commit. i never wanted to be like that. i never wanted to make a girl feel the way my mom felt. she was so heartbroken when he would come back home smelling of perfume and lie to her face. eventually, she had enough of it and just got up and left. kinda wish she took me with her. but i told myself i would never be like that and then i realized i was. back in freshman year when i cheated on my ex-"

"with me" i looked at him sympathetically understanding why what i said bothered him so much, "look, j you're nothing like your dad. i know i've never met him but from what you told me about him you two are completely different people. you’re nothing like that cheating, abusive asshole, okay? you're such a sweet, kindhearted person who always puts others before yourself, especially when it comes to your friends. i've never seen someone care so much about others than you. you have such a pure, kind soul and nothing will ever change that. i know you cheated on her with me and it probably wasn't the right choice, but it sure as hell wasn't a mistake and i won't call it that. being with you was never a mistake for me and i hope you feel the same about it but this" i say as i motion between us, "will never be something that i regret. i know i've said this before but i believe that this was meant to be and we were meant to find each other. the circumstance might not have been the best, but i found you and that's all that matters. you're nothing like him and never will be."

we both laid in silence looking up at the ceiling while raindrops hit the window softly. i started to wonder if maybe i said something wrong or said too much. i feel so deeply for him and whenever he tries to put himself down it breaks my heart. in my eyes he's the perfect guy despite all his faults. sometimes i think one day i'll tell him how i feel and scare him off which is the last thing i want to do. i want to be able to have these moments with him for as long as i can.

"you know, i want to get married before i have kids." jj said breaking the silence.

"that's random, but alright." i said giggling.

"i was just thinking about my parents and they had me before they even thought of marriage. i think that's where they could've went wrong. maybe if they would've taken the time to actually bound their love together before having a kid, they could've lasted longer. after they had me he could never commit fully because of all the responsibility, so maybe if they already took that step to "finalize" their love he would've stayed." he said shrugging.

"well i always wanted to have kids before i get married because i want my kids to be apart of my wedding."

"i guess we could just have two weddings then."

"huh?" i said confusingly finally looking at him.

he looks back at me and sighs, "yeah, i mean since you want one before and i want one after, we can just have two. we have the real one before and then we can renew our vows and have a second wedding with our kids so they can experience it with us."

"so, we're gonna get married and have kids?" i said smirking at him.

"i-i mean i guess. obviously only if you want to." jj said blushing as he started to look anywhere but at me.

i grab his face so he's looking at me, "i would love to, jj."

we both smile at each other as he pulls me closer to him connecting our lips. when we pull apart, i cuddle up into his chest as we continue to lie in silence. i feel my heart flutter as i feel his hands rub my back soothing me. being in his arms felt like home and i only hope he feels the same. as i start to think about how it would be if we were actually dating, the same words he would always say when we started this repeat in my mind "this is only for fun. no strings attached. no feelings. just pure fun." maybe that's all this will truly ever be, just fun, and that's the thought i have before falling asleep in his arms.

×

when i know she's asleep, i just stay awake and admire how she looks in the moment. even sleeping she has a slight smile on her face, which makes me wonder what she's dreaming about. sometimes i wish it was me she's dreaming about even though i know it's not. "just for fun" i remind myself of the words i said but that couldn't have been more of a lie, especially now more than ever. of course what we had was fun, but it was way more than that.

"i love you" i say as i kiss her forehead and wrap my arms tighter around her soon falling asleep as well.

[exactlyenoughglitter]

rules of service

AO3 Pairings: Avallac’h/Eredin/Lara Warnings: non-con, NSFW, orgy, pegging, bondage, dead dove: do not eat Summary: Lara does not take Eredin's sneering implications, suspicions, and innuendos about herself and “her place” very well. Elves are proud, vengeful creatures. Disclaimer: An experiment for exploring the darker impulses of Avallac'h & Lara, which I think they might have in some capacity due to the very simple, insane fact that they were supposed to become parents to an elven Saviour with control over all Space & Time. It's a further experiment in exploring power and the dynamics of these three characters in a three-way pairing, which I, personally, do not consider very likely in any nice capacity.

The daughter of Shiadhal receives her guest standing in the middle of a rosette mosaic, underneath a chandelier dripping with riddling light refracting through heliotrope crystals. Tiny shadows dance on her low-cut anthracite dress, slit at the side, and in her long hair of white gold gleam mint alabaster gems set in filigree; the hairpiece cascades down the side of the woman’s head in a display of unparalleled artistry.

As it should.

For Lara is the most treasured apple of Alder Wood.

‘Your grace.’

‘Captain.’

Poplars sway gently in the evening wind. The tall windows make this open drawing room almost like the winter gardens of the upper palaces of Tir ná Lia. It is half-a-day’s ride from the capital to the chateau and the valley-grounds Lara favours.

‘Thank you for coming.’

He nods. ‘It would be the height of discourtesy of me to refuse a summons from your illustrious person.’

Emerald eyes shine on him coolly, with faint curiosity. It is that ruminative glint that so mocks its recipients, hinting at the possibility of care in the distant amusement of the one who was born forever a better to everybody and second to none. He knows that look well. It’s all he has ever received, all, they believe, a knight should be content with.

Delicate fingers of a spell-caster trail along a marble balustrade which divides the decorous space in two, until they reach crystal glasses and a pitcher under the roses.

‘Do you feel hungry?’ she asks. ‘Thirsty?’

‘Neither, your grace.’

‘But you are a man of great appetite, are you not?’

By way of an answer, Eredin offers half a smile. The spotless glasses and the pitcher have been prepared, but the elf does not sense the presence of either servants or handmaidens. It would appear their meeting is a private one; he wonders about that.

‘Well? Aren’t you curious?’

‘Nobody has ever called me incurious.’

‘To your face, maybe.’

‘Maybe,’ he crosses his hands behind his back. ‘Does your grace usually concern yourself with the barking of dogs?’

Lara gives a small laugh, which is beautifully hollow.

‘Could we drop this, do you think? This artificial politeness. This prancing.’

She approaches slowly, the anthracite fabric of her dress shifting with the sway of her hips. Eredin looks openly, for there is no point in complimenting the most beautiful woman in the world unless the compliment can say something beyond itself.

‘Behind closed doors,’ the daughter of the Alders speaks, ‘I have always been “that witch” to you and you, in turn, have always been one of my father’s beloved dogs to me. Well, when I say beloved.’ A burst of light blue butterflies erupts from a bowl drowning in greenery at one end of the balustrade. ‘I think we can speak freely, don’t you?’

‘By all means,’ he sneers. ‘Let us speak freely. If it is your freethinking ideals you wish to discuss –’

‘No, I do not wish to discuss! Not like this, not today, and not with you.’

He inclines her head at her. Unlike her mother, Lara is not an imposing woman. She is an ineluctable one.

Standing close, her eyes absorb the lines of his face. ‘We have never been friends, you and I.’

‘Have we not? Astonishing.’

But Lara changes tact, and this indeed does astonish the Sparrowhawk. An elegant pale hand lays down on top of the amaranth-vermillion cloak wrapped around the dark-haired elf’s strong shoulders. Eredin looks. The priceless jewels on Lara’s priceless fingers shimmer.

‘No. We have never been friends,’ she murmurs, letting her palm slide over the large silver brooch. ‘Even so, I am not my mother, Eredin. I wish to know what you think. As you said, perhaps there is something you can say – offer me – that no one else can. Perhaps I even wish we could be... friends?’

The heavy cloak, bearing the fresh smells of the journey, falls to the floor at the elf lord’s feet as the Gull departs as lightly as she had arrived, in a soft swish of a dress from which flashes the toned line of her leg.

‘I like curious men,’ she throws over her shoulder. ‘Are you one who is curious for its own sake, or one who is curious only to experience the satisfaction of satiation?’

‘Latter, I’m afraid,’ he trails her closely with his eyes. ‘Chasing the wind does not interest me in the slightest.’

‘Is that so? You never imagine what could be?’ a hint of something plays on her lips and she shows it to him. ‘Do you lack the imagination, or the means?’

Poplars rustle outside, along the whitewashed avenue and somewhere beyond, fountain water falls. Lara sighs.

‘I am not entirely sure I believe you.’

The secret something in her demeanour does not disappear as he approaches. It holds firm, even once they stand face to face by the marble balustrade under the brilliant chandelier. Jewellery in Lara’s hair crinkles like the spring melt as she looks on him, brazenly, and he feels his blood stirring.

‘Why did you summon me?’ he asks. ‘What is it exactly,’ he glances down the lean line of her neck, ‘that the princess of the Alder Folk requires of me?’

‘Understanding,’ she replies simply. ‘Of where we stand.’

A thin, unassuming string of gold winds around her neck, leading his eyes, while she trails her fingers along the petals of a rose, not letting her guest out of her line of sight for a second. The Gull’s eyes, Eredin has to admit, can put a spell on you. So he looks elsewhere instead.

‘I have been thinking a lot about our little dance lately,’ she says. ‘About your concern for me.’

‘Have you now?’

‘I have,’ her gaze falls briefly on his lips. ‘Or do you think I lack appetite?’

Her lips part, her eyes narrow. He takes another step. Her dress brushes his knees.

‘I am at your service.’

‘Then serve me.’

  He catches her wrist on its way up.

Lara does not flinch, though a shadow darts behind her eyes. It pleases him. Perfume of iris and white musk mingles with the smell of wild roses, which Eredin loves. And that pleases him too.

Slowly, at his chosen pace, he moves the delicate hand of the Gull down. Slowly, along the curve of a narrow waist and round hips. To the slit of the dress.

Their eyes meet – green that is everything in green that is not – in that cool disdainful way before people make friends. He knows a little more still: that this is the look of all women who do not want to ask. Who do not have to ask – ever!

Eredin plunges their joined hands underneath the dress between Lara’s thighs. Neither of them so much as blinks. And then – after silk parts and she parts – then he raises her hand to his lips.

‘Wet.’ He tastes her. ‘Like any woman.’

He cannot proceed entirely how he would like though; despite seeing burgeoning fury and desire breaking the cool indifference in that lovely face. Lara makes his knees go weak – literally. With those nimble spell-caster’s fingers. Fingers that the elf believes would look elegant around his cock.

‘On your knees.’ She wipes her fingers in his hair. ‘Like any man.’ And sits on the balustrade.

Eredin does not respond any more.

His experienced hands clutch the front of the anthracite dress on which light and shadows twirl in fey regalia. Silver hooks clatter weakly against marble alongside pearl-trimmed panties and a tense gasp joins the rustle of poplars in the fragrant summer eve. Grasping Lara by the sides and tugging her against his waiting mouth, he smiles; the panties were probably a gift from Crevan.

Crevan, who does not know you as well as he thinks after all.

The weakness in his knees proves surprisingly persistent but easy to ignore.

It is easy when a firm thigh trembles on his shoulder, pushing the crowning jewel of the Alders further under her “dog.” When it is his lips that nudge apart the slick petals of her, him who smothers the trembling of her core around her swollen clit, him who presses it back and forth and drags his tongue all along that very special, very warm and wet cunt. Which in the end is just another cunt – to be sated.

It is easy.

The spells of Auberon’s little girl will crumble and she will rock against him in her insatiable hunger, and then he will put her face down on the floor, where people kiss her feet, and fuck her until she is heaving full of his seed.

‘I wonder,’ he murmurs, inhaling her, ‘if your fated can imagine you like this?’

‘Oh, Eredin!’

Lara’s fingers pull at his hair as she moans. He looks what has become of those iridescent pools of green that would mock him so, releasing her with a bite and a pop.

She smiles gently, her eyes far away.

‘He knows.’

  The collar snaps into place.

  ---//---

Wisps of lazuline smoke rise under open lattice-work ceilings and skies that are paling pink. The humid nocturnal air is erupting in chirps, chits, trills, and the distinct whirring of dusky starfrontlets who dart from flower to flower in the hanging gardens. Lara follows them with her eyes, breathing palisander and fading notes of ozone, and feels fingers playing in her hair, scattered like aurous rain on huge, plush pillows.

She squeezes her eyes shut, holds her breath. The fingers stop, wondering. Then resume in a tip-tap between her shoulder blades.

Tip-tap. Tip-tap-tip. Tap –

Lara laughs into the pillow and shoves at the warm chest hovering over her, and Crevan’s smell washes over her as he falls into the pillows. He is showing her funny images.

‘Sleep, I beg you.’

‘No.’

‘You are cruel!’

She rises on her forearms, tossing her head back and stretching, and meets the witch-lines on his body along which she has walked and left her marks, lines which lead her to the male’s triangular face in which bright eyes, as intensely awake as hers, shine at her.

‘Cruel, do you understand?’

He smiles, softly. ‘I will put the sun in you.’

Sometimes Lara tries to imagine how it would be like to hear Crevan’s words as a lesser woman to whom words are just words, not spells. To whom their lover’s desire is solely a matter of acceptance and fleshly pleasure and not... sacral rapture. Or are they somehow the same – them and her?

‘Everyone is expecting... to have you, Lara... any man would... golden children you will give... waiting with bated breath... love is very dear... “cosmic significance”... satisfying your grace... do you know your place?’

She feels herself sinking deeper into the softness around them with the male’s hips pressing against her rear, lips lulling, appeasing over the scruff of her neck as the growing girth of him is sliding languidly back and forth between her thighs. And in return, on a mean whim stoked by the memory, she does something slightly rash. Slightly... impolite.

Because in the next moment the elf’s hands squeeze her painfully and then he is gone, and the ringing of wind chimes startles away the hummingbirds and spangled cotingas, and already Lara turns after him before her Fox can sulk, though knowing he will have an explanation from her as only the first of several repayments. But frankly, Lara can no longer bring herself to care about how below her this is supposed to be – everything is anyway – and so, she simply tells Crevan – about what their “friend” allows himself in her presence...

‘It is different between you, but I do not believe you have not noticed how he is,’ she says at last. ‘The way he speaks. To me? As if I owe him anything.’

Bare feet tap on tiles of black onyx with mother of pearl inserts and diamonds. Lara finds an abandoned glass of spiked ambrosia inside a feather crown and picks up the long pale-spotted lynx fur. Perhaps as a result of the delights of their night she feels everything more intensely, including the vengeful impulse overcoming her now. Perhaps it is simply what Lara is really like – with the ethereal strappings stripped away. The promised daughter and mother of blessed blood; an elven maid – not to be slighted.

‘Just imagine,’ she leans over the mahogany table toward him, rich fur softening the impact. ‘If the golden vessel that will feed our people with endless opportunities were nothing but a mindless, manageable, pretty trinket that would fit on your hip. Sentience is so troublesome, after all.’

‘Absurd.’

‘Is it? Is the state of my womb not a matter of the vox populi? A Daughter of Dana belongs to her people. Perhaps it has even given our captain the impression I should also belong to him?’

‘You belong to me.’

A strange thrill sparks in her and she catches his eyes.

‘This? This is,’ he twiddles his long fingers in the air, ‘little piggies’ blither. They are hungry and impatient and make a lot of noise, and this annoys my beautiful Lara. I do not like it.’

How his expression has changed, from concern and indignation in the beginning to something stronger. She realises then that Crevan’s anger is indeed a slowly burning thing, sly fury under turf, that once aroused can burn until the world is ancient.

She wonders if she can push this...

‘I don’t know, Crevan, sometimes I think you are more alike than it seems.’

The elf lord rolls his eyes, letting his head drop back. It should concern her but for some reason, right now, his ire excites Lara – very much.

‘Why do we allow him so much?’ she draws nearer to where he sits in sable furs under tall open glass doors. ‘Eredin –’

‘– is nothing,’ he intones. ‘Without us.’

‘You think?’ She steps between her Fox’s legs. ‘Sometimes it seems to me he fancies himself the prime stallion. A unicorn?’ And dangles the end of the fur seductively along the male’s thigh. ‘Are you certain?’

Crevan’s lip curls mockingly. Lara slides hers along the edge of a glass flute, looking and swaying, long hair tickling the small of her back, as the wizard contemplates her naked form, his beautiful brow drawn together in a scowl. She sits down on his thigh and his hand circles her waist, stroking the lynx guarding her nudity. Aromatic wisps of smoke bend around them on their way out. She leans into the kiss.

‘The best of me,’ she murmurs, ‘belongs to you. Always.’

‘Then why are you telling me about a rude horselord, instead of lounging about my neck?’

His tongue flicks over her lips before he takes hold of her with both arms, moves her into his place, and stands.

‘Where are you going?’

He gives her half a look, a lively low fire yawning in it, and reaches for a gown as the paintings along his back stalk in dawn’s twilight. Lara reaches for his wrist.

‘Wait!’

The night air hums. He looks inquisitively, letting her stroke his hand along the serpents. The sorceress’s eyes narrow as a thought occurs to her.

‘I have a better idea.’

‘Ah?’

‘Yes.’ She smiles up at him, her sun-blessed fox, with a smile that makes Crevan hers. Soft fur brushes her mouth. ‘But first, my heart, you will have to promise me –’

  ---//---

  Lara’s head is reeling.

Attempting in vain to control the flushing of her neck, she watches how Crevan tugs her mother’s favourite about like a scary marionette on invisible strings. For a moment both men had resembled their namesakes to her – struggling with tooth and claw – until magic had brought brute force under its control. Magic from which such brute force derives.

In fascination she watches how powerful arms belonging to a lifelong warrior stretch out like the wings of a giant bird and are nailed down in fey bondage at a soft whisper from the sorcerer’s lips. It reminds her of how Crevan whispers to his birds. To me. The spasmodic twitching in their captive’s limbs is made that much more enchanting by the visible violence trembling in the veiled chains, which still succeeds in sending one of the stone planters on its plinth shaking.

‘Give in to me.’

They stand chest to back, light and dark. Alabaster skin under the spell-sown collar is reddening dangerously quickly.

‘Or you can garrotte yourself.’

At last, the Sparrowhawk goes still.

Quiet.

Water runs merrily in the in-door fountains, magic hums in the air. Lara guesses chit-chat might be coming hard to Eredin at present. Only the leer of his burning greens persists on her. Not that it matters, because his looks will shortly follow the floor on which he had imagined taking the most precious daughter of the Alders like a common whore.

Adjusting her partly ruined dress in a makeshift arrangement, Lara looks with no small amount of pleasure at how that hard-line of a back bends over the marble balustrade under duress from the Power, like a birch rod. Something in her envies her betrothed this fun, for this simple spell gives the sensation of bending blue steel with one’s fingers. She realises she can still feel the steel of those palms on her hips as she looks how Crevan’s hand runs up the back of Eredin’s neck and across his scalp, gathering pitch black hair and pulling it carefully away from the elf’s face above the velvet-lined collar; until he can curl the dark waterfall around his fist and yanks.

‘Look, my love!’ he gazes at her fondly. ‘I have a new mount for you!’

Lara’s eyebrows rise, she hides her excitement behind crystal. The sorcerer’s aquamarines, despite adoring her, are also colder than in the dead of winter. We agreed! Her Fox is not malicious by nature just... playful. Sometimes so in evil spirits, though.

‘Shall I break him in for you?’ he smiles.

The plinth shakes again dangerously, a few light blue butterflies emerging from the flora, and an ugly wheezing sound arises out of Eredin’s throat.

Lara nods. ‘Please.’

Her eyes fall on the collar.

‘Do you think you could –?’

    He sucks in air like a drowning man.

‘You fucking witch!’

Oh, his voice is raw! Mangled from the burn that scathes tissue with electrifying heat, as if skin was nothing more but thin layers on a cabbage. White pin points dance at the edges of his vision and he feels the Sage’s annoying fingers flick against the side of his face.

Lara frowns. ‘I only allowed you to breathe, spared your voice. Gratitude really means too little to you.’

‘Oh princess, pretty princess,’ he hawks, intensely furious, ‘you do not fight fair, your grace.’

‘Would you?’ she sips at a drink. ‘I thought novelty thrilled you.’

‘Did you not say you wished for a friend in me?’

‘We will be friends – afterward.’

He laughs; somehow. It does not sound pretty.

‘I have annoyed you deeply then,’ Eredin grins, still tasting the woman on his lips. ‘Is fair Lara so irate with me perhaps for implying true things which even she has not become aware of yet? But such is truth – annoying. Simple, sometimes, and annoying. More so still to the Wise.’

Emerald eyes flash. ‘Truth?’

He knows he guesses correctly – about how traitorous are Auberon’s daughter’s thoughts about her purpose that allows her everything. How she does not think twice about opportunities to go slumming with the wretched, when all she really has the duty to do is to let herself be loved until her belly grows. The hair on Eredin’s neck rises at the touch of a small blade. A quick tickling line shoots down the length of his spine and expensive fabric slides down the sides of his ribcage.

‘The truth, Eredin, is that you and we are not equal, nor will we ever be,’ she says. ‘You speak to me on behalf of our people, “us”, yet you only look after your own, while we look after everybody. We look after you too, don’t forget. I am “us”, Eredin. Me.’

He feels Crevan’s hand tugging at his hair, baring his throat, while another wanders contemplatively along the shape of his back. It slides around him, feeling up his abdominal muscles and a tingling, voiding sensation suddenly moves through his intestines. Lara’s precious eyes, which oust the hoarfrost from in-between the stars, do not meet his gaze.

‘You are curious about things which do not really concern you.’ They pass him over for another, and a blush spreads along the graceful neck before she turns away altogether. ‘You allow yourself too much.’

Something cold and vaguely heavy trickles onto the small of the elf’s back, followed by the magician’s palm. He twitches. The hand rubs methodically along the flexor muscles of his lower back, before yanking at his breeches.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Why Eredin,’ Crevan responds lowly. ‘You are the breaker of horses; you will work it out.’

Instinctively, he attempts to crane his neck, defend himself, and is crushed by aches when tearing against his tethers. His black hair falls back around his face, as fury splashes ineffectually in him like acid, finding no proper outlet.

‘How pleased you must feel,’ he sneers, trying to think, ‘with your little trap.’

‘Mine?’ oiled fingers circle slowly, and penetrate resistant flesh. ‘I am doing my dear heart’s bidding, nothing more. Please stop trying to tamper with your bonds. I am angry with you and not in the mood to do all this tidying. Understand that I will immobilize you utterly regardless of Lara’s wishes if you insist on misbehaving.’

‘Indeed I would expect nothing more from you.’

The blonde snorts. ‘This is hardly for my sake, but hers.’

‘What do you mean?’

The Sage shoves his legs apart.

‘You will pay for this, Crevan.’

‘You are mistaken,’ the Sage replies as another slender finger enters him, scissoring, stretching, while its brothers continue to massage his perineum. ‘This is not a transaction between you and me. For starters, Lara believes you deserve a lesson, not punishment. I disagree. Presumptions such as yours should be rooted out with iron and salt, even if they are but the by-product of the blessings you have received from my caste. Then again, giving a disloyal subject a taste of what they want can sometimes do the trick just as effectively.’

‘What a vixen you are making out of our Gull, Crevan.’

‘I am loathe to refuse my darling. Perhaps if you learned not to run your mouth about our games, none of which should burden her... but then again, I appreciate seeing your hand every once in a while. You see, between you and me, I know whose enjoyment should come first. Hers, not mine. Oh to be an instrument serving only noblest of purposes. Alas!’ A contemptuous snort. ‘You will be staying overnight, of course.’

‘Serve?’ Eredin feels a grim, disturbed laughter rising in his tortured throat. ‘You, who helped create this woman to love you, would pretend in this to serve only her enjoyment, and out of humility? Principle? You are enjoying this vastly more than Lara.’

‘Well, I do enjoy it a little.’ The elf flinches against his will when the fingers inside him find the special spot and feel it up. ‘For instance, I understand her anger much better now, and as they say, common dislikes tend to bring people together perhaps even stronger than preferences. Should I thank you?’ The additional digits squeezed into him almost entirely undo the work of their predecessors, no longer aspiring to any pretences of kindness. ‘You are wrong, Eredin. I serve. Unlike you, my highest purpose is to serve life, not close life’s eyes. In return for which She opens Her bosom before me – willingly. Me.’

‘Perhaps you will be happy to learn then that this life you serve is not averse to spreading for whoever she whims.’

The collar around his neck squeezes like fiery pinchers.

‘Do not be envious.’

Hands warm from magic knead his buttocks, spreading him open, and he feels the press of a warm, blunt head. Shackled and immobile, he realises then that all he is allowed to do – all he has ever really been allowed – is to wait. Seizing him by the hair as he pushes forward, the light blankets the dark.

‘You will still have the honour of serving my children for all eternity.’

    The brass frame of the tiny, sealed amber horn digs into her palm. Her eyes are closed, but she can hear them, and in her mind’s eye she sees. If she opens her eyes, she will see tall poplars swaying beside the avenue leading to the chateau, but she cannot open her eyes – his aquamarines on her do not let her; when she had failed to suppress enjoyment from Eredin’s lips against her. Now he is calling to her softly through the bond they share, and Lara’s heart beats faster. She feels wet. She feels exhilarated. She feels awful, and she likes it.

She opens her eyes and turns. They are both looking at her. Moving in rhythm like a white vessel over dark waves. Will whoever ends up in the middle be torn to pieces? Lara cocks her head and approaches.

The dark one, his curtain of black hair flowing back and forth like silk with each thrust, stares at her with naked contempt and hatred for once.

‘I did not know your grace enjoyed punishment this much,’ he bites through a line of small white teeth. ‘If I had known earlier –’

‘Up!’ the light one commands, and so it goes.

Lara feels her cheeks glow as she steps lightly and comes so close she can smell them, one familiar and the other not, and sees Crevan bottoming out in their captive, again and again and again, patiently as is his manner at Alder court. Run? The impulse she suppresses, but not the hot flushing desire that pools in her stomach and shoots to her head like a tiny icicle trail in a burning desert at the small smile on her intended’s lips – he can feel it too. All of it.

‘This is not punishment,’ she leans close to Eredin, touching his warm chest through which she feels the deep thrusts in rhythm with the elf’s powerful heartbeat, before moving on to Crevan’s magical fingers on the captain’s shoulder. ‘This is... play. Novelty!’

Black hair tangles in the enchanted collar, hot breath exuding from the magnificent elf’s half-open mouth above which cold green eyes tear at the elven maid’s face.

‘Are you uncomfortable?’

Lara leans her hip against the balustrade and looks, and Crevan indicates to his waist. She knows the details, of course, but truthfully, it is still new to her, and her breath catches in her throat when she touches her Fox right then. The roughness in his hips – he never treats her to this, whatever this is, ever, even when they get carried away with each other. Why it is maddening!

Summoning the vial and refilling it with magic, Lara watches with fascination how glistening oil the shade of marmalade pours into the cleft where he moves relentlessly, coating his shaft. He helps himself with his hand, never quite leaving the captain’s body. In her mind’s eye, Lara sees what he would prefer though: to have her fingers wrap around him, lathing him in lubricant, before he continues; a kiss...

Lara hooks her fingers in Eredin’s collar, shutting Crevan out, or this will simply not work out as they want.

She tests the collar lightly, changing pressure and listening, observing how his neck works. She wonders if Crevan would, on her... he is smiling at her openly now. No, better not to wonder. But the captain too is smiling! Mockingly, knowingly. And what does he know? Lara drops her bejewelled hand completely – to Eredin’s crotch. He is hard. His grunt falls pleasantly on her ears. She unlaces him and takes him in her hand.

‘Do you not like my whims, captain?’

She strokes along the girth of him, long, until she feels her fist rest at the base, and then hard – several times – as the collar tames the groan that Crevan pushes and she pulls from him. The little brass frame of the tiny amber horn in the palm of her other hand is beginning to hurt her.

‘You will pay for this,’ the warlord rasps, the muscles in his arms straining.

‘Why?’ she leans up closer, squeezing his hard flesh in rhythm to the slap of hips. Crevan swears. ‘You are our friend, Eredin. Our very... good... friend.’

Lara kisses the elf lord on the mouth, bruisingly, with the Sparrowhawk’s teeth drawing her precious blood and the tail of his elated grunt at being given something – anything – ending up on the Gull’s own tongue. She feels Crevan’s hand in her hair, pulling her in and pressing her against Eredin’s front, bringing them all together for a moment. The sorceress flicks the lid of the amber horn in her free hand. Fairy dust spreads into her palm.

And then, raised before the puckered full lips of the treasure of the Alders, Eredin sees the magic powder, which flies in his face with a puff of her sweet breath, settling like snowflakes on his eyelashes, in his eyes, on his tongue and in his nose; and he breathes in the rest from her fingers. And roars.

Lara feels him twitch in her hand.

‘Do you know what this is, captain?’ she asks, admiring his dust-sprinkled eyes.

‘This is pure!’

‘Of course it’s pure. Who do you think I am?’ Crevan growls, holding out his palm to Lara. ‘It will make an eagle out of a sparrow. I am curious, I have never had an eagle before.’

‘Plenty of sparrows,’ he chuckles. ‘At least your taste remains refined.’

‘As you were,’ the towering form of the captain jerks forward. ‘Enough, Lara my love, enough. You are smaller, not used to –’

‘And you are? Thank you, Crevan. I know.’

‘What delicate cornflowers both of you!’ Eredin licks the dust off his lips. ‘Is that really everything, your grace?’

‘Oh, Eredin!’ Crevan laughs, pushing his light hair back over his head and delivering several extremely unpleasant thrusts in a row, after which Lara simply has to abandon the captain for the time being. ‘Give him more. Give him! He doesn’t know anything, but he wants. Yes, my darling, let him have it, I want you to have an unforgettable ride.’

‘Your servants would be unable to get you anything better,’ Lara explains, feeling her blood rushing faster in her chest as vivid clarity takes her head, ‘because no matter where you look for the one thing you will always crave, you can only ever find it with us. We must not fight, us and you. Never!’

Power, power, power. It’s always power that he wants. There is no stronger aphrodisiac.

‘How well you know, Lara,’ Eredin’s tongue licks at her fingers, his eyes laughing at her. ‘How well this role suits you, our beautiful pacifist. Women – they always know better, don’t they, Crevan? As you can see, I cannot but bow before your wisdom. I, too, wish for peace, would you believe it?’

‘I know! It’s just the appetite, Eredin,’ her emeralds narrow evilly. ‘And you are mistaken if you think our appetites do not align. Do you want to know a secret? Do you want to know what Crevan tells me? In my little pointed ear, at night. He describes the sun to me in all its glory.’

The elven princess sits on the balustrade, next to her mother’s most talented light-douser’s half-bent form, and turns her eyes on the elf whom Dana made so he always carries the sun around his head.

‘How the sun burns with the life it gives. How big and bright and lethal it is. How it would scorch my wings if I flew too close, yet freeze me if I drifted too far. Like you fly on your Dragon – are they all Dragons, by the way? Never mind. I don’t really care.’

Lara likes how her Fox laughs, how giving he can be; they really don’t know him like she does.

‘He knows so many tricks, this lover of mine. That is why it can only be him, you understand, because I am more like you – a creature of the skies; just not as privileged to be selfish all the time,’ she caresses his bicep. ‘So anyhow, Crevan tells me – Eredin, are you listening? He tells me – because he knows I too have an appetite like you, and him, and Auberon, and all other nice elves – how he will one day slip the Sun into my hand when I am not looking. And then...’

The magician rests his hand on the other elf’s neck, pushing downward, looking at the daughter of the Alders as if he wanted to lay her down on their stallion’s sturdy back that very second, but Lara, who is smaller and cannot have as much of the fairy dust, suddenly feels the magical tethers trembling and quickly lends her partner a hand. Before, like him, losing herself – in those cool stars from faraway skies, from whence their race once emerged, which have made a home in his triangular face.

‘Then the sun in me will not burn,’ she whispers, ‘but will light up entire worlds. One after another. Sun and moon – mine and his. Do you know that song, Eredin?’

She leans over the captain’s shoulder claiming Crevan’s lips in passion as the strong body between them shudders and her Fox moans loudly, moving erratically for a while to the desirous growling of their dark and dashing captive squashed between two pieces of Alder Gold.

And then it is over and done with and Lara laughs, not even really knowing at what exactly, as she dances a few steps back with her ruined fey-woven dress of anthracite slipping a little. Before slipping back one more time in order to put her hands on this wild Sparrowhawk’s cutting cheekbones and kiss him too, because why not? They are all born under their own lucky stars.

By the stars, why not?

‘Sun and hail ‘til night becomes day, dawn and dusk hand-in-hand, he’ll whisk me stars for a song, a moon half its price; apple and sin – that’s how it’s done,’ she utters in a sing-song voice, pulling golden pins from hair of white gold which cascades over her shoulders.

‘Down the spiralling avenue of stars. Mine and his – this universe, and some other, less important paths.’ And Lara’s eyes flash like a deadly moulinette in your last moments. ‘Could you offer me that?’

  More melodies appear in Lara’s head which she can taste and hum, as gold from her hair clatters on marble floors. Ruined? Maybe. So what? Fairy gold is made of dead leaves and dried dreams. The shiver begins at the back of her neck, spiralling all the way down and wrapping the elven princess in unruly delight.

She puts her arms around her to ground herself, her fingers disappearing into lush hair – to keep her quickened breath and pulse from becoming her character. World has a funny habit of appearing and disappearing when under the influence of dust. She jumps at the hasty touch on her waist.

Crevan takes her by the chin, drawing her against him and falls on her mouth greedily. His hands are slightly damp.

‘You are beautiful,’ the Sage breathes, his disarrayed hair tickling her cheeks. ‘Magnificent. Such sweet voice. My Lara.’ Her fingers tangle in the clasps of his imperial purple kaftan opened to mid-chest, desiring to run her hands over skin that tingles of their magic. ‘Say it.’

‘Yours!’ she pecks her Fox’s nose. ‘Yours, Crevan!’

‘That’s right.’ His hands move through the slit of her dress, fondling the curve of her thighs as he winds the straps around Lara’s waist. ‘Now it’s your turn, my love.’

He fastens the buckles with a harsh movement and Lara flinches, her green eyes drawing wide. They had agreed, but –

‘What is it?’ he inquires, insistently, the low fire in his dark pupils having gobbled up the bright irises, and takes her in his arms. ‘Lara? Lara, come back to me. He will not bolt. I promise you. Look, he is excited.’

So he is! Lara’s head falls slightly to one side. Oh, but what a mess!

Eredin snorts, tossing back his full head of tarry hair. The glistening alabaster skin has reddened – in one spot in particular on his shoulder – and the vein under the velvet-rimmed collar throbs to the heaving of the elf’s chiselled chest. A ruined shirt hangs forgotten around a tense forearm, tense and erect like the rest of him that persists by vigour alone under the awkward angle of perpetual bowing.

Hot lips move along her neck. ‘Like it?’

Pearly white gleams along the Sparrowhawk’s shaft; more of it still dribbling down the back of his powerful thighs. He is staring at her incredulously. Is it excitement that exudes from him, or skittishness? She cannot entirely tell.

She decides she likes it.

‘Go on,’ her beloved whispers, giving the strap-on a few tugs. He is still semi-hard himself. ‘Mount.’

  Lara gently approaches her horse.

  Bewildered pale green eyes roll under curling eyebrows. Observing. Measuring her up. Blinking in disbelief. She is glad her steed has such sharp eyes. Yet she is not her mother.

‘You are no rider.’

‘Am I not?’

The male chortles. Her fingers trail along the ribcage of the beast, as she slips over the balustrade, feeling the smaller muscles twitch funnily. Is he ticklish?

‘You will have to do all the work, princess!’ the Sparrowhawk hisses, craning his neck. The Gull lets him. There are so many interesting things right now in those sharp eyes that prey in the skies they share. ‘Appearances may suit you, but do you know how to use this?’

‘This?’ she takes “herself” in her hand. ‘Let’s see.’

Visible trembling passes through solid muscle as she gives him her first try. She looks up. And looks away again. Looking at her Fox right now is of absolutely no help here – she has to concentrate! It is strangely exciting.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Simply exhilarating.’

‘Don’t lie. Am I that different? How?’

‘No. You, too, talk too much.’

Gulls and foxes do chatter. Eredin, like Crevan, is notably larger than her, but the pinned position in which her Fox has left the Sparrowhawk helps. She strokes the curve of his rear.

‘I would like for you to enjoy yourself.’

‘What for?’

For him to understand that Lara does, in fact, wish for all of them to get what they want. For him to... to trust the rider. Trust her. He laughs throatily.

‘You get distracted too easily, your grace. I wager we will face lots of problems because of it one day. Call it a sagely intuition.’

He is slick, stretched, and as she brushes past the male’s prostate – she presumes by her knowledge – the muscles in his thighs contract, but Lara does not entirely understand this side of desire. Until, after several shallow movements with her hips she catches the Sparrowhawk staring at him from the corner of his eye.

‘You are no rider, your grace,’ the elf drawls dryly. ‘Let yourself be loved and leave the loving caresses to us. This is not your place.’

Indignation burns through the daughter of Shiadhal. She almost misses entirely how dark the captain’s eyes really are and, a moment later, delights inordinately in the ravening moan that escapes his lips as she thrusts deep without qualms. The trembling in the sculpted flesh under her fingers shoots up the male’s damp smeared back and the sorceress’s hands follow until they brush dark hair.

‘Play with it.’

She tickles instead.

Crevan smiles broadly, throwing the empty crystal class – it turns into light blue butterflies before crashing into countless smithereens.

Lara surges again, feeling her steed push into her in what little capacity he can. She loosens the magical bindings a little, witnessing at once how the pent up, violent energy swirling within him finds an opening to dissipate and leaves taut flesh momentarily shocked and trembling by the slack it is allowed. His graceful sigh – entirely unexpected – convinces her to loosen the bindings a little more. She is not her mother. She is spring! Not winter. All the while moving with increased confidence, as they are gradually reaching an understanding.

With the second sight that fairy dust opens, the Gull experiences the Sparrowhawk as the magnificent creature he is in his own right and it delights her. She hopes he can appreciate his own beauty in this moment, no matter their differences. For there is something beautiful and befitting in fitting. They should always move, the mount and the rider, as if entwined – each in their proper place. Only like this can they take on the stars.

We must not fight, you and us. We must not!

‘Take this.’ Appearing by her side, her Fox puts the end of his belt in her hand. ‘Then, like this.’ He reaches around her swiftly, flicks Eredin’s face with his fingers, and before the curse aimed at them can ring out in its wholesome glory, the etched buckskin belt is flexed tight and the elf’s head jerks up like sprung from a mouse trap.

‘Hold on to it. Hold it! Tightly.’ Lara pulls, her perspectives whirling, melting, changing. ‘That’s right. Around your fingers. Now, spur.’

‘What about his teeth?’

‘He will bite down. Endure.’ The familiar smell of Crevan is filling her with pleasant surety. He is restoring the binds to their former position. ‘It’s his duty. He serves you. It must never be the other way around.’

‘I do not wish for my subjects to hate me!’

‘This is a natural reaction. When you spur and whip your mount, it hates you. Sometimes whipping is necessary. Other days you groom it, feed it, and it loves you.’

He presses into her back, his hard flesh rubbing against smooth fabric, as his fingers undo the makeshift ties on her hip.

‘In the end, it must always recognise your authority because it cannot do otherwise. Because such is love between a servant and mistress. You are the Goddess, but he is not the God. Nothing but harm can arise out of confusing these rules. It would not allow either of you to get your due.’

Crevan places a footstool between them and lifts Lara, leaning her forward over their guest’s back, ensuring she neither slips out nor falls.

‘Eredin is our most magnificent master of horse. He knows these rules very well. It is his duty, once called upon, to help carry us to new worlds. And ours, to show and open the way.’

‘Crevan, what are we –’

‘Keep going,’ he breathes heavily, solid and secure against her with his heartbeat pounding in her ears; his mouth sucking on the pulse in her neck while his cock brushes back and forth along her wet folds. ‘Keep going, sweet heart. I am here.’

And then his hands dive under her dress beginning to work their tender magic before which there are no barriers. Gathering her excitement, playing with it, re-directing it – for her pleasure. Lara shudders in ecstasy. Always for her pleasure, always.

‘That’s right. With your back. You are doing beautifully.’

The belt slips out of the princess’s hands, and the elf lord spits it out, cursing. Groaning, as she buries in him encouraged by the hips of the male settling over her. They all really want the same thing at the end.

‘Do you hear it, Lara?’ the princess of the Alders moans as her Fox slides inside her. ‘He loves you. In his proper place, he cannot but love you, and will never betray you. Ever play only on your terms, my sweet heart.’

‘I am,’ she breathes, moving her hips forward to give, and back toward the increasing fullness – to receive.

He curses softly. ‘So warm. So beautiful. Keep going, my love. I’ll move with you.’

‘To where the sky’s the limit, but in-between there’s you. Always you, Lara.’

She threads her fingers in his sun-kissed hair, kissing them both breathless, and tapping into his pleasure which is her pleasure which will be the pleasure of all of them.

‘There will be a mess.’

‘A mess,’ he growls, shifting deeper and deeper inside his heavenly Gull. ‘Yes. There will be a mess.’ Her back arches. ‘What else is there for us? There is already such a... mess.’

    Crevan covers her hands with his.

Lara finds her rhythm.

Between life and death.

Then the fox reaches around his gull and jerks the sparrowhawk off until he feels him buck wildly against fey tethers and choke in his friends’ giving stranglehold. Until Crevan’s mind is eaten away by trembling contractions greeting him and he slides his palm across Lara’s belly.

‘Shall I catch you a sun, Lara? Shall I hide all the stars – one, two, three – inside you? First it makes you ill, then it goes straight to your head.’

His Lara laughs.

He pours into her in pleasure that does not fade, thinking:

Let them all, one day, have their free fall up the hill.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

“Stark’s New Intern” Chapter 25

Summary:

Erik is whisked away from Tony by a Monaco Princess and discovers they have more in common than he suspects.

NSFW. Mature Audience. 18+. Smut.

"The ego, gotta be vetoed if you want a free-throw The evils, stay with the scripture what your mama read you You gotta milk the game, son, I couldn't bottle feed you This next bar was 'bout to do some Logic shit But now I gotta stop the shit and let me pop my shit Drama still added on, stayin' positive All my niggas on my side, on the opposite…"

Denzel Curry—"Diet"

Vivienne dragged Erik through diplomatic guests and rooms until they were back at the entrance of the palace. A dark SUV with tinted windows whipped around and a guard opened the door for her and Erik.

"Get in!" she said.

Erik climbed into the back seat with her as light snow fell down.

"It snows here?" Erik asked.

"It's rare."

"Where are we going?"

"A surprise."

Vivienne pulled a small cell phone from inside her bra cup.

"Don't look so shocked!" she teased.

She made a call and Erik was able to make out part of her conversation with his basic French.

"Stark is not going to let me just hang out—"

"I'll handle Tony. You're the first interesting person I've met in a long time. I want to show you off."

"To who?"

"My friends—"

"Aye, driver…stop the car."

"Gasper, arrête la voiture…"

The SUV came to a stop just outside the palace property line.

"Stark has me on a tight leash here."

Vivienne pouted.

"Can't we just hang out in the palace?" he asked.

"Too many eyes and ears. I want to talk freely."

Going to his hotel was out of the question.

Vivienne gave instructions to Gaspar and texted someone.

Erik's cell buzzed. He pulled it out of his jacket.

"Where are you?"

Stark's voice was rushed.

"The Princess kidnapped me."

Tony didn't sound happy. Vivienne grabbed Erik's cell.

"I will bring him back safe to your hotel…it's boring there. He's young and should hang out with people his age…so what…you are such a bore right now! I don't care. I will call my Uncle and tell him. Yes…I will tell him. Goodbye, Tony. Stop acting like an old tired father."

She tossed Erik his phone.

"My Uncle wants you tomorrow night. I will keep you until tomorrow morning."

"Like some pet."

"And a sweet pet you are," she said patting his forehead.

Erik grabbed her hand and tossed it from his face.

"Easy now," she whispered.

Erik sat back and watched fat snowflakes fall from the sky. Forty minutes into their ride they were climbing up mountainous terrain until they passed through massive black metal gates. The snow had grown thick and at least three inches covered the ground. Two black Great Danes circled the car before being ushered away by a butler who held an umbrella to protect Vivienne from the snow.

Erik shivered as they stepped out of the SUV in front of a large chateau, but the Princess had them inside the secured hideaway quickly. Within the overly warm residence at least thirty twenty-somethings sat and stood around a cozy open space with dark furnishings drinking, smoking, and listening to music. Erik looked around and saw French antiques mixed with modern touches. Like the palace, it smelled old and decadent.

A fire roared in a tall and wide fireplace big enough to roast ten pigs on a spit. Above the massive ornate mantel was an aged oil painting of seventeenth-century royalty in a pastoral scene.

"Tu t'es échappé!"

A young man with oily dark hair and a lop-sided grin rushed over to Vivienne giving her cheek kisses.

"S'il vous plait parlez anglaise, Durant," Vivienne said.

"Is this him?" Durant asked.

"No. Don't even mention that bastard," Vivienne snapped.

She grabbed Erik's hand and pulled him to the center of the opulent gathering of blue-bloods.

"Vivienne, he has been calling here non-stop. He threatened to fly here and find you. You should speak with him," a young woman with flaxen hair pinned in a severe chignon said.

There was an urgency in her voice.

"Everyone, this is Erik. He works for Tony Stark. He is my Uncle's special guest. Erik these are my friends and that is my cousin Durant and my cousin Remy. Erik is American. "

"Do you speak French?" the flaxen-hair woman asked.

Erik lied.

"No."

The butler poured Erik a glass of medium brown liquor from a crystal decanter.

"No worries, Erik, we all speak English here," Durant said.

A raven-haired woman with thin glossy lips leaned into another white woman next to her as Vivienne turned her back.

"…hommes noirs…"

Erik caught the two white women snickering about Vivienne and Black men. He tried not to glare at them as he felt out the energy in the room. The decrepit rich. Millionaires would be shunned as peasants among this slick bunch.

Erik sipped his drink. Old rich bourbon. The kind not sold in stores.

The liquid beat a warm trail down his throat.

Durant gave Erik a tour of the first floor and Vivienne was cornered by her friends and berated for something that he couldn't hear nor understand that well.

"Where were you educated?" Remy asked.

Plump, bow-lipped, and nattily dressed, Remy smoked the same clove-flavored cigarette that Vivienne favored. Blowing smoke above Erik's head, Remy's ruddy cheeks looked influenced by too much liquor and whatever else they were snorting or popping by the blown-out wet look in his light blue eyes.

"I'll be attending grad school at M.I.T. soon," he said.

There was no sense lying. Erik knew they were just trying to place him in the proper hierarchy for their comfort.

"How long have you been with Tony Stark?"

"Almost a year now."

Erik swirled his glass and sipped a little more bourbon. He moved freely about the room admiring a few sculptures. One, in particular, caught his eye as it sat on a cherry wood console table. He pointed to it.

"This is a nice replica of the Actaeon and Diana statues at the Caserta Royal Palace."

"You've been there?"

"Twice. With my family. It was a museum tour."

"You know the story behind the work?" Remy asked inching closer to Erik.

"Diana was bathing with her nymphs in attendance and Actaeon was out with his hunting dogs. He accidentally saw Diana naked and she sent his own dogs after him. She punished him for his transgression. Turned him into a deer."

Erik let his fingertip touch the top of Actaeon's face transforming into a hunted stag. The head of the mythical man was all deer while the rest was still human in a dead run for his life.

"He commanded that his pack recognize him as he slowly morphed into a stag."

Ten various breeds of dogs surrounded poor Actaeon as the human and animal transformation disfigured his face.

"The gardens there are extensive," Durant said.

"Very beautiful. Like Tivoli itself."

"Well-traveled?"

"Try to be as much as I can."

Erik turned away from the sculpture and returned to the round wooden table that held the decanter of bourbon.

"More?"

A sharp-featured strawberry blonde seated on a beige double high-back chair pointed to the bourbon. She seemed amused to have Erik in her presence.

"Sure," Erik said holding his glass out to her.

Her eyes shifted from amusement to flustered surprise. She wasn't wearing pearls, but her expression sure was clutching some. Remy chuckled and Erik waited for the woman to pour.

She sat forward and lifted the decanter.

"Say when…" she said.

He let her go halfway before he held up his free hand.

"Thanks," he said. He took a big swig and turned away from her.

Vivienne's amused face beamed at him. He took a seat on a small couch and Vivienne swept over to sit with him.

There was small talk and Erik endured the irritating fishing into his past and personal life. Strawberry blonde and the raven-haired woman spoke in French, absorbed in their own world with not-so-subtle glances at Erik. He made out most of their conversation and grew bored with the idle chatter about men and parties. His focus moved back to Vivienne. She was the most beautiful woman in the room and the least invested in everyone else except for him. Her perfume tickled his nostrils.

"Anglais!" Vivienne scolded.

"Sorry," Strawberry said.

"So rude to my guest," she grumbled.

Vivienne grabbed his hand and pulled him off of the couch and moved him toward a staircase.

"We're off!" Vivienne called to her clique.

On the second floor, Erik followed Vivienne down a long hall. He glanced at more dynastic family oil paintings on the walls. He stopped at one that featured Vivienne. She stood next to him staring up at the gold-framed painting. Her father looked like a milkier Francesco, but much younger and with more hair. He had a pronounced large mouth and a weak chin. Cold gray eyes evoked a stern Monégasque aristocracy.

"My father Prince Julien, and my mother, Princess Ndaté."

Her mother was a rich warm espresso color with plump lips and a wide undefined nose with the cutest smile on her pixie face. Thick braids were twisted high on her head. Vivienne sat next to her mother on a forest green velvet settee wearing the same dark copper tea dress. Her father stood behind the settee with his hands touching his wife and daughter in a severely pressed dark suit.

"Your Moms became royalty here?"

"She was of royal descent from Senegal—"

"I have a play Aunt from Senegal."

"Oui?"

"Yeah. She's a queen to me."

"It was quite an event when they were married I am told. They met at Oxford. That's where I go to school."

"Only child?"

"Oui."

"Me too."

"Come…"

He followed her to another hall that led to a bedroom on the end.

"This your house?"

"Belongs to the family. We use it for special events. My cousins and I hide out here when we are between official duties at the palace. Unfortunately, having a father first in line to the throne makes my cousin Clara the sad puppy tonight. She had to stay behind for all the diplomatic duties."

"What's your shot at the throne?"

She cackled.

"My father is sixth in line. No chance. I will just be the speculative royal."

"A Black Princess in a white line. That's a big deal to a lot of people."

Vivienne unpinned her hair and the dark tresses fell even longer down her back.

"Close the door," she said.

Erik locked it and she stood in front of him.

"Unzip me," she demanded, her doe-like eyes seductive in the dim lighting of the room.

She turned away from him. Erik unhooked her and then zipped the dress down to her lower back.

"Merci."

She stepped out of the dress then tossed it on a pecan wood-stained rococo bed embellished with swirly scrolls and foliage fretwork. Her black silk underwear and strapless bra stayed on as she kicked off her heels. She had on sheer black thigh-high stockings and he watched her roll her hips as she walked to a delicate-looking bronze and leather Louis the Fifteenth writing desk with a matching leather chair. Her European Pops may have given her light skin and a loose curl pattern, but her African Mama most definitely gave her shelf booty and thighs for days. Her lack of modesty was much like his own when he was at home.

A chrome laptop was on the desk and Vivienne turned it on. Erik looked around the room and saw a pair of Bulgari sunglasses on a dresser. He put them on and admired his face in a dressing mirror. Her laptop powered up and she sauntered over to him. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of his head.

"I take off my clothes and you barely blink," she teased.

"I've seen a lot of bodies, Ma. Ain't no thang—"

"Ah, I saw you! Your eyes looked at my breasts just then."

He grinned.

"You're kinda spilling out there a bit."

She was.

Erik could see she had big light chestnut areolas that peeked out. Her snatched waist made her hips look wide from the front and enhanced the physical beauty that she displayed. Her eyes studied his face and she stepped closer to him. She unfastened his suit jacket and pulled it off of him, flinging it on top of her dress. He could feel her body heat.

"Get comfortable," she commanded.

Her fingers lifted and undid the first three buttons on his shirt. Erik clasped her fingers inside his hand.

"You're moving fast, girl. Don't even know me—"

"I know you're a liar," she whispered in his ear.

He frowned.

She tried stepping away from him but he held her wrists tight.

"I'm a liar?"

"You've been vetted by Tony. He doesn't just let anyone get close to him. And my Uncle hates commoners. You're not who you say you are."

He let her go. Her fingers went behind her back and she unclasped the hooks on her bra and let it fall to the floor. Her breasts dropped two inches on her chest from their heaviness, but as much as he was interested in playing with them and stretching his mouth over them, the smug look on her face had him edgy.

"Erik Stevens. American sounding name. But I've watched you. The way you walk. The way you talk and carry yourself. You remind me of my boyfriend…ex-boyfriend. You swaggered into my family's humble abode like you owned it. Even in the palace you moved around like others were beneath you or not worth your time. You don't suck up to Tony like I've seen others do. Either your family is very rich and well connected, or you have royalty in your background…oh, see? Your eyes gave you away…"

Vivienne stared at him. Some type of recognition colored her face.

"Someone in your family is from the motherland, oui? The east? It's so evident—"

"Oakland through and through, girl."

"No. Menteur. You are African. More like Halfrican…as am I."

She poked his chest.

Erik swiped the dark glasses back down over his eyes. He sat on her bed and felt his belly churn with tension. Vivienne's intuition had him shook. He tried to deflect.

"Come bring your fine ass here."

He held out his hand.

She walked over to her computer and turned on some music. He grimaced.

"I don't know what kind of mood you're trying to set, but that ain't it," he said.

He moved from the bed to her side and turned off the dreadful Europop sounds. He typed in the search engine and pulled up the M.I.T. website.

Her voice came into the room and the energy shifted.

Buttafly.

His muse.

"What is this?" Vivienne asked.

"A radio station I listen to. It streams worldwide."

"I like it."

Vivienne swayed her body, her hips circling with little dips. Her bare feet took tiny steps as she latched on to the hypnotic dreamy beats. Erik's eyes raked over her curves and the slight bounce of her tits.

"How many guys do you bring here the first time you meet them?"

"Guys? Mon doudou, do I look like I interact with guys?"

Her hands fluttered around her body.

"I only entertain the powerful and worthy."

Something within Erik stirred. Vivienne rolled her body and the music transitioned to something even more sensual.

"If the night brings you gossamer wings made of starlight and sable dreams, you better fly…"

Erik imagined moist lips with Buttafly's honey mouth whispering the words in his ear that he heard from the computer. Since he couldn't have the unseen girl of his aural fantasies on the radio, Vivienne was perfect compensation. He stepped to her and entwined his fingers with hers and shook his hips. Twirling her around to face him, Erik led Vivienne in some Chi-town two-steppin' that his grandfather taught him.

"I love this!" Vivienne squealed.

He pulled her in close and she was able to follow his lead.

"That's it, Princess," he encouraged.

She pulled the dark glasses from his eyes and tossed them on her bed as they stepped in time together. He spun and dipped adding the Oaktown drip to their partnering. Drawing her in tight, her breasts mashed into his chest and he liked the pressure she started to put on his loins as he felt his dick grow fat in his tailored slacks.

"I feel that," she sighed grinding on him.

"It's yours if you want it, Princess."

Vivienne turned and backed her ass against his groin.

"Let me be your heartbeat…"

Whatever poem Buttafly was reciting on top of the erotic beats made Vivienne gasp as she stood still and let him dry hump her ass. Erik's dick turned to iron and the heavy print beating against the split in her backside made her panties wet. His fingers stroked the front of her underwear forcefully to let her know what time it was. Her legs shook. Erik gripped her waist and held her in place as he thrust against her.

He wanted that weight bouncing on him so he pulled her back with him as he sat on the bed with her seated on his lap. She gave him what he wanted, lifting and dropping on his dick, the friction from his pants adding to the pleasure he was enjoying. He reached up and yanked on her long hair, threading his fingers through the thicker strands.

"Big ole ass…girl you know you got a big ole ass…look at you!"

Vivienne laughed and he tugged harder on her hair forcing her head back.

"Who takes care of all of this, huh? I know these white boys ain't handling you right. Look how you're acting. Your man know you wilding right now?"

"He's old news. There are other fish."

"You're sinking some hooks, Ma."

Vivienne spun around on him and straddled his thighs, her breasts sitting on his chest.

"You have protection?" she asked.

"Yeah. Will we be disturbed?"

"No."

She slid her fingers down to the last fastened buttons on his shirt and freed him from it. The skin on skin contact made his dick harder. Erik pulled out his wallet from his back pocket and fumbled for one of his condoms as she nibbled along his neck.

"I won't cause no international incident fucking a Princess will I?"

Her lips smothered his and her tongue was aggressive with his open mouth. Her kisses were desperate.

"You need me bad," he whispered in her ear as he snaked his tongue inside it.

Her greedy fingers went to work on his pants and he let her take them off along with his dark briefs.

"This is what I need," she groaned wrapping her fingers around his wood.

She stroked him nice and slow, teasing pre-cum out of his slit before she engulfed him with her lips. Resting on his elbows, Erik enjoyed watching her slather his dick with warm saliva and moans.

"Damn, baby. You know how to handle my shit. Rub them big titties on it."

Vivienne knelt down and lifted her breasts. He sandwiched his length in the deep valley of her cleavage and she interlocked her fingers together making his erection snug and secure. She rubbed her tits up and down and he had memories of Athena as he watched his dick disappear. He fingered around her areolas and tugged on her nipples.

"Nasty girl…just met me and got my dick like this. You like being a good slut?"

Vivienne lunged for his mouth and they kissed until the throbbing in the root of his dick made him antsy for pussy. He wasn't sure how much privacy they really would have, so he didn't want to waste time eating the box and then being interrupted without having a crack at royal walls. She seemed to be hot for his erection right away too. He could taste her folds after he pounded her good and proper. It was time for royal fucking and he planned on giving her Wakandan Prince dick.

Buttafly was providing the soundtrack he needed to serenade Vivienne into submission. She was about to quench the female drought he was experiencing. He tore open the gold magnum condom wrapper and slipped the rubber down his thick inches. The bed didn't feel sturdy to him so he pulled her over to the solid-looking cream vintage chaise lounge.

"Wait," she whispered and quickly walked to a door he thought was an ornate closet but was actually a bathroom.

She came back with a dark towel and spread it on the lounge. Erik sat down and helped her climb back onto his lap. They kissed once more and she moaned into his throat as he gave her deep soul kisses. He held the back of her neck and plundered her lusty mouth until she was whimpering.

"Fuck me," she begged.

"You want this dick?"

The mewling sound from her voice made him so horny. It was obvious they both hadn't had it in a long time. He didn't give her time to pull her panties off or slide them to the side. He just ripped them off and tossed the scraps on the floor. Gripping the bottom of her ass cheeks and lifting her up, she eased down on his length with only two adjustments with the angle. His abundant size didn't bother her at all. She was so wet that he knew she could slide down even more inches if he had them. Feeling more confident after a few false starts and gripping the back of the lounge for balance, Vivienne started dropping her pussy on him forcing harsh cursing to erupt from his mouth.

"You really tryna break a nigga in!"

"MMMhmmm."

"Okay, Princess. Big ole heavy ass…big heavy ass!"

He slapped her butt and the solid sound made his balls jump.

"Fuck me…fuck me, Princess. Ride that bitch…ride that bitch. Damn you got some weight on that shit."

She knew how to move and shook what her Mama gave her and then some. The clapping of cheeks was so loud that Erik just knew that everyone had to be able to hear it downstairs. She twisted her waist and circled her hips to make that shit even louder and his mouth fell open trying to inhale more air to keep up with her. He jackhammered into her until the music settled him down and he got caught up in a rhythm that had her begging him to wreck her shit for all time. She stopped speaking English then, and her breathy French made his mouth filthy talking back to her. He slid his fingers along her thigh-high stockings.

"Damn, Princess!"

Vivienne turned her body to the side and rested her head on the back of the lounge as she watched Erik's face next to hers. She rode the first four inches on the top of his dick and the sensation of her circling that tight box on him without going all the way down made him press his feet hard into the carpeted floor.

She had his face all scrunched up as he stared into her eyes. Her mouth was open and spilling more moans.

"Fuck me, Princess. Just like that…just like that. Got this big ass clapping!"

"Oui…oui…oui…"

"Fuck me…fuck me…take some more girl…go all the way down. Don't be scared. Fuck me good…take some more. You can get more in there…shit yeah…I like that shit…all the way down. Dassit…more…lemme stretch that shit more…fuck…oh fuck…there it is. Riding the tip so good, baby. Dassit…dassit, Princess. All the way down…all the way bitch…yeah…let a real nigga handle you…mmmmm…"

He pulled out and her eyes looked confused.

"Turn over. Get on your knees."

He forced Vivienne to clutch onto the armrest as he took her from behind.

"Spread them cheeks with your hands…I said spread them. Don't make me fucking repeat myself!"

Erik slapped the shit out of her ass and her body jerked from the punishment. Her hands reached back and pulled her ass cheeks apart for him. Her head rested on the cushion.

"Poke that ass out…dassit. Arch that back for me. Good girl. Make that pussy tight for me. Make it hard for me to get in this shit."

He inserted the bulbous head in and he felt her pushing her vaginal muscles against him.

"Yeah! Just like that! Make it hard for me to get in there…c'mon girl! Fuck!"

Vivienne's head angled back to watch his face.

"Fuck me….please…fuck me hard…" she panted.

"Hold them cheeks open!"

Her pussy was frothy and the creamy fluid dribbled down her thighs every time he pulled out to thrust back in fast.

"Nobody been taking care of this pussy."

"…fuck me, Erik…."

"Ain't no Oxford niggas available to break you off?"

She laughed and it died in her throat when he deep stroked her. He held her left arm back to help him get down deeper. He wasn't going to last.

"Loud pussy, girl…"

Her eyes squeezed shut and her mouth stayed lax.

"Oh…oh…oh…oh…"

"Get it, girl! Getcho dick!"

Vivienne clutched onto the armrest with her free hand and lifted up. He released her arm and she rode his dick by rocking back on him with her hands resting on her thighs.

"Do that…do that…" he hissed.

"Erik!"

"…finna nut…"

Her pussy made obscene farting noises and he let loose into the condom.

"Fuucckkkkkk!"

He fell over her back and gripped her shoulders, kissing the side of her face.

"Fucking icy, Princess!" he panted.

He lifted up feeling the hardness in his dick still holding out.

"I ain't forgot you, Ma."

Erik made her turn over and he lifted her legs over his arms and put in work. It didn't take long for her to fall apart all over his dick before he had to grab the base of his length to keep the condom from slipping as he became flaccid.

Vivienne ran her hand across the top of her hair and grinned from ear to ear.

"That was…mon Dieu…" she sighed.

She reached up and caressed his face.

"Are you using your wings? Are you flying above the world Black angel….?"

Buttafly's voice calmed the rapid beating in his heart from the physical exertion. Vivienne took his hand and pulled him onto her bed.

"Viens mon amour," she whispered.

###

They used all of his condoms.

Three in total.

Vivienne was insatiable and he gave it his all until he fell asleep. He awoke to find the two pitch-black Great Danes sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed. When Erik stood up to go urinate, both dogs growled at him, their big ears tall on their heads like radar.

"Chut!" Vivienne hissed.

Both dogs backed down and rested their heads on their large paws.

Dressed in a fluffy ginger-colored robe, Vivienne sat on the bed with her laptop in front of her crossed legs.

"Morning," he said.

"Good morning to you. Sleep well?"

"Yeah. What time is it?"

"One—"

"Shit!"

"Don't worry. Tony knows you're still with me. I called him earlier. You don't have to be back until tonight."

"I have to be with your uncle."

"I know. Take a shower. Everything you need is in the bathroom. Are you hungry? I had lunch brought up since you slept through breakfast."

She pointed to a covered silver serving tray on the writing desk. There was fresh juice and water in glass pitchers with glasses.

"Be right back," he said.

Erik showered and pulled on a thick black robe that covered him down to his feet. A brand new toothbrush with individual toothpaste was sitting on the sink next to an unopened travel size deodorant roll. Stepping back into the bedroom, the two dogs watched him closely but didn't move or growl at him.

"Let them out before you eat anything. They will beg and it is so annoying."

Erik walked past the Great Danes and unlocked the bedroom door. They lifted their heads and Erik whistled. They jumped up and he shooed them out closing the door behind them.

Padding over to the serving tray, Erik lifted the cover and found ham omelets with cheese, resting on top of a large croissant with a side of diced mixed fruit and small finger sandwiches. He nibbled on a grape and poured himself water.

"Merde!" Vivienne snapped.

Her fingers flew across the keyboard. She glared at her screen.

"What do you want?!"

Her voice was annoyed. Erik tossed another grape into his mouth and drank some water.

"You refuse to take my calls. You make me hunt you down from the palace to your family chateau. I will not tolerate your disrespect!"

Erik froze.

The hairs on the back of his neck rose and his fingers shook so bad that he had to put his glass of water down. He stepped away from the writing desk and walked carefully to the bed, his eyes narrowing and the breath in his body moving rapidly in his chest.

That voice.

It couldn't be.

"T'Challa, we are no more. I told you that when I left—"

"You said we were just taking a step back to evaluate our relationship…who the fuck is that?!"

Blazing dark orbs burned into Erik's face. The hard scowl on T'Challa's mouth matched the one on Erik's own lips.

"That is my friend—"

"Friend? He is wearing a robe—"

"Hey, Princess. We have lunch waiting for us. Hang up."

"No one asked you to speak—"

"I'm talking, nigga and I'm digging out your bitch!"

"Vivienne!"

T'Challa's shout made Vivienne jump. Her eyes darted between them.

"He is a guest, T'Challa. We have a lot of guests here. There was a party last night—"

"You ain't gotta explain shit to him. Hang up!"

"If you hang up. I swear to Bast I will—"

"Do what?" Erik challenged.

Vivienne's eyes grew coy. She brushed her hair back over her shoulder and gave T'Challa a sly smile. She was enjoying it.

"We can talk when I get back."

"We shall talk now. Make him leave!"

Erik plopped down on the bed next to Vivienne and picked up her dark glasses. Pulling them on he placed his face close to the screen. T'Challa's eyes reminded Erik of his father's. For a second, N'Jobu's face loomed in his mind. Staring at his cousin, seeing the dark smooth skin, the flared nostrils, and hearing the haughty entitled voice, Baba was forced into his heart. Not only could Erik see his father in T'Challa's face, but he could see his own too. It was in the eyes. Those damn haunting Udaku eyes. No wonder Vivienne pegged him for royalty. She was fucking his cousin and unknowingly recognized the bloodline. Incredible.

"Where are you going?" Vivienne called out.

Erik stalked to the bedroom door.

"I have to get some air."

"Eat some food—"

"Vivienne!"

"T'Challa stop screaming at me! You'll see me when I let you!"

She slammed the laptop shut and jumped off the bed.

"Erik…Erik…what's wrong?"

Anger coursed through his body and made it rigid as the Princess wrapped her arms around his.

"I was being petty. I shouldn't have taken the chat. Not with you here. He's such an arrogant ass all the time—"

Erik lifted her up and crashed his lips onto her mouth.

Carrying her back to the bed, he pushed her laptop to the side and dropped her on the plush lavender duvet. Snatching off her robe he threw it behind him. Her eyes were ablaze as she watched him disrobe. His dick was ramrod straight and pointed toward her. He fisted the head and when he glanced at his wallet on the nightstand, he remembered he had no more condoms.

"Do you have anything?" he asked. His fingers twirled around the underside ridge of the tip.

She heard the desperate need in his voice. Her head shook and he couldn't hide his disappointment.

"Here," she said spreading her legs.

The faint pubic hairs on her plump mound were already damp and her vulva was swollen, the inner lips wide open revealing glistening pink.

"You sure?"

She lifted her legs up high.

Erik lined himself up with her.

"He wants you back," he said.

"He has to learn to deserve me."

"He don't deserve you. He doesn't deserve shit."

He plunged into Vivienne full over reckless venom. He wasn't gentle and she didn't want him to be.

"…ooh…mon dieu…ahhh…mon dieu…Erik…!"

He put his full weight on her and she clawed his back.

"Oh…oh…oh…oohmmmph…oui…oui…oui…"

He slammed into her, his length splitting her open wide, his aggression overwhelming her. She cried out in pleasure and he pushed her legs all the way back and shifted to his knees so he could break her down.

"You go back to Oxford, he gon' feel this dick!"

"Oui!"

Reckless. Piping her raw. Needing to stretch her out so she would remember him. The indignant anger in his cousin's voice aroused the alpha within himself and he pounded the fuck out of Vivienne to get back at his blood. If he couldn't bust that spoiled bastard in the face with his fist, then he was going to bust his woman down with his dick.

Erik fucked most of the sound out of Vivienne. She couldn't even make coherent words anymore. Her eyes were glued to his with her lips parted in sweet agony. Every few seconds a deep groan would spill from her throat. He kept the pace brutal and she was game for it.

"Hold your damn legs, bitch!"

Vivienne reached up and curved her hands under her thighs and held them in place as he gripped her throat with one hand and held onto the headboard with the other.

"OOooohhh!"

The vibration in her throat was felt in his hand and he pulled all the way out just to thrust back in to hit that bottom of her pussy hard. Her eyes rolled back and shut as tears spilled from her lids. He eased his grip from her neck to allow her more air but she pushed his hand back down harder.

"This my pussy now. Right?"

Her eyes popped open and her breasts bounced distracting him. He reached down and felt all over her chest as she thrashed under him. He plucked at her clit before rotating firm circles into the small nub.

"I'm cumming!" she shouted.

Erik watched her pussy contract around his girth and before she went limp in his arms, he pulled his shiny erection out and stroked it until stringy hot ropes of semen spurt all over her belly.

"Princess!" he choked out.

He milked out all that his balls could give and Vivienne smeared it into her skin. Gulping for air, Erik sat back from her. When he was able to breathe normally, he searched for his clothes and got dressed.

"You won't eat?" she asked.

"I need to get back to the hotel and get ready for tonight."

Disappointment turned her face sour.

"You have plenty of time."

He glanced out of the window. It was snowing again.

"So unusual," she whispered staring at the falling flakes with him.

"Do I need to call a car service?"

"Gaspar will take you where you need to go. Won't you stay longer, Erik? Please?"

Her face was lovely with the glow of their rough sex. Erik hated the man's guts but he had to admit that his cousin had great taste in women.

He sat on the edge of the bed and put on his shoes.

"How long you been with that nigga?"

"T'Challa? We've been on and off for two years."

"You love him?"

"I do. I'm not in love with him though. He makes that difficult."

"How?"

"He only loves himself and some other woman back in his country."

"Where is he from?"

"Wakanda."

"Have you ever been there?"

"No. It's a poor country and I don't do poor. He won't take me there anyway."

"Why not?"

She shrugged.

"He makes excuses. His family is well off. I think his father is a despot. He's been in power forever."

"He have any siblings?"

"A little sister."

This was news to him.

"What's her name?"

"Aren't you a curious one?"

"Sizing up my competition."

"Her name is Shuri. He's crazy about her. Brags about her all the time."

"Have you met his father?"

"King T'Chaka is T'Challa times ten."

She laughed. He tried to smile. His stomach was tight.

"I met him in London once. With T'halla's stepmother Queen Ramonda."

"He re-married…." Erik pondered the information. Another heir. And a wife that could get in the way.

"You know about them?"

"What?"

"You said 'She re-married'. Like that was important to you."

"Nah. Just curious. He seems so uptight."

"He can be a delight…when he gets his way."

"Why do you need a break from him?"

"He's intense. Like you. That can grow tiresome. But the sex is worth it."

She fell onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

"Thank God you both weren't in the same room. It was like watching two male Betta fish circle each other. The expression on his face though when you wouldn't leave! He's never been denied anything in his life!"

Erik stood from the bed. Vivienne crawled over to him and sat up on her knees holding out her arms. He kissed her lips but didn't hug her. She pouted.

"C'mon now, I can't get cum on my clothes."

She sat back on her heels.

"I enjoyed your company," she said.

"I enjoyed yours."

"Can I see you again?" she asked.

"Depends on Tony. We're here a few more days then it's back to L.A."

"I want you to call me."

"If I can. I will—"

"No. You call me. Or I will kidnap you again."

She cradled her breasts.

"You're the one who's spoiled," he said.

She didn't deny it.

###

The private room in the private Gentlemen's club reeked of pungent cigars, cognac, and tired old man cologne doused too liberally on pale pampered skin.

Erik tugged on the tie he had to wear wishing he had some good weed to smoke to help him focus. Tony sat near him cradling a Cuban cigar. The room was filled with high rollers from Saudi Arabia, China, Australia, Argentina, and South Africa. The card table and the dealer was set with chips. They all waited for Prince Francesco. He was late.

Erik's leg began to bounce and Tony kicked the bottom of his chair to make him stop.

"Forgive us!"

The Prince strolled in and Erik was surprised to see Princess Vivienne behind him. They both took seats at the poker table. He couldn't hide the delighted smile on his face when the Princess looked up and saw him sitting across from her.

"My niece, Princess Vivienne. I know the rules say men only, but I couldn't deny you all a chance to play with the best."

Small head bows were given to Vivienne but her eyes were only on Erik's.

The moment all their hands were dealt and bets were wagered, Erik learned the hard way. Never judge a book by its cover.

Princess Vivienne cleaned everyone's clock during the first two games, and as his pile of chips dwindled, Erik knew then that it was going to be a long night.

###

Tag List:

@fd-writes​​ @soufcakmistress​  @cherrystainedlipsbaby @tclaybon  @thadelightfulone​

@allhailqueennel​ @bartierbakarimobisson @cpwtwot​ @shookmcgookqueen @yoyolovesbucky​

@raysunshine78​ @the-illlest-blog​ @terrablaze514​  @l-auteuse​ @amirra88​ @jimizwidow​  @janelledarling​

@chaneajoyyy​  @sweetestdream92  @purple-apricots​  @blackpinup22​  @hennessystevens-udaku​

@scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade​ @bugngiz​ @stariamrry​  @honeytoffee​ @meilintheempressofdreams​

@tyees​  @eye-raq​  @writerbee-ffs​  @chocolatedream30​  @childishgambinaa​  @mygirlrenee​ @thewaysheis​—awkward

@tchallasbabymama​

[meta-squash]

Brick Club 1.3.4 “Tholomyes Is So Happy, He Sings A Spanish Song”

I think this chapter title is actually yet another pun. In a later chapter, Favourite mentions that Tholomyes’ first name is Felix, which is Latin for “happy.”

This first paragraph feels like a pretty blatant comparison of the group to the nature mentioned. The flower beds are balmy with perfume, as the ladies may have been, the boughs are gesticulating as the men (and maybe the women) were, the bees pillaging the jasmine is certainly a pretty obvious metaphor, the “bohemian crew of butterflies” would probably be the men, landing briefly on these women for a year or so and then taking flight elsewhere.

(I just looked up bindweed and flashed back to elementary school, where it grew as a weed all over the campus and we’d pick it and put it to our noses and inhale so the petals stuck to our faces, so now I’m imagining them doing that.)

The fact that everyone but Fantine is kissing everyone else is yet another clue that she doesn’t exactly fit in. It also seems like another indication that Favourite should have been paired with Tholomyes.

Fantine’s “dreamy, fierce resistance” (FMA) or “dreaminess and wildness” (Hapgood) is an aspect about her that I feel comes out a little more when she’s back in Montreuil-sur-Mer and has unfortunately hardened a bit. She has quite literally no lines of dialogue until 1.3.8, and her lines up through the letter are superficial, except perhaps for the line about the stagecoaches. Everything we see of Fantine is observational; she’s watching her friends to follow suit, we’re watching her. Later on, in M-sur-M, she’s fiercer, more willing (or perhaps more desperate) to talk back, to talk aloud to herself. The fierce part of her is very inward here, and it’s poverty and desperation that really brings it out. Her confrontation with Bamatabois later, and the moments just before it, bring the “dreaminess” and the “wildness/fierceness” together quite violently.

(Sidenote: The more I read and think about it, the more I’m loving the Fantine-as-autistic headcanon. She’s quiet here because she’s working hard at masking and mimicking; once she’s at her lowest points in M-sur-M, she’s totally given up that effort because she absolutely does not have the energy or mental capacity. So we then get her talking to herself, self-soothing by wringing her hands, shrinking back, etc etc. Idk who came up with that headcanon or where I read it mentioned, but I love it.)

This entire massive paragraph about love in springtime feels very romantically pastoral in its imagery. It certainly fits with the whole leaving urban Paris to go to the park and nature in Saint Cloud (despite the weirdly dark aspects of the area). He continues the theme by mentioning Honore d’Urfe, a pastoral romance author, and Watteau and Lancret, both painters of light, colorful, Baroque style paintings. Watteau painted “The Embarkation for Cythera,” a painting of a fete galante, which is essentially what’s going on in this scene. Cythera is the Greek island said to house a cult of Aphrodite. I’m not sure what the Diderot reference is doing there; I know about his reason vs feeling philosophy, and I know he wrote a “naughty” novel, but I’m not sure how either of those fit into these themes in the rest of the paragraph?

"Beautiful girls lavish their charms with sweet prodigality. We imagine it will never end.” What an interesting pairing of sentences. The second line takes on a tone of quite dark foreshadowing when reading the Brick again. But that first line is interesting to me for the idea of women wasting their charms on men. It feels like an expansion of his “poverty and coquetry are fatal counselors” line, but from a different angle. Flirting or falling in love with a man who is only going to use you for his own pleasure and then drop you is a waste of emotion, not to mention painful if you’re not ready for it. Lavishing “charms” on men only for them to treat a woman in a way that could potentially ruin her is Bad. But if you don’t realize that’s what’s happening, if you think that instead of shallowness or emotional manipulation, you’re actually getting real love and connection, you’re not going to ever want it to end. And then when it does that shock and hurt is so much the worse. Again it’s the difference between Fantine and the others; she seems to think it’s real love on Tholomyes’ side like it is for her, while everyone else seems fairly aware that it’s just a fun little fling and nothing more.

Riding donkeys seems like kind of a ripoff in terms of a date? Maybe another example of Tholomyes’ cheapness as a date as well as an example of his charisma. If he can sell riding an ass as a fun and cute outing instead of a bit of a let down, then no wonder he’s the one in control of this whole endeavor.

I have no idea what plant it is they’re viewing at the Jardins des Plantes, and it’s really bothering me. The only thing I could think of is wisteria, but that can’t be right, since it has leaves, and I have no idea how to search that on google. I’m also wondering what the “mannikin anchorite” at the Chateau d’Issy was. There’s a statue of the actual St. Cloud (Clodoald) in Saint Cloud, but they’re in Issy at this point as far as I can tell, so I have no idea.

As far as I can tell, the satyr-millionaire/Turcaret-Priapus lines are just a joke about rich horny people. I’m not sure why the hall of mirrors is an aphrodisiac? But I suppose the joke is something about voyeurism and watching the person you’re attracted to via means only available to those with lots of money to build a hall of many mirrors? Unless I’m interpreting the entire “cabinet of mirrors” wrong and it’s not even real mirrors. I’m just making guesses at this point.

I think the “Abbe de Bernis” line is a reference to Casanova, but I’m not 100% sure.

Fantine refuses to swing, and Favourite thinks she’s being superior. This seems like another moment pointing out Fantine’s modesty; the “flying skirts” produced by the swinging are maybe a little much for her taste. But it’s another thing that makes me think that maybe the other girls don’t like her very much and are maybe a little frustrated at her prudish behavior compared to the others, or think that that modesty is her thinking she’s better than them.

They’ve now been out and about for about 10 hours, which is a lot. There’s a post somewhere on tumblr about the Russian Mountains, but I love that there was a rollercoaster in Paris in the 1810s. The roller coaster also seems like perhaps an interesting chance at a metaphor for what’s coming: a big climb upward, a rush, and then suddenly much lower than you were a moment ago. For the other women, being back down on the ground is expected at the end of the ride, but for Fantine, it’s an unexpected, painful let down.

Ten (or more) hours is a long time to wait for this “surprise.” I’m wondering if this whole outing has a sort of twofold objective: one as a sort of “last hurrah” date, where they do all the fun things and then there’s the cruel “surprise” at the end. And two, as a way to tire everybody out, so the women would do exactly what they do later on in 1.3.9: get distracted with chatting or just gazing out the window in thought until they suddenly realize how much time has passed, giving the men plenty of time to get away.

[thescriptorium]

more unusual playlists

the deathless ones, hearts of fire and skin of brimstone, cursed with youth and blessed with rage

“Theme Songs of Unhinged Women”

an overgrown catholic school, deep in the forgotten south, where young girls go to die

cigarettes, band posters, and young dumb love. teen angst baby

SAD BUT LIKE, IN A RAVE

beachy music for rainy days❀

{ lips parted, eyes strangely bright } haunting music for reading the picture of dorian gray

jazzy elevator music to drown yourself to

the dark allure of a mysterious forest, moving and sighing, as if beckoning you to come closer…

a bustling, countryside chateau, filled with silk and perfume bottles, high in the hills between Italy and France

[dragonrajafanfiction]

Dragon Dancer II: Project - Leviathan

I’d used my father’s Nibelungen gate to steal away with Johann for Hanami in Chizuru in the middle of the night, and felt much better for it. Johann had gone to Chizuru and sent me a picture as I instructed. I visualized the place in my head and stepped through the gate to be with him, wearing the blue and white kimono gifted to me by Caesar over a year ago. Chizuru was twelve hours ahead of Paris, it was the middle of the night. It was a lovely two hours in the sun and the glory of the flowers. Anjou was none the wiser.

Returning to my hotel room in the dark made it seem even more like a dream. My fingers ran across my lips. They still burned where Johann had kissed me. My body still reacted to the memory.

Master List

The room was huge and alien and it made it hard to get any sleep. I tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed. My thoughts turned back to my Chicago home, not to Cassell. That burned too, taking my whole foster family with it. It was the last place I’d truly felt at home. Ever since I left there, I’d never slept in so many different beds in my entire life. 

Back in January, Johann told me that after graduation he would find a place for us. I had thought it was just him being dramatic. He’d been upset and tired at the time he said it. But now as I lay in the dark, in strange surroundings yet again, I realized he might have been completely serious, that he picked up on the fact that we’d both been uprooted, and looking for a place to settle.

The sun came up and I was still tired. Dressed in a plush robe provided by the hotel, I spoke with Johann over video call. He was in an airport, preparing to return to Chicago.

“Do you know who you’ll be working with?” He asked.

“An Agent Robertson…” I yawned. “Sorry, still a little jetlagged.”

To this day, I was captivated by the strands of dark hair framing the golden eyes that peered over his dark glasses, his cool so-called expressionless face. It wasn’t expressionless to me any more. The subtle flicker of his eye lids, the inflection of his voice, the tilt of his head said far more than his words did. To me, they spoke to his quick wit and profound intelligence, the ability to sort and catalogue his thoughts to say and express exactly what he wanted to in a single precise motion.

“I know him. You’re in good hands.” Johann nodded his stoic approval. “He’s been with the Executive department for about fifteen years. His skill is called Desolation and will turn anyone who stands in front of him to solid rock to a distance of 50 feet. It’s an A-rank devastating talent I’ve only seen him use once. He’s also very conscientious and hardworking. He’ll keep the other agents in line.”

I rubbed my eyes and blinked. “Anjou said something about being concerned about the agents here.”

“There was a scandal about three years back. Robertson was assigned from New York to get a handle on things. But some of the people who were responsible for it still work there. I’d be cautious around the French Agents if I were you.”

“Noted.” I rested my chin in my hands. “Are you doing alright?”

His eyelids lowered and my heart skipped a beat at the ghost of a smile. My persistent worry for him never failed to provoke a reaction. “Don’t worry about me. I want you to have a good time in Paris.” The amusement left his face. “I mean it. You’re going to Fashion Week starting today. I want you to get lots of cute outfits and take pictures for me. Eat pastries at La Pâtisserie du Meurice par Cédric Grolet. Take pictures of those too. The pastries they make are very cute.” He ticked these things off as if they were a list of objectives on a mission. But that’s not what drew my attention.

What made me sit up a little straighter was his flawless pronunciation of the name of the bakery. “Johann… do you speak French?”

He tilted his hand back and forth, but didn’t comment. “I’ll send you a care package through Robertson. That way, you won’t have to worry about anything but having fun. Europe doesn’t have the same products that you’re used to.”

Johann had become well studied in the concept of black hair care. My braids and my curls were unique to me and he understood that these locks would accept no substitutions.

“I love you, Chu Zihang.” I said in Chinese.

“I love you, Bai Meixiu.” He said. “Call me again after Fashion Week. I’m interested in this mission of yours.”

“I have to get ready but… can I ask you something?” When prompted by a nod, I continued. “When you said you would find a place for us after graduation… did you mean it? What did you mean?”

He suddenly wasn’t meeting my eyes any more, a faint color coming to his face.

I explained, one hand running down a thin braid. “I was just thinking last night… how hard it was to sleep in so many different beds. It sounded nice to have a real home again. I think I’d like that.”

The color on his face suddenly deepened. “I’d prefer to talk about that in person.”

“Okay… I’ll see you again soon.”

*****

Apparently, the Paris Fashion shows themselves were so exclusive that you had to receive a personal invitation or be a member of the media to attend. Even so, the city was packed. Our ritzy accommodations were fully booked. The fact that we could stay where ever we wanted, eat wherever we wanted, and go to the shows all over Paris spoke volumes about the level of clout Anjou had. Never once were we refused entry, or had to wait. Our tickets of admission were immediately accepted by the staff.

He mingled about the immaculately dressed crowd at the show, shaking hands, giving hugs and leaning in to give little kisses on the cheek. He was introducing me to the people he knew. I suddenly realized that as the top student at Cassell, Anjou was showing me to his inner circle of friends, getting me acquainted with the top brass of Hybrid hierarchy throughout the world. Many were successful businessmen. Many were ancient families with a long history of wealth and power. Some were currently heads of state.

All of them were Hybrids.

I wore a long white dress with white gloves up to my elbows and a white fluffy hair piece in the shape of angel wings. It immediately attracted attention to me. I didn’t speak any French, but I didn’t have to to understand that they were very curious about Anjou’s little debutante.

We took our seats for the actual show. “Am I doing okay?”

“You’re doing just fine my dear.” Anjou, holding his own glass of wine, smiled. “Ah… this never gets old.”

“Can we buy some of the outfits?” It was the first time I had asked to buy anything.

Anjou laughed. “So you’ve finally come around to Paris! Just point to whatever you like!”

I rubbed my hands together eagerly watching for anything cute that I liked -- that Johann might like. With sudden motivation, I found myself spinning in dressing rooms, feeling the fine fabric on my skin. My dancer’s physique was perfect for the French style and the women there had more than enough fun dressing me up for my own personal fashion show. There was even a photographer. A burly African man leaned over with a camera to take pictures of me pretending to be a model. I noticed a familiar emblem on his jacket. 

“You’re from Cassell!”

His bright smile glowed on his face. “Agent Robertson at your service!” His New Yorker accent was obvious.

My eyes widened. “They sent you to take pictures of me? Someone as experienced as you?” 

He smirked. “Heh. I’ve been following you two all over town. My assignment is to be your security detail… but discreetly.”

“Are the other agents here too?” I asked. 

“That they are. Once fashion week is over, you’ll be off to work.”

“Johann Chu says hello.” I swayed in the mirror, making my skirt swirl.

“That guy…” He flipped through the photos on the camera. “Tell him to come back to Paris so I can beat him at basketball again. Nobody else here play.”

I turned to him the moment he said that. “I play.”

His jaw dropped. “Well, well, well… this is going to be a fun assignment.”

My security doubled as paparazzi as I made my way around Paris. I hung out in the first Arrondissement, admiring the parks, the fountains, and the Louvre Museum. I stalked A-list celebrities and got Robertson to take photos of them for me.

All the photos were sent to my social media account at Cassell. Johann Chu liked every one of them. He left comments of which clothes I should take home. When I asked if he wanted a souvenir, he simply replied. “No, this is enough.”

The heat rose in my face. “Sweet talker…”

When it was time for me to leave the hotel, Anjou left a final message for me on a gold embossed perfumed card. “Congratulations on your first assignment. May it be the first in a long career.”

Under a bright spring sun, we traveled in a convoy of black armored vehicles to the safe house. Men brandishing AK-47s opened the gate to allow us in. We drove down a winding narrow road through a forest to the massive chateau. 

Robertson grew quiet and serious, constantly on his walkie-talkie, giving orders and receiving feedback and updating our position. He referred to me as ‘The Asset’. I was escorted to the heavy wooden door. It opened. Four other men stood before me. They were all European, in suits and sunglasses despite their being indoors. 

“Agent Lavigne, IT. Monet, Logistics. Blanchet, Security. Garnier, Security.”

The French agents. I nodded to them politely. “Nice to meet you. I’m Charlotte.”

Agent Lavigne, lowered his glasses to reveal bright green eyes. He was pale with freckles and a shock of red hair. “Allow me to show you where you will be working.”

My heels clicked against the marble tiled floor. There were columns and statues and art everywhere. We went up the stairs to a large master suite. “This room has all the amenities you need. Unless required, you should be able to stay here and not leave it. There is a balcony in the back for fresh air.”

“Not leave my room?” I asked in dismay.

“There is an extensive amount of work you must do here. Your playtime is over.” 

I pressed my lips together, glaring.

“Don’t antagonize her. Anjou said she needs to be kept happy.” Robertson immediately placed himself between me and Lavigne. I glanced between them, unsure of why there was this sudden tension.

Lavigne cleared his throat. “I meant no offense. My English is not that good.”

Lame excuse, I thought, but I nodded. 

“The laptop you’ll be working with is directly connected to EVA. Your task will be translation and interpretation of the text. Nothing more.”

“Why fly me all the way out here if I’m just going to work with EVA?” I asked. “Wouldn’t it have been easier just to stay at Cassell? What’s with all the security?”

“That information is unfortunately classified.” Robertson said.  Despite his serious demeanor, he smiled a little. “I will tell you this. Sometimes, Cassell doesn’t want to show it’s directly involved in a project.”

“Oh… … Okay…” I said. I nodded once in determination. “I’ll work hard!”

“We’ll leave you to it.” The two agents shut the door.

I jumped up onto yet another strange plush bed and opened the laptop. “Agent Meixiu!” I declared. 

Immediately, the machine registered my face and voice. It spoke to me in EVAs vocal AI. “Welcome. I hope your stay in Paris was enjoyable.”

“It was! So what are we doing here?”

“We’re interpreting and translating the draconic text found underneath the slums of Mumbai. It’s a densely populated place, but the ruins are accessible through the sewers. Wells dug by Cassell are reaching even greater depths.”

Pictures of the locations of the dig sites and maps flashed across my screen.

“Your initial assignment will be to translate this document. It is composed of 15,000 symbols, 5,000 of those are unknown draconic.”

“Five thousand?!” I whispered. I sighed. “Okay… Let’s get to it.”

“Your acceptance of the mission has been logged. Welcome to Project: Leviathan.”

The reams of draconic script opened themselves before me. There were so many unfamiliar words mixed in with familiar ones. One thing was immediately clear. These weren’t ancient chants, prayers or curses. This was a history, a record of actions. What was stranger was that the actions weren’t of a dragon, but of a human man.

I stood up and looked around the room. It would take me months to translate all this and I was not interested in spending that much time away from Johann. There were several framed pictures on the wall. I got off the bed and pulled down one. Then I fished out a permanent marker from my luggage and drew a time dilation rune on the wall. When activated, three hours here would only be one hour outside the room. I rehung the picture over it.

I would not need EVAs assistance. As a supercomputer, she could only make guesses based on available information, and that was not always accurate. I had someone who had direct access to draconic script and was a native speaker. She spun out from my dragon scale necklace, floating there.

Ielia, a version of me from another dimension, appeared like a glowing ghost in the room. “Please help me translate this?”

She gave me a solemn nod.

[throwinggrapesoffthebalcony]

preface to LAVENDER SOAP

You can feel apocalyptic in a number of ways, even while living in peaceful times. But what many times looks like peace, isn’t. And so a piece may arise during our own suppressed apocalypse. That was the case with Lavender Soap and my life in 1996. Very few places have had the energy to influence me as a writer, to feed into my tendencies, and even fewer places that could provide a sense of peace, that I was only ever able find in the water; buoyant saline, under the warmth of the ray’s of the sun. Even in storm, or the dead of winter, it was a tranquility, a sanctuary, that I could never find on land. Depending on your life, it’s a beautiful separation.

The epoch and the hotel was very different then, it was at peace tucked into the trees. It wasn’t decimated  by this new cheap world yet. The perfect air was still influxed with the smell of foliage and perfume and of old materials, plaster ruined and repaired a thousand times, regrouted with the tiles left intact, the aging glue of wallpaper is sweet. Decor should be timeless during our lives. Life is so short after all. It was a hotel imbued with and not completely claimed by the past yet, with the past, absorbed into the walls and woodwork and tapestries. The faint voices, rapes, murders, sufferings, and suicides of a more glamorous past, saved like metal oxide on tape in the walls; played when the atmosphere is right. The first element that effects me are women I’ve been involved with sexually and their particular fashion and our conversations, the other is the inspiration of architecture; this necessity to remove and protect ourselves from the elements of nature. And the third being that wild energy of nature itself, weather, thermal dynamics, etc. I’ll save the commentary about the energy arising from the earth and surroundings for the preface for SSHS, which was more influenced by the raw energy of a geographic location and life’s tragedies than it was about architecture. And writing that piece was never about silence for me, while Lavender Soap was born, not in the clash of an apocalyptic scene, but in the very opposite, in the midst of the most pleasurable quiet, not an absolute silence, but a perfect quiet. The sound of air moving through trees, the sound of a rotary telephone ringing, faint voices speaking somewhere, the existence of humanness, not intruding on your life, when it doesn’t need to. That was a time when I think everyone had their own scenario, there were bounds, and knew that your scenario wasn’t their scenario; which is called sanity. Perfect separation of lives, we were humans not insects. And because of this, meeting someone was always much more interesting than now. Lavender Soap is, besides being a psychological piece delving into my experiences at the Chateau, it’s also to a great extent a retrospect, and a regression to my childhood. It was in a childhood bedroom that I perfected disassociation, disconnection, and detachment in, out of necessity, for survival. A house of continual violence, week after week, year after year, leaves you with nowhere to go but down. Fantasy and pictures, allowed me to drift off. A calendar out of date, a hopeful month of lavender fields is where all of my loves stood. They never take you up. Sleeping with my weapon of choice, a tapered necked ball peen hammer. And with the faint smell of WD40 and rust the angels never come to save you from the screaming. A movie about war, that’s pretty in a way, is the only way I can remember that film.

In 1996, experience wasn’t found on a cell phone. I was young and if you wanted to feel something or experience something, you had to shower, dress and traverse whatever plane you were on. And from one location to another, so much could happen, and in-between there was discovery, moments. Forget the set pieces, that’s not what this life is made of. This life is made of moments. In my opinion, that curiosity is what the young are absolutely lacking in today’s world, that and not feeling like individuals. There was a conversation that I read, I think around that same time, where a film editor, I think Murch, if not, one of the other prominent film editors, was talking about editing on a Moviola. And because of the linear nature of working with whole strips of 35mm film, he would have to pass through a lot of footage that he hadn’t previously considered, and that he would have, if working in a non-linear manner have never encountered. And there, he would find moments that worked more profoundly than what he was intending to use. And I think that lack of an analog approach in living, has people missing the more profound encounters, the accidental encounters, encounters more enlightening than what they might experience with a premeditated itinerary. But wait, they had an exchange on tender; what a fucking joke. I feel sorry for them. I’ve never fallen in love with this new digital era, a work of spite and bitterness, a reaction to a world that didn’t feel inclusive enough, so it’s become a strategy of slash and burn. And how do you tell someone to fuck off so they truly listen in today’s era? Must it be an apocalypse for the stalkers. Are people always drawn into that state of darkness. And it’s so easy to lose sight of the jungle you’re in, when the modern world disguises the archetypes so well. The weeks become months and the months become years and years become a decade, while I was creating the philosophies of a man facing death, even while undeservedly healthy, and unfairly able to fuck.

Arriving at the hotel in 96’ was serendipitous, or fateful, whether you want to believe that life is steadfast or whimsical. It felt whimsical when I met a couple of cute girls named Hanni and Sunny at Beverly Connection one evening; one lovable, the other the type to want to watch, then try to explain what each of the other really wanted. I jotted down a few impressions I had of them at the time. They told me that they had this special place they wanted to show me. I thought they were full of shit. But one evening they picked me up and took me to the Chateau Marmont. The weather was terrible that night. I was dressed for the woods. It was a quiet place, empty, with an entrance of willow branches hanging dank over the drive. We sat in the living room and even while I tried to concentrate on the conversations we were having, I was only half there, while the other part of me had already wandered off into the hotel, amongst the spirits and whispering lips. Sunny called, with the concern of the other on mind. It was against her religion to have sex before marriage, and she was confused as to whether oral copulation was sex. I gave the wrong and less comforting answer. Of course it is. People go stagnant just as places do. I went looking for Hanni where she worked at Milk and Honey as a hostess. I saw her through the windows, but the place was busy and I didn’t want to get her into any trouble, so I continued on my walk. I didn’t see them much anymore, but I kept going back to the Chateau. It was just as quaint during the afternoon as it was at night. On most nights, it was desolate, like a huge spaceship had hovered over and removed every last trace of guests. This was before they began to monetize the mythos of the place, and run it like a circus. The hallowed courtyard had eyes in 1996, and then in 2006 it had the eyes of a cheap set looking for anything edible. Drug dealers intwined with movie moguls and music producers. When first arriving there, there was peace, and I would explore the floors unimpeded. I felt strangely allowed. One afternoon that week after the two girls had shown me the place, I went and stood on the landing on the shady side of the hotel. I could have stood there for centuries. I thought about a life with her, while still in love with what I couldn’t have. I wasn’t apart from those feelings yet. They choked me up, but I would never cry. I probably set the record for being on the verge of tears, while they dried. The people were more reclusive and weird then. With so many people in those rooms, so few went about. They come out for air. They ask each other, never asking you. Even while asking me, would be the quickest way to find something out. Strange quirks with some of these who reside here. Notes I wouldn’t even have to look back upon to remember. I didn’t know about the inner workings of Hollywood yet, even while I was already pitching ideas, but wrote literature and not scripts. I didn’t know there were those perpetually green-lit, only needing content, and those perpetually in the red light. But on the surface, everything was crystal clear, with my young primo lenses at the time, seeing even the minute texture in anything like glitter in the dust. I suppose speculation has always been a turn on. But the place was an immediate enchantment, and people were actors, so forgiven, and no idiosyncrasies of the fauna would keep me from going back. I loved the place. It gave me a chance to linger in that aesthetic. There were occasions when I’d stay in the living room until dawn, undisturbed, when I could have stayed and ordered breakfast if I’d wanted to. Hollywood and this hotel had already had a long history before I arrived. The materials, the curtains and rugs and upholstery was already soaked to the bone, damp with the secretions of the body, the blood, the saliva and vaginal fluids of the past. In the present, you can smell the distinction of a vagina from a mouth perfectly. But through time, it becomes this amalgamated scent, so fine and subtle that it could be bottled as perfume; an aphrodisiac for the intellect. I want to stay and live here, but it costs a fortune. Check out time is like another death, the woman who spreads the sheets might be the perfect fuck. Dreaming in a bed that saw the golden age. The ghosts of a thousand whores arise. But that was the wet part of the dream. They all say the same thing, they all dance the same way. They all want to stay in this world. This, while everyone claims to live in a higher plane. They want freedom without the label being emblazoned upon them. Today’s perfect. That’s just a desirable label and we all have desires. You wish you could turn them all into someone someone would have loved. On the landing on the shady side of the hotel, the rush of thoughts has me without sight, the sun penetrating my eyes. I wouldn’t even know what a strange thought was then, always in the wine. I went into the shadows falling over me. The strange trees don’t know my past, but it seems that they love me. She was cold, goosebumps on the skin, she never warms. She’s not of this world. But this place is like heaven’s turnkey, and here I can dream, that I’m living a spectacular life. My every thought here like a disco in the dark light. It’s coming up river with the blackness gleaming to take my life. In the past one only had to return to civilization. Now, there is no civilization to return to. Modern society is like a plague that has no brains. That dies out, not by heat or cold or is prevented by the razor wire of another man’s desires for peace of mind. Death is the only peace. Just as I was told of my literary pursuits, that all the hours were wasted, and to think about the fact, that all those I admired in that craft, are all dead, and so was the craft. I was sitting at a drive-in theatre. Hail memory. Prefaces are life, when a form of death has already occurred.

On the subject of soap balls, they were always perplexing. My grandmother, a strange woman, born in New Braunfels, Tx, who never opened her presents, wouldn’t let me wash my hands with them. They were decorations, to be dusted and sniffed for their essence. One lathered by mistake and placed back into the bunch looked funny, and you wondered if she’d notice. They looked like dull gum-balls in a decorative bowl, and I’d acquired a taste for soap, or at least I wasn’t as disgusted as they’d wanted me to be. You can frustrate the hell out of a nun that way, by loving it, and asking her for more. But I was curious as to whether they were different flavors. I couldn’t tell; perhaps because sometimes smell and taste are inseparable. Perhaps their mystery lays in their not being of a practical shape, and round always tends to represent the erotic, like ovaries, representing the female anatomy. But there’s also a aspect in the work that I didn’t consciously think about until after writing the piece. And that was that in the victorian era, in the psychological journals, they often considered masturbation an attempt at suicide, or a suppressed death wish. And even while much of what they believed in then is laughable, maybe the act of masturbating with lavender soap was my fragrant wish to kill myself. I don’t know if I’m trying to cum or kill myself in the present either. My theory is that it keeps me from being desperate and at the mercy of women, when they aren’t readily available to me.

Dark blue was a piece I was more in love with writing, a story about a woman who’d committed a sin, that caused me to become an exile to femininity. When you can no longer trust women, there’s no longer a church to visit, there’s no safe place to hide. Dark Blue wasn’t as spontaneous as Lavender Soap, it was more evolved, I wanted to think carefully about it, I wanted some past world to be impressed. I wanted to stay immersed in a calm exile. Those who could even judge literature, now were few and far between. And because Dark Blue was also set at the Chateau, it was slowly being devoured by this more delirious work. It was like one stage of my life devouring another. And I wasn’t even in that careful mood to make a copy of it before I began cutting it up, and making fodder of it for a pop piece. I’ll probably extract Dark Blue from Lavender Soup and make it the subtle, psychological piece I’d wanted it to be; another conversation piece, the finite texture of dark blue polyester, a comfortable face and beautiful thighs, and a line, ‘I can’t believe you’d ever do this to me.’ You never expect a woman to be a criminal. It’s subtly frightening. You take the time to stare more deeply into the mystery of a pair of eyes. And when you can no longer believe in the feminine, when that door too, says deception, when it says enter at your own risk, it leaves you with no sanctuary at all in this world.

Lavender Soap was a chance to dwell on audiophilia and woodworking, even though much of the elaborations ended up on the cutting room floor, when it began to feel like This Old House. I think in every field, there’s an equilibrium with our humanness. And I think that wood and glass and analog technology was something that we can never rise above. There was no dissonance between it and the human body. We evolve technology, but the whole while we’re devolving. Like an individual, as a society, we cannot admit to wandering onto the wrong path, out onto a branch that leads to our demise, and while looking back at our past selves in arrogance, at our own expense. They’re already like zombies, and I think 5G will finish them off. Lithium, lithium, lithium. War, an OLED screen, and a sickening.

There was that first period of time exploring the Chateau when LA was magical, then I moved to D.C. and New York for a number of years. And as I did, many of the stories I’d started in my notebooks about or taking place in that setting were put on the back burner, while I was experiencing more of the in between and writing what I considered more significant novels. I’d visit Los Angeles on occasion, and the first place I’d want to get to was Venice, then after that, the Chateau Marmont. There were no marriage vows on the east coast, so I moved back to Los Angeles around 2006. I’d seen the Chateau become a less mysterious and more clamorous place during my visits but that was confirmed when I started going there frequently again. The magic was gone, for sure. And that magic was peace and quiet. Literature was becoming a dead beast, that had no place in this frivolous nature. I myself was disenchanted. I met a girl named Emma while I was living up Larrabee. I thought, maybe. And for the record, it was unfair to her that I quickly had such high expectations. I wanted a family. She said I was too smart for my own good and proceeded to eat my heart out. But I admit, I had her on the most perfect day of her life. No one will remember her so fondly. And so, at this breaking point of my life, I’d gone to a bicycle shop down Robertson and bought a chrome Bianchi Pista, trying to remain relevant and alive. I belonged in nature with a risk to life and limb; this was a crazy city now, homogenized, ceaseless, hungry. It was a point in my life when I had to seriously contemplate a return, a return home, or to academics, even while I despised its limitations, and had already fallen in love with studying outside of those restraints. I needed to give hard thought to returning to create some stability for myself, a life of normalcy, even if in some nowhere place. I already knew I’d been on a blacklist for some time by then, and well aware of the futility of trying to make it, while there are those determined to keep you down. But I kept writing, even without those motivations. And so I was riding around with that last chance to return on my mind, like always being conscious of death. The new technology had everyone riddled with something more invasive than neutrinos that just pass through everything. I was trying to shake off the stogy thoughts of literature and avoid the lack of patience that had infected everyone. And disappointment only aggravates your pride. You want to prove something, so you slip even in the bright sunlight, further into the heart of darkness. I’d try to ride through it, and write through it; the dystopian nightmare that everyone had feared would come, if they had their way, and they had their way. Without an exit strategy, the delusional self-induced Berkeley type archetypal bitch, had a plan. The illusion of an alternate world onto the real world. It had me dreaming of a landslide or a flood or a ball of fire heading right for us more than ever at the time. The freeze of disappointment settles on the brain. The billiard balls cease to scatter with infinite possibilities. You have to begin to look for your moments, then get the hell out before they burn down around you. But I would ride and when moving at the right speed, I could still say, that it was the place I first fell in love with. I played dead riding with no hands. I brought my old notepads out and began burning into Lavender Soap on a silver airbook. And again I’ll save this subject matter of writing tools and how they effect the process, for SSHS; the pen as opposed to a laptop, as opposed to a typewriter, etc. etc.

Why my father or anyone else for that matter was so miserable is about a past we cannot know. My father lived a life before I was ever born, I can’t judge him. It’s just the sight of an underwater knife and old scuba gear; everyone dives and that’s their life and no one else’s. And despite the terror in the household, he made an effort to educate me. He was a musician, so I was dragged around to Jazz festivals, which I always found fascinating, even while never being my favorite genre of music. More importantly, he loved film, and would take me to see first rate films while I was still at an impressionable age. It was Texas at a very different time. I don’t think he would in today’s world ever be able to sneak me, as a child into movies like The Godfather, The Deer Hunter, or Apocalypse Now. At least without being escorted by the police past the ‘no such thing as gender’ restroom doors, which the icon of the beast and word androgyny. Apocalypse Now is still my desert island movie, it was like candy to a child’s mind. I leave it in the DVD player for months at a time playing on a loop. It’s a movie I never tire of watching. I love when someone hates what I love, so maybe it’s a way to turn the stalkers off. Let them dwell in what will break them. It’s based on a book called Heart of Darkness, which is also one of my favorite works. It’s about the primordial model that we can’t get away from. We can build empires, then die over the wrong look. And when you’re a child, you see everything so differently, your eyes move to different parts of the screen, you take a different path through the film. You may not understand the poetry yet, or the subtext, or every word uttered, but you see another layer of beauty, that an adult might miss. And so your memory of certain elements are vivid. What’s written on a helicopter as it lands, ‘death from above’, and lavender smoke in the air making the ravages of life so pretty; like makeup on the whorish face of humankind. Then all the years have gone and it becomes like a masterpiece of background noise to a life in the continued, but post modernistic bloodbath of tribal animosities and nepotistic tendencies. The Heart of Darkness was a perfect model, because it’s the only model that makes any sense. We will die of a spear in the modern world. That dark model dwells in the modern city, and she’ll fuck us when she wants to. The end is always a bright pink clit coming down with bitterness and animosity. I can’t wait. 

When I first arrived in Los Angeles, we were consumed by the talk of lenses and cinema and the craft of filmmaking, when the craft was religion, and not political correctness. We knew our lenses. How’s political correctness done as an industry?, you may ask. Fairly well it seems. The advertisers don’t give a fuck what they’re selling or what Greco Roman history they’re destroying. They’re mercenaries. They’ve not replaced civilization with anything that will last. But now, nothing’s supposed to; not even history. Once again we can’t escape the analog nature of ourselves and how other methods aren’t as conducive for the flesh or for externalizing our fascinations for the world to see. Our inability to get away from that period will see us shrinking as human beings. We won’t be strong enough to fight off the virus. Analog is more evolved than digital, and I call this the ‘prism effect’; if you’ve ever seen a prism penetrated by sunlight, and how it separates white light into a spectrum of colors, it’s a beautiful sight. Now imagine the energy it takes and the technology to do what the prism does so simply, and without the need for batteries. We’re trying to digitize and synthesize nature until it resembles nature again, or sounds analog again, or feels like flesh again. Why? So someone can shut it off when they’ve lost control. The digital age has allowed a bunch of really strange and ‘awkweird’ people to rule over earth; and as it’s turned out they’re not immune to the thirst for war and destruction or terror. They just like to fuck things up from a distance, and don’t believe in repercussion. But someone at a pseudo think tank can cost so much life then walk to Starbucks to get a cup of coffee. We’re all vulnerable to nature. 

We can try to escape to places like Topanga or Malibu, but they want to stay connected. They don’t want the natural world to take place, even with all the natural beauty that still exists. Off the grid, makes them nervous, they’re so used to spying on everyone’s every move. It’s become their addiction, their lithium. I’m not your lithium. And it was during a time I was trying to escape, living out old Topanga road that something that might be considered trivial happened, but that in my mind was like some completion to an era of my life, like some forgiveness to put that part of my existence to rest. It was an afternoon that my girlfriend at the time and I made a stop at PC Greens along the Pacific Coast Highway, headed for a beach higher up. She waited for me while I ran in to buy a few things. And there, roaming around the store, was Martin Sheen. An old man now, but with the same face and voice. I looked into eyes I felt I knew well. I’m never one to bother actors, I know they fight for their private lives as well. But when heading for the checkout he came towards me like an old friend, and he was in a sense. And like perfection, what was playing and what was he singing to me? ‘The answer my friend is blowing in the wind.’ And he sang it as if disappointed, but as if there were time. We can’t know each other’s lives, but it was a beautiful sentiment. I went back out into the sun, elated, as if spared. Interesting. The wind took us up. We could have dissolved at that point with the waves breaking over us. Never complete, never finished.

And now, on another now. I leave the menu screen on flickering for hours, with the droning sound of the helicopter over fiery palms sweeping across my life, before I can bring myself to hit ‘play film’ again. 

-Alan Augustine

Los Angeles, 2020

[knittastically]

A Lioness Amongst the Wolves Pt 23

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Whirling out into the hallway, my mind is so full of thoughts of Raymond that I don’t even see the young housemaid sidestepping me. Most of the pots on her tray wobble then right themselves, excepting the honey pot that sails over the edge and smashes to pieces on the flagstones.

“Shit, Madame Bérenger will have my hide for this, why don’t you look where you’re going you stupid cow?” Her green eyes are blazing, then she recognises me and as her jaw drops, she backs away from me. “Mam’selle, Mon Dieu, I mean no disrespect, I am so, so sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it was my fault I wasn’t paying attention.” I flash her a broad smile. Small, skinny and probably no more than twelve or thirteen she’s a pretty little thing not least because of her unmarked face and bright green eyes. We kneel together to pick up the potsherds.

“I take it this was breakfast for Sieur Raymond?”

“Yes, Madame Berenger sent it up for him.”

Dear God, milk, bread, honey and pottage, if the she’d taken that in to him it’s likely she’d have had a boot thrown at her head. 

“What’s in the jugs?”

“In the small one wine, and hot water for washing in the other”

“Good, take off your head cover” Yanking it off she reveals a shock of thick, copper coloured, hair which falls below her shoulders. “I should have known that with those eyes you would be a redhead.” Her smile disappears and she gasp’s as she realises, I’m pouring hot water onto my veil and using it to wipe the floor, I pass her the jug. “I’ll need you to do the same.”

“What’s your name?” She seems surprised I’d bother to ask. 

“Jénnin, Mam’selle.”

“Well Jénnin, tell me about Madame Berenger, the truth mind, I don’t want to hear gossip and tittle-tattle.”

“Oh, she’ll make me pay in some way, that’s for sure.” Jénnin sits back on her heel and shudders, perhaps she has crossed Ghislane before. “That old woman tries to make everyone think she’s a sweet old lady, like she’s everyone’s grandmother; but she looks for some weakness or secret and if she finds it, then God help you she’ll worry at it like a terrier with a rat. Madame Bérenger is a cruel, vicious, old cow; she thinks she rules the Chateau and I hate her.”

Jénnin’s look tells me more than her words, to her Ghislane Bérenger is someone to be feared.

“Just tell her that it was an accident.”

“Huh, that won’t help, she’ll never listen to the likes of me Mam’selle.”

Before I can answer I feel a kick to my arse and a high pitched, nasal voice rings out.

“Get out of my way slatterns, you should have finished your work and be back in the kitchens now where decent folk can’t see you.” 

Neither of us had noticed the approach of a beanpole of a woman. As we scramble to our feet Jénnin moves aside but I stand square. Despite her exquisite clothes and a King’s ransom worth of gold and jewels, there is a whiff of something unpleasant about the woman. It’s not easily disguised even by the expensive perfume she wears. Trying to calm the wriggling, whining lapdog clutched against her breast she speaks again barely opening her mouth. “Don’t you know to make way for your betters?” Stepping closer she frees one hand and grabs my arm to pull me aside.

“Madame, I strongly advise you to leave go of me unless would like me to set you on your backside, and please don’t speak to me or any the household staff in that way again; you are a guest here and I would ask that you behave accordingly.”  The shock on her face is almost comical to see, I doubt few people have dared to speak to her like that let alone a “Servant”

You,” She snaps at Jénnin, “Go and find Sieur Raymond, he will hear of this insolence.” turning back to me she adds “Doubtless when he hears of your behaviour, you will have the beating you deserve.”

She must be almost as tall as Raymond and I tilt my back head to look at her. “There is no need Madame, I will fetch Sieur Raymond, his chamber is on the other side of that door, and I’m sure my husband to be will be most interested to hear what you have to say.” 

Jénnin splutters, hides it with a cough and presses her lips tightly together, I toss our soiled head-cloths onto the tray. “Off you go now Jénnin and remember what I said.”

“Yes Mam”selle.” She curtseys and bustles off down the stairs.

The woman in front of me is tense, the colour has drained from her face. Peering down her long nose she rakes her gaze over me, I can feel it scraping my flesh. “You must forgive me, I’m not used to quaint country manners that allow well-bred women to go about in bare feet and with uncovered hair.” I look  beyond her shoulder, Guillaume and Mathieu have ambled towards us and I can tell they have heard everything. Stopping short they stand arms folded, heads cocked watching with growing amusement.

“It’s of no matter Madame, it seems Paris manners are no better, they certainly don’t travel well, oh and dogs will not be allowed in hall during the celebrations, so you will keep yours confined to your chamber; and you will take it outside to relieve itself, well away from the courtyard. I will not have dog shit tramped into the hall.”

“Please couldn’t you make an exception for this one little dog?” Simpering and smiling, she leans in towards me and it’s obvious why she keeps her mouth almost closed; Either she has a festering abscess or her teeth are rotting. The smell almost makes me gag and I try not to breathe in too deeply. “Madame, even Monseigneur Baron and Sieur Raymond have exiled their hounds to the kennels during the wedding celebrations, there can be no exceptions, even for this sweet thing”

“If you insist.” She snaps and with a nasty sneering smile continues, “I suppose Sieur Raymond must know his own mind, but he’ll come to regret it soon enough, that he’s marrying someone with no more manners than a peasant.” Smiling at her small triumph, the beanpole strides past me. I can’t be bothered to be angry with her.

Guillaume and Mathieu are grinning at me.

“What?

Guillaume slips an arm around my waist and pecks my cheek.

“Isabé, you’re magnificent, you look like a scullery maid and behave like a grand lady.” He laughs again. “I would love to hear what Sieur Raymond had to say if he caught sight of you.”

“I should think he’ll say very little, especially if he wants to keep his cods attached!”

“Ahh that’s my feisty sister, bold and brave taking on the Paris dragons and miserable old knights”

“Oh, shut up and let go of me, the peasant must go and change.”

“Did you check Raymond’s wound.”

“No, the binding looked clean”

“Well I’d best make sure, or Anselme will have my hide if anything goes wrong.” “I wish you luck with that Raymond’s weary, sore, grumpy and likely to rip your head off if you pester him.”

Mathieu chuckles and winks at me, “He’s his usual self then, still he’s a strong man and I’m sure he’ll be fit for his wedding night, hein.”

Oh, don’t worry, if he should pull his stitches my flair for needlework isn’t confined to cloth, Henri saw to that, he made me practice on pieces of raw pork!”

“A good skill for the wife of a soldier to have Mam’selle.”

“I suppose so.” 

“Is there something else Isabé? 

I feel my throat tighten and my eyes begin to sting. “Raymond didn’t have an easy night, I'm just glad he doesn’t remember anything when he wakes.”

Guillaume hugs me tight, “Next time it won’t seem so bad and don’t worry I’ll make sure he has a quiet day.”

“Thank you.” I kiss his cheek.

Mathieu’s mouth widens into a broad smile.

“I promise we’ll try and keep him from doing anything….”

“Stupid?” I offer the word.

“I was thinking reckless, but stupid will suffice.” And I hear. him laugh as he closes the door softly behind them.

I run back to my chamber. As I enter the room, Jehanne spins round and glares at me shaking her head at my appearance.

“About time, I was ready to send a search party, though I’m damned sure I know where you’ve been; I have a fresh gown ready and there is warm water in the ewer.” Not much given to gossip I can tell she is fighting her curiosity and itching to ask about me and Raymond.

“I’ll put you out of your misery Jehanne, nothing happened.” I hope she can't tell I'm lying.

“Isabé how could you even think I would pry.” Her expression is demure but there’s a twinkle in her eye.

“How?” Because you’re practically hopping from foot to foot like an excited child” “I am not.” Pouting, she gestures for me to turn around so that she can comb my hair. “Besides it isn’t my business.” Her disinterest lasts for three strokes of the comb.

“Tell me, how was the handsome Sieur Raymond, was he tender, gentle, passionate, wild or all of those?”

I shoot my elbow backwards and she grunts as I jab her non-too gently in her ribs.

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Really, so how did you come by the marks on your face?” Catching hold of my shoulders she turns me to face her. Through narrowed eyes she watches and waits, I feel the flush rise up my neck.

“It was an accident”

“The truth Isabé.”

“It is the truth.” Tightness starts in my chest and moves to my throat, tears form, and I let them come. They fall fast and hot and between hard, heaving sobs I tell her most of what happened.  Jehanne pulls me tight against her gently stroking my hair as I bawl against her shoulder, dampening the cloth with tears and snot. “Hush now Isabé, hush sweetheart.” She cups my face in her hands, her voice is gentle and full of understanding “All you can do is speak softly, be calm and afterwards make sure he rests. I have seen your mother do just that for Henri.” She kisses my forehead. “Now, dry your eyes, the redness will soon go, as for your face.” Shaking her head, she clucks at me. With cold cloths, arnica salve and a little of God’s good grace, it might not look so bad come Saturday. You know Isabé, I think, you are beginning to fall in love with Raymond at least just a little.” Beaming, she brings thumb and index finger together until they almost touch.

“No, no I don’t.” Jehanne’s grin is making me more than a little uncomfortable. “If you say so, but I know he can make you burn for him Isabé, I have seen him do it, he must have been Very hard to resist.”

Looking down at the floor I study my toes and watch a spider crawl under the chair. “I admit, when he was himself, I lay in his bed, we curled together, I whispered soothing words and held him as he slept but nothing else take it or leave it. Is that plain enough for you? Breathing deeply to calm myself, I close my eyes against her searching look. She need not know the rest of it, but I can see in her face she knows there is more.

“Isabé, if you say so, then I believe you, but have care for your reputation, it wasn’t wise of you to stay with him all night unchaperoned, especially when we have the King here.”

“I should think His Majesty has more important matters to occupy him and I doubt with his reputation that he would judge me.”

“But are you judging me Jehanne?” I hold her gaze and she steps back. I know I was a fool where Théo was concerned but this is different, I marry Raymond the day after tomorrow so if I should choose to lay with him before our wedding, who am I harming?” My voice is still cool, I don’t care whether she believes me or not.

Her eyes flutter closed as she swallows hard then answers me in a soft voice. “I’m not judging you Isabé, how can you think I would.” She takes hold of my hand “But I still say you’re not quite truthful to yourself, I think you love Raymond at least a little, even after such a short time, you know it here.” She taps two fingers to my forehead then places them near my heart and taps between my breasts. “And you feel it here.”

“No, I made that mistake once before, I shan’t do it again.”

“Be careful you don’t push him away, he’s been hurt before too.”

Jehanne lapses into silence as she finishes combing my hair, and suddenly a dreadful, mean thought worms into my head.

“Raymond knew all about Théo, Jehanne.”

“What?” She lets the ivory comb slips from her hand and clatters on the floor.

“The day he left for Paris I admitted to him that Théo had been my lover, I thought I owed him that much at least.”

“Well, you know people were already beginning to wonder about the two of you, it wouldn’t have been so difficult for him to discover, he is a spy for God’s sake.” I admire her calmness.

“Perhaps that’s true, but then how did he know about the child Jehanne, only you and I knew about that.”

Taken by surprise she pales; her mouth hangs slack, her eyes are wide. “My God, you truly believe I told him?” Her words crack out and she trembles with fury. “Damn you Isabé for thinking I would betray you.” She yells at me now. “How dare you, I should slap you until your ears ring and your teeth rattle.”

“Someone told him, someone close to me”

“Fuck you Isabé, damn you to hell for thinking so ill of me” As she yells at me again, she raises her hand high, palm open. 

A tight, cold little smile sets on my lips “Don’t you dare raise your voice and hand to me; If you slap me Jehanne, I’ll set you on your arse and you know I can do it.” We stand toe to toe; her eyes flash fire as she holds my look.

“I give you fair warning, if ever I discover it was you who betrayed me, you will be dead to me.” She drops a curtsey, “If you have no more need of me, I bid you good morning, Mam’selle.” then with absolute calm and grace, she leaves the chamber.

The sheet and coverlet are shoved into in a rumpled heap behind Raymond. Eyes closed, smiling, he sits on the edge of the bed and thinks of Isabé. Seeing again her heavy-lidded eyes and full lips; the triangle of dark curls and the pale blonde hair that slithered and slipped over him as she bruised him with teeth and tongue. Tracing his long fingers over the purple brand on his flesh he knows that he will always belong to her.

Laughing and joking Guillaume and Mathieu enter Raymond’s chamber.

“And what in hell do the pair of you find so fucking amusing this morning?”

“Your Lady Wife to be has just sent one of the noblewomen packing with a very large flea in her ear.”

“Oh, sweet Christ, I swear if we get through this damned wedding without a riot a mishap or a murder, I’ll eat my boots.”

“It was only…Mathieu begins.

“Stop. I don’t want to know.” Raymond sighs and scrubs his hands up and down his face.

“Probably wise.” Guillaume mumbles under his breath and louder adds.“Sieur I must check your wound, Anselme made me swear to do it and if anything should go wrong, he’ll likely flay me alive, provided my Sister doesn’t get to me first.

“Guillaume leave it be, I promise you the dressing is clean, though I’ll admit if it did turn foul, I’d rather face Anselme than Isabé.” Raymond winks at his Squire. Guillaume grins, “Oh, I agree, which is why I insist on checking on it before you attend evening meal,”

“Now find me something decent to wear and for fuck’s sake don’t trick me out like a Palace Peacock.”

“Sieur, we both know you don’t possess a single garment which would transform you into that particular bird.” Is Guillaume’s dry response.

Mathieu bites at the inside of his mouth and Raymond roars with laughter at the accurate assessment of his meagre and not quite fashionable wardrobe.

“And you Mathieu, what have you come to bother me with?”

“Just to receive my orders for the day Sieur”

“Well I’m certain my most capable Captain already has everything in order, so perhaps you could make sure that Isabé doesn’t manage to insult one half of the guests and batter the other half before the wedding.” He raises one eyebrow.

“Of course.” Mathieu tries not to laugh.

“Yes Sieur, with luck and the wind in the right direction, we should just about manage it; but you know how my sister is, I’d sooner try to herd cats.”

The long tunic Guillaume chooses is of fine, tawny coloured wool trimmed on all edges with gold, green and red embroidery. Over it he wears a shorter murrey coloured surcote, with the de Merville arms stitched in gold thread. A long, leather belt, decorated with gold ornaments, and soft brown leather short boots complete his wardrobe. He might not be considered fashionable, but he is as elegant and handsome as Guillaume has ever seen him, and the squires heart aches for what can never be.

“Do you require anything more Sieur; there would have been food for you but there was a mishap I will attend to it.”

“Don’t bother with food, I’m not hungry Guillaume, Mathieu, you and I will speak later about some easy training.” Mathieu frowns.

“So soon, is that wise?”

“Your concern about my health is appreciated Capt.” Raymond gives him a wry smile.

“Forgive me Sieur, but my concern is more with my own health, Mam’selle  ordered me not to let you train or exercise.”

“Ordered you? Christ preserve us she has some nerve, now out both of you leave me in peace. Oh, and not a hint to Isabé about what we discussed before we went to Paris.”

Neither of them misses his gentle smile, and before they are even out of the door, he’s heading to the side chamber. From the chest at the end of the room he pulls out a coffret, it’s nothing special to look at, very plain and more than a little battered; but if the box could talk it would speak of joy and kindness, sadness and pain. He lifts the lid and caresses the red silk cloth. On Saturday, for the first time since he returned from Constantinople, he will unwrap the contents offer them to Isabé as a wedding present. By gifting the contents to the woman he loves, he will honour a promise he made five years ago. Sighing he closes his eyes and remembers an olive skinned, dark eyed woman.

“Papa, Papa,”

“Damn.” Raymond digs the quill nib on the document he is signing and ink spatters across it. As he stands up Nicolette races into the chamber and hurtles towards him. Grunting slightly from the pain, he gathers her up in his arms and she squeals with delight as he swings her around and around before settling her on his left hip. Wraps her arms around his neck she snuffles her nose into his beard as he presses a kiss to the top of her head.

“You smell nice Papa, and your beard isn’t so scratchy now, I like it better.” Her expression is so serious that Raymond can’t help but laugh.”

“And good morning to you my little tearaway, you look as if you’ve been rolling in the kitchen ashes.”

“Forgive our unruly daughter Raymond, she forgets her manners and looks and behaves no better than an urchin.” With smudges on her face and dress, scuffed shoes and her long dark hair awry, the child certainly doesn’t look as if she is the daughter of a nobleman.

“I wanted to come and see you, but Mama was going to make me wash and change and I couldn’t wait.” From her vantage point she scowls and pouts, bright blue eyes so like Raymond’s flash something like defiance at Eleanor.

“Nicolette,” Eleanor’s voice is sharp “That is not the way to behave.”

“I’ve been riding, that’s what I came to tell you, I’ve been riding very fast, and jumping and..”

“And falling off?” He frowns and looks across at Eleanor, who just smiles, shrugs and nods her head.

Nicolette just giggles at him. “Yes, look,” Freeing one hand she hitches up her skirts and proudly shows off her battle scars of torn hose and a pair of bruised and bloodied knees. “But I didn’t cry, Davide made sure I was all right and I got straight back into the saddle I did it again and went faster and higher and this time I didn’t fall off”

“For pity’s sake child, draw breath.” He gently presses his fingers to her lips and kisses her forehead. She Kisses his nose in return.

“You aren’t cross with me, are you Papa?”

“Of course not.” He is so proud of her, his features soften as he sets her down, but she looks straight up at him a worried look in her eyes.

“Mama said you had been hurt, did you cry?”

“No,” he bends down and whispers, “But keep it a secret, I swore a great deal.” Nicolette puts her mouth close to his ear and whispers solemnly “Oh Papa, so did I, I said Damn it to Hell.”

Raymond sucks in his cheeks and bites down to stifles a laugh.

“Well that’s not so bad but what did Mama say when she heard.?”

“She didn’t hear.”

He seriously doubts that, looks across at Eleanor, winks and realises that she has something on her mind. 

“Nicolette, go and fetch the box and board, you can play with it while I talk to Mama.” Apart from her pony it is her favourite thing and she skips away to fetch it. Eleanor grimaces slightly as her daughter tips thirty-two exquisitely carved and coloured ivory pieces onto the bed, but Raymond doesn’t seem to mind as the she clambers up and starts bashing them together, issuing orders to her own little army. To anyone but Raymond, Eleanor’s expression would have given nothing away, but he notices the slight tightness around her eyes, a tension in her shoulders, all signs that he isn’t going to like what she has to say. As she as she tells him about Théo and Ghislane, she watches him closely and is near enough to see tiny flecks of green fire in his blue eyes the twitch of muscle at the edge of his jaw, a sure sign he is raging. Raymond braces the palms of his hands against the table and all he can hear is the thudding of his heart. “I know they are working against the King, but do you really believe they are a threat to Isabé?”

“Oh Raymond, think, what, better way of getting to you and drawing you into their fight.”

“The bastard, I should take a knife to his throat now, as for that treacherous old bitch.”

Eleanor lays a hand on his arm. “Perhaps, but you won’t Raymond, we need to know their plans, their contacts and so like the rest of us you will wait and watch. The King has appointed me Isabé’s protector.” 

“What, why you and not me? Raymond slams his hand down.

 “If you must ask, then you’re a bigger fool than I imagined; you’re too close to her Raymond it may cloud your judgment.”

Taking hold of her hand he brings it to his lips. “Do what you must then and thank you.

“I’ll do my best, Nicolette, put those aside, we must go.”

“Oh, Mama do I have too?”

Raymond smiles indulgently at his daughter “Leave her with me, I’ve missed the little baggage and every time I come home, she’s changed so much.”

“As you wish.” She nods at Raymond, he could have been a very different father, cold and disinterested; the fact that he isn’t is something she will always be grateful for.

“Holy Mother of God, who’s rubbed you the wrong way, you’ve got a face like a hound chewing a wasp?”

Ghislane grins as Jehanne plonks herself down beside her on the bench “It’s of no matter and besides we have something to settle.” She holds up her hand showing the fine ring with the blue stone. “Eleanor may well have helped with the preparations for the wedding so that half of the wager is complete; but I am certain Raymond hasn’t bedded Isabé. As far as I’m concerned the wager void Ghislane.”

“Oh, and how can you be certain, I know for a fact she spent the night in his room, so do you honestly expect me to believe that they weren’t riding each other into a muck sweat all night?”

“Isabé says Raymond was in no fit state, besides he had an attack of terrors” Jehanne suddenly narrows her eyes at the older woman. “Besides, how do you know Isabé stayed there?”

Ghislane snorts. “Well, you have just admitted she did, but I’m the Chatelaine my dear, not much escapes me, I make it my business to keep a check on all the comings and goings and it pays in every way to know who is doing what and with whom.”

“You mean you blackmail them?”

“Oh, that’s such a nasty word Jehanne, no, people are usually very forthcoming without any encouragement from me. If they chose to buy my silence of their own accord, then why should I stop them?” She leans down and whispers, “I have it on good authority Isabé left his chamber this morning and she had a smile on her face as broad as my arse, now tell me again he hasn’t fucked her.” Jehanne holds firm.

“Well perhaps he hasn’t yet girl, but the wager stands there's time yet for him to get between her legs.”

“It won’t happen.” Jehanne is adamant.

“Think that if you will my dear, but if it does, believe me I will know. Now I have things to attend to, these Paris Nobles are a pain in the arse with all the extra work they’re causing. I’m looking forwards to claiming my winnings from you and I do hope you won’t be a bad loser. Her voice is soft, but Jehanne doesn’t miss the warning in Ghislaine’s parting words and shivers at the subtle threat.

“Dear God, was she the one who told Raymond?”

“Enter.”

The door creaks slightly and Eleanor pokes her head around. “Isabé, I should like to speak with you if it’s convenient.”

“Of course, please come in.” I gesture to the most comfortable chair and pour wine for us both.

Sipping at her wine it’s some moments before she speaks her silence is making me nervous.

“You know, you really are quite a remarkable, level headed young woman.” My wine goes the wrong way down my throat leaving me coughing and spluttering.

“I think others may use very different words Eleanor.”

“Perhaps, but I am not others and I choose my words deliberately."

“I’ll be honest with you Eleanor; I’d rather you weren’t part of Raymond’s life, but you are and there’s an end to it. The day I found you in Raymond's chamber, I was determined to dislike you, even to hate you, but sometimes things never work out quite as we imagine, do they?”

With a wry smile on her face she raises her wine cup in a toast. "You have reconciled yourself to me and Nicolette and there Isabé Pelletier, is the steel which runs through you, when you stepped on to the field, you drew your battle lines straight away. I admire you for that, it must have taken a deal of courage.” "Well I didn’t think Raymond would care to keep playing Solomon as we try to claw lumps out of each other. It’s easier if we know where we stand and at least try to be civil,” I sip at my wine.”

“I agree, now,  there is no point my keeping this from you any longer.” When she has finished her tale, I take several slow deep breaths and a mouthful of wine to steady myself. I always knew Théo could be devious, but this? “Does Raymond know?

“He does, and now there are things that we must discuss.” She pours more wine and fixes me with a cool look.

All work finished, Raymond sits on the edge of his bed and watches fondly as Nicolette arranges the chess pieces to her own liking.

“One day I shall teach you how to play the game properly.” Raymond ruffles Nicolette’s hair then without warning he scoops her up from the bed, ignoring the pain as the stitches pull taut “So what do think Ma Petite, shall we go down to the kitchens, beg DuFour for some special treat for you, then off to the stables, saddle up your pony again and you can show me how clever you are.”

“Please Papa, Chef always has honey wafers and I want you to watch me ride, Mama say’s I’m very good.” She plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“Well if Mama say’s so then it must be true.” He laughs and once out of the chamber hoists her onto his shoulders, clamps her legs tightly against his chest and sets off down the stairs.

As they enter the hot, raucous kitchen, he sets Nicolette down and she trots off towards DuFour, as soon as he catches sight of his little visitor, he gives her a wide smile; in a flash she is sitting on a table, swinging her legs and stuffing herself with sweet wafers and milk. Pouring two cups of wine and hands one to Raymond and slides another plate of honey wafers onto the table.

“Sieur, if you would care to try these, I would value your opinion.”

Raymond laughs, “DuFour, you’re asking the wrong man my friend, you should ask my daughter.” Nicolette’s face is smeared with honey and crumbs and there are stains on her gown where she’s wiped her sticky fingers. “There’s your judge man, I’m no authority on food other than knowing what will keep an army on its feet and fit to fight, my expertise ends there.”

DuFour knows damned well that isn’t true, the man has a fine palate, but he doesn’t argue, just watches as Raymond pops a wafer into his mouth, then grins as he hears the little sound of pleasure he makes at the first taste. The wafer melts on Raymonds tongue, the taste of honey, butter and spice fills his mouth bringing back childhood memories. For a moment he closes his eyes, when he opens them, DuFour he raises his brows.

“For the wedding feast Sieur.”

“Isabé will love them and his Majesty will doubtless try to spirit you back to Paris on the strength of them.”

“Ah Sieur on that point.”

“You mean he’s already tried to steal you away.”

“Indeed, but courteously of course, I told him to go F…” Raymond raises one eyebrow and nods towards Nicolette, DuFour coughs. “I thanked him, said I was honoured and then said no.”

“Thank God for that, now seeing that this little mischief would eat them until she burst I think we had best make our way to the stables.” 

“Yes Papa.” She mumbles through a mouthful of wafer. Raymond shakes his head, Eleanor won’t be best pleased when she sees the state of her. 

They are barely half way across the ward when Fournier strides up to them, he seems tired and anxious.

“Sieur Raymond, if you could spare me a few moments I should be grateful.” “Of course, In fact I was hoping to discuss the special arrangements I mentioned.” He turns back towards the kitchen.

“Sieur, please, I think my chamber would be best.”

Sébastien Fournier is agitated, rarely has he felt this nervous in his life and it shows. Seated in a comfortable chair, with Nicolette on his lap, Raymond sits quietly settles his daughter against his chest and waits. He sees how Fournier’s hand trembles as he pours wine, notices his reluctance to speak. Finally, the Seneschal, calms himself.

“Sieur Raymond, what I have to say to you, may cause you to change your mind about marrying Isabé Pelletier.

Raymond’s voice is low and calm.  “I doubt there’s anything that could make me do that, and please, leave the formality aside Sébastien.”

“As you wish, but this is difficult for me Raymond, there is something you must know, my conscience demands it, as for the rest of the household I will leave that up to you……and Isabé to decide. He fixes Raymond with cool stare “Isabé is my Daughter.”

The silence can be sliced with a knife as the men face each other across the table. Half asleep, Nicolette whimpers “Papa you’re hurting me” and Raymond suddenly realises he is squeezing her sticky fingers in an iron grip.

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[mellymarena]

Full Product Review from Lancome Makeup, Skincare, & Fragrance

Think beautiful, think happy, think feminine and you have Lancôme. Deriving its style and mission from the effortless chic of Parisian women, this pioneering brand is one of the most successful in history and continues to win over make-up artists, skin therapists and cosmetics lovers the world over.

Lancôme Fragrance

Combining cutting edge science, with the best of nature and a genuine understanding of women’s needs and desires, Lancôme’s iconic products include the Visionnaire and Génifique skincare ranges, cult perfumes such as Trésor and Lancome La Vie est Belle, plus the coveted Hypnôse mascaras, Absolue lipsticks and Teint foundations.

Little wonder than that celebrities such as Penelope Cruz, Julia Roberts, Kate Winslet and Lupita Nyong’o have chosen work as ambassadors for this much-loved brand. With an array of products to care for and inspire you, whatever your mood, Lancôme has something to offer every woman…

Lancôme Origins

Named after the Lancosme chateau, Lancôme was founded in France by Armand Petitjean, originally as a perfumery. The castle provided inspiration for the brand’s iconic rose logo, epitomising Petitjean’s vision for elegant, typically French beauty.

Since its launch in 1935 with just five fragrances, Lancôme has grown to include luxury skincare, make-up and bodycare. It is now among the most trusted and best-selling beauty brands ever, continuing its proud history of taking Gallic style to the rest of the world.

Your Lancôme must-haves:

Lancôme Visionnaire

To get the best results, it pays to use the best products. See your skincare as an investment and you’ll be thankful down the track. Even as little as a month down the track – if you’re using Lancôme Visionnaire Advanced Skin Corrector, that is!

The product that we all know and love has recently been made over (yes, after receiving almost 100 international awards and winning over scientists and beauty experts alike, Lancôme decided it could go one step further) and the amazing results must be seen to be believed.

But first let’s backtrack to 2001, when Visionnaire [LR 2412 4%] Advanced Skin Corrector was quite the ground-breaker. The first serum capable of recreating exceptionally beautiful skin, the secret lay with its unique LR 2412 molecule. Created in an eco-friendly way by Lancôme’s team of researchers, this ingredient has a high affinity with the skin and allows it to permeate evenly into the epidermis.

Now, the formula has been further developed for even more effectiveness. Ever the perfectionists, the French cosmetics house doubled the biological strategy of LR 2412, to create LR 2412-Cx. This is a unique combination of two molecules that allows optimum balance and distribution of Visionnaire. In layman’s terms – twice the effectiveness!

With Visionnaire, you’ll notice:

– Lightweight oils, to nourish the skin without shine

– Optical agents, to leave a powdery soft finish

– Enhanced blurring, to further erase uneven skintone

– Fine pearly particles, to give an illuminating effect

Lancôme Advanced Genifique

A youth-activating concentrate, Advanced Genifique targets a range of concerns in just one drop. Here’s why we can’t get enough of it:

Results

In just ONE week, you will begin to see changes in your skin.

Backed by science

Formulated without any parabens, phthalates or sulfates, rest assured that your skin is in the best hands possible.

Patented formula

The special mix of potent-yet-caring ingredients and supercharged formulation is patented – so if you want the results this combination gives, you’ll only find it in this bottle!

Targets 10 signs of ageing

This is multi-tasking skincare at its best. In just a few drops, Lancôme Advanced Génifique improves the look of:

– Texture

– Skin tone

– Elasticity

– Clarity

– Firmness

– Radiance

– Sagginess

– Wrinkles

– Strength

– Fine lines

Suits any age group

Did you know that Lancôme Advanced Génifique can be used at any stage of your life? No matter your age, it will work to nourish, add radiance, hydrate and preserve a youthful look.

Easy, innovative application

The self-loading dropper ensures only the exact right amount is dispensed, each and every time, meaning no wastage and the peace-of-mind that your skin is receiving the correct dose.

Fits into all skincare routines

Extremely versatile, it can be used morning, night or both and in conjunction with your preferred cleansers, moisturizers and treatment products

Lancôme DreamTone

Combining cutting-edge research with the luxury and style of French skincare, DreamTone is your answer for beautiful, dark spot-free skin. With unique technology, the revolutionary serum targets different pigmentation issues using a triple action approach – so you get long-term results!

How DreamTone helps remove your spots

Three made-to-measure formulas seek to correct dark spots, irregularities in tone and unevenness in texture. Active ingredients are tailored to each unique pigmentation concern, helping to:

Improve radiance

Minimise excess synthesis of melanin (our skin’s colouring)

Re-shape the skin structure

Lessen inflammation

Stimulate blood circulation

Decrease ruddiness and discolouration

Diminish sallow, dull skin

Reduce the appearance of blemishes

Unique, light-diffusing agents instantly brighten and give skin a more uniform look for that healthy, toned complexion you’ve always dreamed of!

Lancôme Hypnôse

Comprising Doll Eyes, Precious Cells, Drama and Custom-Wear, choose the Hypnôse family of mascaras for the ultimate in length, curl, volume and separation, from root to tip!

What makes Hypnôse so successful? Here are some insider secrets!

1. Hypnôse has won over 130 international awards.

2. The Soft-Sculpt™ formula, associated with a lengthening and coating Polymer complex has been one of the keys to the success of Hypnôse over the past decade.

3. The Hypnôse PowerFULL brush has around 1,000 bristles, which use ‘sensors’ to seek out even the teeniest of lashes.

4. Hypnôse is the number one mascara in Europe.

5. For the past ten years, one Hypnôse mascara is sold every 10 seconds across the world.

Lancôme Rouge Absolue

They’re creamy. They’re vibrant. They’re glossy… and they’re luxuriously packaged. Lancome lipstick is like no other. Used by make-up artists around the globe, there’s a colour to suit every mood and a texture to withstand all those pesky makeup-removing behaviours (you know, kissing, eating, drinking, waiting outside in the elements).

Loaded with lip-loving nourishment – think hydration, SPF and vitamins – Rouge Absolue won’t feather and are super easy to apply. Looking chic at all times, has never been easier, but really, would you expect anything less from the French?

TEINT FOUNDATIONS

Offering a variety of foundations, Lancome foundation is renowned for its high quality powder, cream and liquid foundations. Make-up artists and women the world over enjoy the buildable coverage, from sheer and natural to full and high impact, catering to each individual skin type.

My skin is normal

You can get away with pretty much any formula! Keep everything in balance, looking for a foundation that will provide just the right amount of radiance, moisture and anti-shine. The perfect candidate for a product with SPF, check out Lancôme Miracle Air De Teint SPF 15 or Lancôme Teint Idole Ultra 24H SPF 15

Lancôme Teint Miracle

My skin is oily

You’ll love a compact. The powder will mop up any shine, giving a long-lasting, matte finish. Your skin will be left soft, while coverage can be built up to your desired level – and touch-ups are super easy! We recommend Lancôme Teint Miracle Natural Light Creator

My skin is sensitive

Gentle, light foundation is what you should look for. Let your skin breathe with a BB cream type of formulation, which will reduce any irritation, provide hydration and protect from the sun. Here is our suggestion – Lancôme Teint Idole Ultra Compact

My skin is mature

A nourishing, firming formulation is what you need. As well as hydrating the skin, this sort of foundation will plump, restore vitality and help to diminish the appearance of wrinkles – ensuring the product never settles into them!

Source: https://www.adorebeauty.com.au/lancome/guide/how-to-wear-lancome

[bookinghotelbg]

The Necklace Version

Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)

De Maupassant was born at the Chateau de Miromesnil in 1850. Distinguished though he is as a master of the novel form, and in spite of the fact that his half-dozen novels are powerful and significant works, it is his stories, of which he wrote several hundred, that constitute his chief claim to immortality. He is one of the first modern writers who consistently applied himself to the development of the short story as a separate literary form.

The Necklace is generally conceded to be one of Maupassant’s most highly finished achievements. Though it belongs technically to the “surprise” type so ingeniously utilized at a later date by O. Henry, the surprise which marks the point of the tale is introduced not for its own sake alone, but in order to reveal at a stroke the tragedy through which Mathilde has lived.

The present version, translated by Jonathan Sturges, is reprinted by permission of the publisher, from The Odd Number, Harper & Brothers.

The Necklace

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams.

The Necklace  She thought of the silent ante-chambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.

Source: https://balkans.marietaminkova.com/the-necklace-part-1/

The Necklace part 1

[bookingpackagesbg]

The Necklace Version

Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)

De Maupassant was born at the Chateau de Miromesnil in 1850. Distinguished though he is as a master of the novel form, and in spite of the fact that his half-dozen novels are powerful and significant works, it is his stories, of which he wrote several hundred, that constitute his chief claim to immortality. He is one of the first modern writers who consistently applied himself to the development of the short story as a separate literary form.

The Necklace is generally conceded to be one of Maupassant’s most highly finished achievements. Though it belongs technically to the “surprise” type so ingeniously utilized at a later date by O. Henry, the surprise which marks the point of the tale is introduced not for its own sake alone, but in order to reveal at a stroke the tragedy through which Mathilde has lived.

The present version, translated by Jonathan Sturges, is reprinted by permission of the publisher, from The Odd Number, Harper & Brothers.

The Necklace

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams.

The Necklace  She thought of the silent ante-chambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.

Source: https://balkans.marietaminkova.com/the-necklace-part-1/

The Necklace part 1

[bgineurope]

The Necklace Version

Guy de Maupassant (1850-1893)

De Maupassant was born at the Chateau de Miromesnil in 1850. Distinguished though he is as a master of the novel form, and in spite of the fact that his half-dozen novels are powerful and significant works, it is his stories, of which he wrote several hundred, that constitute his chief claim to immortality. He is one of the first modern writers who consistently applied himself to the development of the short story as a separate literary form.

The Necklace is generally conceded to be one of Maupassant’s most highly finished achievements. Though it belongs technically to the “surprise” type so ingeniously utilized at a later date by O. Henry, the surprise which marks the point of the tale is introduced not for its own sake alone, but in order to reveal at a stroke the tragedy through which Mathilde has lived.

The present version, translated by Jonathan Sturges, is reprinted by permission of the publisher, from The Odd Number, Harper & Brothers.

The Necklace

She was one of those pretty and charming girls who are sometimes, as if by a mistake of destiny, born in a family of clerks. She had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being known, understood, loved, wedded, by any rich and distinguished man; and she let herself be married to a little clerk at the Ministry of Public Instruction.

She dressed plainly because she could not dress well, but she was as unhappy as though she had really fallen from her proper station; since with women there is neither caste nor rank; and beauty, grace, and charm act instead of family and birth. Natural fineness, instinct for what is elegant, suppleness of wit, are the sole hierarchy, and make from women of the people the equals of the very greatest ladies.

She suffered ceaselessly, feeling herself born for all the delicacies and all the luxuries. She suffered from the poverty of her dwelling, from the wretched look of the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness of the curtains. All those things, of which another woman of her rank would never even have been conscious, tortured her and made her angry. The sight of the little Breton peasant who did her humble housework aroused in her regrets which were despairing, and distracted dreams.

The Necklace  She thought of the silent ante-chambers hung with Oriental tapestry, lit by tall bronze candelabra, and of the two great footmen in knee-breeches who sleep in the big armchairs, made drowsy by the heavy warmth of the hot-air stove. She thought of the long salons fitted up with ancient silk, of the delicate furniture carrying priceless curiosities, and of the coquettish perfumed boudoirs made for talks at five o’clock with intimate friends, with men famous and sought after, whom all women envy and whose attention they all desire.

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The Necklace part 1