#set of six mahogany dining chairs

[thakefurniture]

Pair of Georgian Chairs, pair of antique chairs : Antique Dining Chairs - Mahogany Dining Chairs, UK - Antique Dining Chairs

[wavyhairedvixen]

fandom: (heavily inspired by) Bram Stoker’s Dracula

tags: smut, vampire, adult content, f/m relationship, readerxDracula, shortstory

Contains 18+ content

Holiday gone awry

Chapter 1

As you peered out of the window of the cab you could see the outlines of what seemed to be a castle on top of a nearby hill. The moon was full and the trees cast eerie shadows along the road leading up the hill. A howl could be heard in the distance sending shivers down your spine.

“What was that?” You asked the taxi driver.

“Nothing you should be concerned about, Miss,” answered the scruffy looking cabby in a bored tone.

Suddenly everything went dark as a cloud obscured the moon and the howling became louder. Your blood froze in your veins when you heard the panting and growling of the creatures of the forest. You peeked out of the window again and saw hundreds of red eyes glowing in the dark creeping closer to the vehicle.

Suddenly as the cloud passed and the moonlight illuminated the land once again the frightening sight was gone just like the howls and growls of the hounds of hell.

“What were those creatures?” You asked with a trembling voice.

The pale skinned man exchanged a quick look with you and shrugged, turning his stoic gaze back to the road.

The car came to a halt as it reached the main entrance of the castle. You quickly hopped out of the vehicle and hurried to the wooden porch of the gothic mansion. The chilly air carried the smell of earth and damp leaves. You knocked on the monstrous ironbound door a few times before it opened with a creaking sound. To your surprise there was a tall shadow leaning onto the doorframe. For a brief moment, you forgot all the horrors you had encountered along your journey and just stood there, admiring the man in front of you. He was around six feet tall, wearing a black turtleneck sweater that complemented his icy blue eyes, pale skin and slicked-back raven hair. He greeted you with a genuine smile and a flicker of mischief in his gaze.

“Good evening, Miss y/n! Please come in, and let Pierre take care of your luggage.”

He stepped aside, motioning toward the hall of the building. As soon as you stepped over the treshold, the heavy oak door closed with a loud thud. The butler didn’t even bother to look at you as he took your bags.

“Good evening! You must be Mr. Awry, it’s nice to meet you!” You smiled and held out a hand to the man.

The man took your hand and planted a kiss on your knuckle. „It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Miss y/n!” he greeted you and gently assisted in taking off your coat. „I will show you to your room after dinner,” explained the tall man. “Now, please follow me! I assume you must be tired after the long trip from the city to my residence,” he went on as he led you into a spacious room. The walls were covered with crimson-colored tapestry and Persian rugs were scattered all over the floor.

There was a fireplace at the far end of the room , with a large wooden dining table stretching in front of it. Paintings adorned the walls, some of them depicting mythological tales. You recognized the one closest to you which showed the Abduction of Persephone. In the middle of the picture stood a strong man – Hades - holding the graceful body of Persephone, whom the god of the underworld kidnapped and took to the realm of the dead. Due to the gloomy atmosphere of the room you couldn’t make out the rest of the paintings covering the walls between the pieces of mahogany furniture. Cabinets were filled with different types of relics - daggers, vials, armor, and jewelry. You followed your host to the dining table which was already set for two.

“Please, take a seat!” said the man as he pulled out a chair for you.

“This place is beautiful!” you marveled at your surroundings while taking a seat. “Your home is a work of art, Mr. Awry!”

The count’s lips curled into a smile at your remark as he opened a bottle of red wine.

“Tell me, what lives in the forest? On my way here I think I saw something…unusual,” you frowned.

“Oh, those were just wild boars, my dear. You don’t have to worry about them!” the count reassured you with an amused smile.

He poured a glass of wine for you as he feasted his eyes on you for a moment before taking a seat across from you. You were bewitching, like a temptress with your long wavy ginger hair that appeared golden in the dim candlelight. You were practically starving, so you dug into your dinner and didn’t pay much attention to the man’s hungry gaze. As you took a sip of wine to wash down the food, you glanced at your host. He was intimidating, with his broad shoulders, strong arms, and eyes sparkling with curiosity. Even though you had just met this stranger, you felt somehow drawn to him.

“I heard you write books, Miss y/n,” remarked the man. His voice was deep and calming, having a soothing effect on your nerves. “And I also heard that your books are… rather exciting,” the count went on, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he looked at you with such an intense stare that you felt like the man could read your thoughts. “Could you tell me about your next novel?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and circling the edge of his glass with his middle finger.

You blushed a deep shade of red and took another sip from your wine. You didn’t expect your host to be so well-informed about your passion of writing.

“Well I have some ideas for my next book. It’s going to be a crime story. The main reason I came here is because I need to spend some time alone so I can focus on what I love doing the most. It is only a hobby, but it means so much to me,” you rambled with enthusiasm. “Oh, and thank you for the dinner, Mr. Awry. It was delicious! And the wine too!” You stopped, being suddenly aware of your host’s hungry gaze on you.

The man stood up and walked over to you with the bottle of wine in his hand. He poured you another glass and sat down next to you. He was so close that you could smell his intoxicating cologne. You fiddled with the napkin in your lap as you stared at the elaborate details on the piece of cloth.

“You’re welcome Miss y/n! It is my pleasure to have such a beautiful and intelligent company as you are,” Mr. Awry said on a soft tone and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “If you would like, I would gladly show you the land surrounding my property tomorrow,” the count offered as he took one of your tiny hands in his big ones.

“I would appreciate that Mr. Awry,” you muttered the words with a smile and felt your face heat up again.

“Please, call me James,” said the man and stroked your hand with his thumb gently.

“I think it’s time for me to get some rest. Could you show me to my room, please?” you asked, pulling your hand away from the count. You were so confused – you felt a burning desire towards this handsome stranger; however, you weren’t sure if he could be trusted. As you got up from your seat you clumsily knocked over your glass with your hand. It fell off the table, shattering on the wooden floor into tiny pieces. You bent down to collect the shards from the ground.

“I’m so sorry!” You apologized.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it!” the count insisted as he crouched down next to you.

“Damn it!” You cursed through clenched teeth as a sharp piece of glass cut into the palm of your hand.

“Are you all right?” asked the count and grabbed your hand to inspect the wound. He pecked a kiss on your palm where the glass had cut it and then licked away the blood. He kept his hungry eyes locked with yours for a moment before snapping out of his feral state.

"There’s no need to rush, little one…" the count whispered, his eyes locked onto yours as he released your hand.

The atmosphere in the room was tense, and you were torn between the urge to run out the door and the desire to stay with this alluring and probably unhinged man. As you weighed your options he got up and wallked to a cabinet, which he opened to pour himself a glass of ruby-colored beverage. After quickly downing it, he turned around and grabbed the edge of the table keeping his eyes on the ground.

"Is everything all right?" Your voice barely above a whisper, taking a cautious step towards him.

The count lifted his chin to meet your gaze, his eyes bloodshot – no, not bloodshot, rather glowing red, just like the eyes of those creatures you encountered in the forest – from whatever he had consumed. He placed one of his hands on the small of your back, pulling you towards him, and pressed his lips to yours in a deep and passionate kiss. You parted your lips so the count’s tongue could enter your mouth and caress yours. As you devoured each other with long, sensual strokes, the count grabbed your bottom with both hands and gave it a firm squeeze. A small moan escaped your lips as he pressed you against the bulge in his pants. You passionately tugged on the man’s lower lip earning a growl from him. The count pulled away from you, and for a moment, you caught a glimpse of his sharp fangs. Your eyes widened in shock as you finally put the pieces together. You swallowed nervously, heart pounding in your chest.

"Do not fret y/n, I won’t hurt you…" He murmured and wrapped one hand around your throat.

Your breath hitched as you felt a strange mix of fear and excitement wash over you. He kissed you, this time more ferociously. You sucked on the count’s tongue in response, earning a growl from him.

“You‘ve got potential I must admit…” He chuckled as he brushed his lips along your neck.

He stopped just above your collarbone, and planted a soft kiss on your smooth skin, then tenderly grazed his teeth over the same spot. He planted a few more kisses along your neck, before whispering in your ear, “Your body is exquisite. I wonder what you taste like…” As he whispered the words, his hands travelled to your waist, relishing every inch of your figure.

Then he pulled the strap of your dress down your shoulder, baring one of your breasts. He bent down to wrap his mouth around your nipple, sucking on your sensitive bud. With one skillful hand he pulled up your skirt and stroked over your mound with his dexterous fingers, then cupped it, squeezing it gently.

“So wet already…” He sighed and his nostrils flared as he noticed the sign of your arousal.

You could smell the sweet scent of musk mixed with leather, and a hint of oak on him, which made your core heat up with desire. You felt as if he had put a spell on you.

Suddenly the tall man lifted you and carried you to a nearby sofa next to the fireplace, positioning you so that your hips hung slightly off the edge. He tore the front of the delicate fabric of your dress so that your body was completely exposed. He got rid of your underwear in a quick manner and threw it aside. Then he swiftly put your thighs around his strong shoulders as he got on his knees. He kissed his way down your belly slowly before he buried his face into your cunt. He started to eat you out relentlessly — he pushed his stiff tongue against your clit and licked it with quick and vigorous laps.

“You taste so bloody delicious darling,” Grumbled the count as he placed one palm over your stomach just below your navel to put a little pressure on it.

The vibrations of his deep voice almost sent you over the edge. He licked up the juices leaking from your entrance then licked over your clit again, occasionally sucking, and nibbling on it. You arched your back, pushing your pussy into the man’s face. In response he grabbed your waist with both hands, squeezing it tightly while keeping you in place. As you got closer to your climax the count pushed one finger into your pussy.

“Oh, you’re so tight… Your cunny is perfect.” He groaned as he pushed in a second finger and started to slowly move them in and out curling his fingers while doing so.

You moaned and thrashed around in the his strong grip as you felt your orgasm approaching — pussy so swollen and throbbing that it was almost painful now. The earl felt that you were close to your climax, so he stopped licking your bud and instead started to pepper kisses along the insides of your thighs.

“Please, let me cum!” you whimpered and thrusted your hips toward the man. “Don’t torture me…please!” you pleaded.

The earl smiled and brushed his fingertips along the outside of your thighs as he started to lick your clit again with long lazy laps. You bit your lip as you felt your orgasm building up anew. He pushed two of his fingers into you again and started massaging your sweet spot while lapping at your swollen bud. You grabbed his hair, lightly scraping his scalp with your nails as you felt utter bliss flush through your body. Your walls clenched around his fingers as your muscles contracted, while juice started oozing out of your pussy, dripping down the count’s hand. Like a starved man he drank up every ounce of your arousal and licked his fingers clean.

Your pussy was still oversensitive, and you were extremely turned on. You wanted to feel his cock inside you. As you propped yourself up on your elbows the man unbuckled his belt with one hand and took off his pants. You lunged forward and pulled down his underwear, letting his manhood spring free. He was well-endowed — precum dripping from the tip of his long and thick cock. You pulled back the skin with one hand and put the tip in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the head of the penis and sucked on it, relishing his taste then started to bob your head back and forth. He combed through your hair with his long fingers, grabbing the back of your head tenderly, guiding you to take him deeper. You obeyed and let him slide into your throat, moaning around his shaft. You tried to relax but you couldn’t keep yourself from gagging. As the muscles in your throat squeezed his cock he let out a shaky breath.

“You’re doing amazing, my little vixen,” he murmured peering down at you.

He thrusted into your mouth a few times before he pulled out.

“I want to cum in that tight pussy of yours. Now get on your back and spread your legs,” he commanded, and as soon as you were on your back, he wedged himself between your thighs.

He slid his cock in, and begun thrusting his hips. In this position the tip of his penis was rubbing right against your sweet spot. As he picked up the pace you felt another orgasm building in your belly, however this time the sensation was much more intense than anything you had ever experienced. The count grunted as he thrusted into you, and he was so hot. His strong and hairy chest and broad shoulders gave him a statuesque appearrance, not to mention his pale skin that glistened like marble in the dim lighting.

As he kept fucking you, you started to feel the overwhelming sensation of your orgasm approaching. And then you came, your walls spasming around his cock, squeezing it repeatedly as you reached your high. However it didn’t stop there, you kept coming as he fucked you roughly. You felt orgasm rushing through your body over and over sending you straight to heaven - you felt like floating, your pussy and belly quivering with each orgasm. When the count couldn’t hold back any longer, he came as well, and you felt his hot seed spill into you. After he filled you with his cum he bent down to plant a kiss on your neck. He nibbled gently on the soft skin, then grazed his sharp fangs over the mark he left.

You were still in your post orgasmic haze when the man pulled himself out of you, and scooped you up into his arms, carrying you up the stairs into his bedroom. He lay you down onto a bed and tucked you in. Then he lied next to you and ran his fingers through your hair as he kissed your forehead.

“Goodnight my sweet y/n…” he whispered in your ear while stroking your shoulder.

You snuggled up to him and let out a sigh as you drifted off to sleep.

[abookishdreamer]

Character Intro: Penia & Ptocheia (Kingdom of Ichor)

Nicknames- Patronesses of Beggars, Mothers of Misfortune by the people of Olympius

The Plain Janes by Dione

Age(s)- 32 (immortal)

Location- Shadowstone neighborhood, New Olympus

Personalities- Their sister bond runs as deep as the ichor flowing in their veins. They are incredibly close as fraternal twins. Penia is the more authoritative one out of the two while Ptocheia is the silent observer. They both strongly dislike the gross display/overconsumption or gaudy materialistic wealth, feeling that its plauging their present society. They're both incredibly frugal, shrewd, resourceful, self-sufficient, & a bit pessimistic. Penia is married while Ptocheia is single.

They both have the abilities of a standard goddess except shapeshifting. Other powers/abilities they share being the goddess of poverty & goddess of beggary include making a person or group of people feel destitute temporarily, chrimatakinesis (money manipulation) as it relates to poverty inducement, being able to manipulate copper, & being able to make new objects appear withered and worn down by their touch. Penia has the ability of elasticity (is able to stretch, expand, deform/contract her body into any form imaginable) while Ptocheia has the ability of beggary inducement.

Notable physical features that they share are their thick arched eyebrows and their close set dark amber colored eyes.

Their mother is Amechania (goddess of helplessness & want). They love each other in their own way, though they don't say those words.

The sisters reside in a townhouse in the Shadowstone neighborhood of New Olympus. Their next door neighbors are a Harpy family that has six children. Ptocheia lives on the ground floor while Penia & her husband lives on the upper floor. The interior of the townhouse is very minimalist with the walls being painted in colors of cream, mauve, burgundy, dark blue, and black. The furnishings are quite simple as well with lots of wooden chairs, a mahogany table in the dining room, & cotton loveseats as well as a couch. In the china in the living room, there's several jars filled to the brim with obol coins. The townhouse has the necessary appliances (including a washer & dryer) and they all have basic cable and internet. The news channel is a go-to thing to watch with The Agnostic Network being a close second.

They get around through use of public transportation. They also use their bikes sometimes.

A notable jewelry accessory Penia wears is her plain gold wedding band. Ptocheia wears a simple citrine amber ring on her pointer finger and a gold chain necklace with a drachma charm.

The sisters both like to drink water prefering the brand Pure H2O over Cleanstream. Penia deems Cleanstream's glass bottles as unnecessary. They also don't mind Strengthify vitamin water. They also enjoy coffee- with Penia's usual go-tos from The Roasted Bean being an olympian sized dark roast coffee and a small iced tea while Ptocheia prefers a large vanilla sweet cream cold brew & an iced green tea. Penia also enjoys a glass of red wine, buying a few bottles at the grocery store for less than thirty drachmas.

The sisters' personal fashion style is the true definition of "normcore"- characterized by unpretentious, average looking clothing. There's dark & neutral colors, sweaters, button down shirts, trousers, simple belts, high waisted jeans, sneakers, flat sandals, and other practical & basic pieces. They're huge fans of the high waisted black skinny jeans from Nocturnal Vibez. Ptocheia bought 10 pairs of jeans during Gold Friday (with coupons & online sale codes). They also like the linen shirts, trousers, wide leg linen pants, oversized jackets, and oxford flats from Threads of Wisdom. They also like flats, mary janes, & ankle boots.

There's never a shortage of various shopping coupons at their place!

They're in a long list of minor deities that don't have a temple built in their honor. It's specifically said that the reasoning behind it is that the general public in Olympius don't want to invite the looming threat of overwhelming poverty into their lives. The sisters' induction ceremony also had the lowest attendance only beaten by Dyssebeia (goddess of ungodliness & impiety).

Penia usually wears her long straight mousy brown hair in a low tight ponytail or a low twisted knot. Ptocheia's dark brown hair is styled in a lob cut, with her usually wearing simple headbands or hair clips.

Their main official role/job is being in the government's department of social services overseeing the Welfare/Financial Assistance branch- (which include things like food stamps, homelessness prevention, rental assistance, cash assistance, employment services, etc...) They're also planning on co‐writing a book on financial tips together!

They don't like or trust banks (especially Hermes), so their earnings are kept in a safe hidden in the floorboards of their townhouse.

The sisters are very picky on who they choose to be eligible to recieve the services.

It's said that they were the ones who discussed with Hera to push the HHI (Harpies Housing Initiative) to the forefront.

They both only have two credit cards.

Penia is married to Porus (god of resourcefulness). Their wedding was the least glamorous- the ceremony taking place at New Olympus City Hall. She wore a basic cream pantsuit & navy blue kitten heels while Ptocheia served as their witness. Afterwards, they all celebrated at a dinner thrown at Porus' brother's house. Their honeymoon was a week long excursion in the Underworld. It was the longest the sisters were separated from each other.

Ptocheia is single & has been for a couple hundred years. She's always been shy, reserved, and socially awkward to put herself out there. She cried when Dione's "plain Jane" comment made its way back to her. Ptocheia used to have unrequited feelings for Pathos (god of emotion) and is now noticing her growing romantic feelings towards Cocytus (Titan god of wailing & lamentation). She enjoys the deep conversations they've had despite never meeting in person. They text for hours at a time. Ptocheia quietly wept when she saw some of his art displayed at NOMMA (New Olympus Museum of Modern Art), calling his paintings "gut-wrenchingly beautiful."

The sisters' shared businesses include a homeless shelter, a soup kitchen (Psomí & Zoí), a chain of discount variety stores (The Drachma Bargain) where the merchandise is low priced with many of the products costing one drachma, coin-cashing kiosks located in supermarkets, banks, & check cashing places, and a self storage business named The Border Realm. The sisters are notoriously known to pay their employees the legal minimum wage.

In the pantheon the sisters have shared friends like Lethe (Titaness of forgetfulness, oblivion, & concealment), Apheleia (goddess of simplicity), Eikono (goddess of iconography & literature), Amphictyonis (Amy) (goddess of diplomacy), Moros (god of doom), Geras (god of old age), Oizys (goddess of anxiety, misery, & depression), The Litae, and Eusebeia (goddess of piety, loyalty, duty, & filial respect).

Penia's friends with Praxidike (goddess of judicial punishment), Limos (goddess of starvation & famine), and Styx (Titaness of hatred).

Ptocheia is friends with Peitharchia (goddess of obedience & discipline), Ichnaea (goddess of tracking), Aeschyne (goddess of modesty & honor), and Soteria (goddess of safety).

They do also like Hestia (goddess of the hearth); and her chocolate cupcakes with chocolate buttercream frosting, Karme (demi-goddess of the harvest), Favian (god of philosophy), and Elpis (goddess of hope).

The deities that they dislike is a long list- the main offenders being Clymene (Titaness of fame & renown), Zeus (god of the sky, thunder, & lightning), Orthosia (goddess of wealth), Pheme (goddess of fame), Aplistos (god of avarice), and Evimería (goddess of prosperity) for their grossly overwhelming display of materialistic wealth.

They are known to do their taxes & pay their bills on time.

A favorite sweet treat of theirs is vanilla ice cream!

As for make-up the sisters won't go as far as a bit of mascara, concealer, & lip balm. They also like wearing nail polish keeping their nails neatly trimmed. Penia likes Olmorfia's nail polish in "Clearly There", "Yes We Tan" (a nude brown color), and "Pine-ing for You" (a rich dark green color). Ptocheia likes to wear the shades "Seize the Gray", "Berry Naughty" (a rich dark red color), & "Autumnal Fever Pitch" (a dark burnt orange color).

The sisters love using the Hairology soap free shampoo bar when they wash their hair.

Penia likes likes the meditteranean veggie & chicken sandwich on wheat bread from The Bread Box while Ptocheia prefers the avocado egg salad sandwich on rye bread along with a small onion-mushroom soup.

Some of the greatest gifts they ever got was a collection of black leather satchel, baguette, crossbody, tote, & bucket bags from various fashion brands from Eusebeia. Penia was pleasantly surprised to discover that she bought them off Lé Real- a website which sells previously owned and heavily discounted luxury items.

When eating out, the sisters are mindful about what they buy. They like plain cheese pizza & they love the special value meal from Olympic Chef for 10 drachmas- a box of 20 chicken nuggets, two olympian sized fries, & two olympian sized drinks. At home meal prepping is the way to go because they buy ingredients in bulk, freeze extra food for later, and more importantly, they spend less money eating out. Their favorite meal prep recipes include the smoky chicken & cinnamon roasted sweet potatoes (with green beans), cold peanut noodle salad, moussaka mac n' cheese, ground turkey & rice stir fry, chicken souvlaki with lemon butter orzo, no cook Greek pitas, and balsamic pasta salad.

The sisters (along with Porus) are thinking about moving to the Underworld, which they'll build a house of their own.

In their free time, the sisters like staying in whether it's solving crosswords, reading, writing, sewing, & knitting. When outside they enjoy jogging, yoga, bike riding, going to the museum, pottery, and horseback riding.

"Poverty is a necessary thread in society's fabric. It doesn't breed adversity, it breeds survivors."

[cosycribs]

Mahogany Six Door Sideboard – Weathered Oak

The Mahogany Six Door Sideboard - Weathered Oak is made from sustainability sourced mahogany wood and has a classic smooth weathered oak finish. This sideboard is extremely solid yet elegant in its refreshing burst of rattan (cane) inserts. It has 6 doors and a shelf behind each door with classic rattan inserts to store decor, books or towels.

[thetaoofzoe]

Fic: The Company Woman 1/1

Title: The Company Woman

Pairing: CEO Henry x YOU

Summary: No other company has made you want to become a Company Woman. No other company made you want to surrender to your boss. I would suggest trying to get a position in this luscious Company, but only if you’re good ;). 

Rating: Explicit. Unprotected sex, cock-warming, strict rules, Soft Dom Henry, giddy and willing participants

And thank you to my ever loving @lightsidecalling​. 

Want to read more? Click for my Masterlist

Puckering your lips against one side of a small square of pink tissue, you watched yourself lightly dab at the other side with a soft powdered brush until you were satisfied you’d absorbed enough excess moisture from the matte lipstick. Carefully peeling the tissue from your dark cherry red lips, you tapped them with a clean manicured fingertip and then smiled at your reflection.

Perfect.

Picking up the parfum atomizer you layered yourself with a light floral scent. Not too much. Just enough so that the boss could smell it,  appreciate it, but not be distracted by it.

Replacing the bottle on the vanity tray, your eyes drifted to the large pink sticky note affixed to your broad  wall-length bathroom mirror. You leaned in to briefly consult it, as you had done every morning since landing a coveted position with The Company last year.

In your neat print, you’d copied the ‘Requirements for personal hygiene and workplace presentation’ instructions from your personalised employee handbook.

1. A bath or shower must be taken the night before bed and in the morning after rising from bed. Cleansing must pay close attention to delicate areas where unwanted scents can accumulate during general activities.

2. Hair must be neat no matter the style.

3. While professional whitening is not expected, you will maintain clean healthy teeth. At-home whitening strips are recommended.

4. Trousers are not allowed in the office and all clothing must be form-fitting, but not constricting or ‘tight’. Heels and nylons must be worn.

5. Makeup must be natural and unobtrusive and any scents must be light.

6. All foundation garments must not be detected beneath the outer clothes.

Mentally you ticked off the six boxes, stood back, and admired yourself in the brightly lighted mirror. You tucked the back of your rose coloured silk blouse into a darker rose coloured pencil skirt and made sure that the  zipper that ran the vertical length of the skirt was centered on your backside.

Flicking off the bathroom light and picking a pair of matching shoes from the upper hall closet, you padded down the stairs to the lower level of your townhouse. Your work mobile was charging on the kitchen counter and picking it up from the cradle, you saw that you had a message.

A flick of your thumb across the dark screen revealed what Mr. Cavill wanted for lunch:

CUISSE DE VOLAILLE FARCIE AUX HERBES, JUS A L’ECHALOTE from Le Gavroche.

You hadn’t even had your own breakfast yet, and here he was requesting lunch. However,  the thought of ensuring that your boss got whatever expensive meal he had a taste for that day, was exciting.

In fact, everything about working for the extremely posh company headed by five brothers was exciting. Everything was required to be of the highest quality and it was up to everyone involved to maintain the aesthetic of  The Company. After all, appearances in that world were everything. One wrong move could spell the end of them. Nonetheless, you relished the strict nature of your working environment and eagerly submitted to your superiors.

Stepping into your shoes,  and grabbing your handbag, you shrugged into a light jacket on your way out of the front door.

**

As a personal assistant to the middle (and in your opinion the smartest and most attractive) brother, Henry, your job afforded you the kind of luxuries of which you’d only dreamed.

When Henry travelled for business, you travelled for business. When he dined in impossibly decadent restaurants and slept in extravagant hotels, well, so did you. You didn’t always dine with him, (and you never slept with him), but you had unfettered access to all of the amenities that he enjoyed. The Company did well enough to, in turn, pay their employees handsomely and offer generous year-end bonuses.

You loved it.  No other employer had been able to turn you into The Company woman you were now and make you like it. You loved your job so much that you barely blinked when, during a late afternoon meeting with Henry, he slid a neatly formatted document across his glossy desktop towards you.

You leaned in, but did not pick it up. You read it where it lay, white and crisp against the deep cherry mahogany.

‘This is a non-disclosure agreement,’ you said and let your eyes drift up to Henry’s face.

He looked cool and perfect in his bespoke icy blue three-piece suit, offset by a creme coloured necktie knotted in a full Windsor. The ticking of his wristwatch was loud in the silence and he held your gaze wordlessly.

Henry was all raw masculine power and you were aroused by him. Constantly. When you performed your morning and nightly routines, you thought about him, wondering if he appreciated the extra effort you put in just to impress him.

Had he noticed?

You sucked your lower lip and lowered your eyes to the document again.

‘Um..’

‘I want you to read and sign it,’ said Henry in his warm honeyed voice, and you were startled a little by the clack of the Montblanc coming down next to the document.

‘Is this different from the disclosure documents I signed when I first started?’

Henry leaned back, relaxed and the leather chair creaked softly.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘You’ve been with us for what, nearly a year?

‘Yes. A great year!’

His rosy pink lips lengthened into a charming smile and you thought about how his  nipples and his cock must be that very same colour. The heat of arousal rose in you and tingled between your thighs. It was a familiar and welcomed feeling, the muted buzzing that signalled the beginnings of your body awakening. You crossed your legs.

‘A great year,’ he agreed. ‘And, we want to continue to have more great years with you.’

‘I hope so too, Mr. Cavill.’

Henry’s blue eyes lowered to the document and you followed his gaze.

Picking up the pen you realised that your hands were damp. You were nervous and there was something tantalising hanging heavily in the air, something that you became much more aware of as you finished reading carefully through the document.

By the time you looked up, your heart was crashing against your ribs and it was hard to catch your breath. Without signing, you put the pen down, and neatly lined it up with the edge of the paper. You took in a long breath, held it and then let it out between perfect lips.

Your eyes finally met his and the shift in your relationship suddenly became very clear. It was no longer he who held the power in that room.

It was you.

Holding his gaze, you picked up the pen again and then looked down to carefully sign on the dotted line above your printed name.

You set the pen atop the document and with two fingers, slid it back across the desk to him. You saw him swallow hard, but that was the only crack in his impassive exterior. Henry picked it up, slotted it into a pale blue folder and stored it in the top drawer of his desk. The pen was capped and secreted into an inner jacket pocket.

He stood then and watching him walk around the desk to stand directly in front of you, you wet your lips and followed suit.

‘Don’t think I didn’t notice you,’ Henry purred leaning in to murmur against your ear. ‘Your smell, your lips… that beautiful arse.’

His broad hand came down hard on your bottom, grabbed you possessively and gasping with delight, you swayed against him.

‘Lucky for you,’ you answered and earned a soft chuckle from him.

You thought about resisting, pulling back to teach him a lesson for being so eager. You wanted to play a little, a little slap, and a little bit of rough. What was he like under that cool crisp exterior? Was he dull? Or was he fiery? You knew he played rugby in his limited free time and made regular use of The Company’s private gym.

So, just what was he like?

You lifted your face and moaned softly beneath the pressure of his kiss. He tasted just as you imagined. Expensive, masculine, luscious.

You pushed him back then, face brightening into a look of shock and faux outrage. Holding your hand against his broad chest you teased in a soft voice,

‘You. Didn’t. Ask.’

Henry gave you a sly grin and you were glad that there was nothing within reach on his desk because he effortlessly spun and then sprawled you across it. He dug his fingers into your hips and pulled you back just enough so that your bottom was presented perfectly to him.

You let out a squeak of surprise and bliss.

Well, you thought belatedly as he unzipped your skirt from the hem up, at least the zipper on the skirt was finally making its fantasy debut. You had purchased that skirt in the hopes that one day he would be doing exactly what he was doing now.

‘Mr. Cavill!’ you exclaimed, trying to swallow down a giggle as you attempted to press up from the surface of the desk. He chuckled, sounding smug behind you as one big hand eased across your back and pressed you down again.

‘Mmm,’ he murmured, voice soft with praise and anticipation as he stroked his fingertips up beneath the elastic of your garters, starting from where the laced edge of your thigh-highs ended, gliding elegantly up your overheated flesh, before fanning his hands to grasp you beneath your ass. He squeezed. Hard. And you let out a shuddering groan, only to bite down on the noise and jerk forward with a surprised gasp when Henry swiped a sturdy finger up the wet crotch of your panties.

You closed your eyes and when he leaned against you, you felt the press of his heavy erection through his expensive gabardine. You squirmed, and he leaned away to lightly slap your bottom.

‘Please… please Mr. Cavill,’ you whimpered when he stepped back.

God you felt so cold without him against your skin.

You reached back, scrabbling trembling fingers up under your flagrantly open skirt, hooking your fingers into the waistband of your panties, and attempted to pull them down. Henry stopped you and, grasping the edge of the thin pink scrap of material, giving it one sharp tug until it ripped easily.

Fuck.

His hand came down on your back again, holding you, and he licked the pad of his thumb before sliding it into your slick warmth.

‘Look at you. Look how wet you are. I love hearing you, baby,’ he growled, sucking your juice off of his fingers. ‘Taste so good.’

You heard him unbuckling and opening his trousers and bit down on your lower lip, ready for it. Yes, God. Yes, God, yes.

‘Do you remember rule number 10?’ he asked, leaning in close now, covering you with his hard body and rocking you up to your tiptoes. The scent of him made it hard to think.

Rule number 10 – internal contraception only.

‘Yes,’ you managed to say, your voice barely over a broken whisper. ‘Yes, Mr. Cavill. I remember. I ha-haven’t broken it.’

‘Good.’

Henry made a low noise in the back of his throat, a sound that rippled deliciously through you, and using both strong hands, he opened you. With a low growling gasp, he pushed so gently into you that you stilled suddenly and closed your eyes, shutting out every visual distraction in order to be able to deeply experience the heat and power of his sex. You arched and against the desk, splaying your hands but failing to hold onto anything. Seeing this, Henry lightly grasped your wrists and pulling them behind you, he pinned them together against your lower back.

‘I like you like this,’ he rumbled. ‘Be a good girl. You’ll be a good girl for me?’

It took a moment for your brain to start working enough to form a coherent response, but even when your brain engaged with rational thought, straying away from the thick, delectable cock easing hot and insistently into your body, you could only choke out,

‘Y-yes! Yes, Mr. Cavill. Yes. I’ll be good!’

Henry seemed satisfied with your enthusiastic compliance and then a short amused laugh came out of him when the phone on his desk twittered gaily.

You both stilled and you whimpered like a denied little puppy, your hands flexing against the slick, glossy desktop, nearly reaching out for the phone out of habit. It was your job to answer the phones for Henry, after all.

‘Answer it,’ he said and was magnanimous enough to release your hands and stop fucking you.

You naughty boy, you thought and with a trembling hand you reached for the desk phone.

The slim narrow plastic slipped a bit in your sweat-slick hand but your voice was surprisingly steady when you spoke between clenched teeth,

‘This is Henry Cavill’s office. How may I help you?’

A young woman’s chipper sounding voice started rattling off information that you were sure you should have been writing down, but all you could think about was that stiff cock nestling just that much deeper inside you. Henry rolled his hips just then and you clamped down on a squeal.

‘Bless you,’ the woman said.

You gasped and made a belated attempt at sniffling to support her assumption that you’d sneezed and not that you were getting a thorough seeing to by your boss.

‘Th-thank you. Is ahh.. is there anything else?’

There wasn’t, and when she ended the call, you just dropped the receiver and shoved back against him. Henry took this as a cue to redouble his efforts and you soon came apart beneath his expert handling.

Your orgasm took you quite by surprise as if a switch had been thrown and you buried your face in your arms, biting down on your forearm to keep from screaming as Henry gushed into you. Blood rushed to your head and you lay there, collapsed against the desk and didn’t move even when Henry finally drew back.

You listened to him cleaning himself up and then putting himself back into place.

‘Shall I?’ he asked and out of the corner of your eye, you saw him reach for the small box of tissues in that lacquered wood box you’d always admired.

You made a soft, blissful sound of assent and basked in the pleasurable strokes of impossibly soft tissues on your tender delicate areas. And you giggled at the final kiss Henry placed on your skin when he was done.

With clothes righted, and skirt securely zipped, you leaned against the desk and looked at him. He didn’t seem chagrined at what had just transpired, only satisfied and content.

‘I don’t know what to do,’ you admitted after a stretch of silence.

With the edge of his thumb, he stroked your cheek and curled the rest of his fingers beneath your chin. His kiss was tender and full of promise.

‘Have an early evening and tomorrow we need to discuss the Zurich trip.’

‘Yes, Mr. Cavill,’ you grinned and turned to leave the now overly warm office.

‘Come in early so that we can have breakfast together.’

Your heart leapt, but you kept your cool.

‘Yes, Mr. Cavill. Anything in particular that you want?’

‘Just you,’ he said.

Nodding, you closed the door behind you and did a full body dance.

The Company Woman indeed.

-end

[scary-lasagna]

Request for gremlin friend causing chaos with Toby.

TOBY!

"TobBYY!!" From the top of the spiral staircase in the far-east wing, your voice bounced off of the walls to the brunette traveling the corridors down below.

"wHATT?!" You barely heard the muffled echo from the first floor.

"I need help with the thING agAIN!!" Your tippy toes strained as you bent over the railing and peered at the empty mahogany shaded stairs. Toby's messy brunette locks sprouted from the bottom of the staircase, and tilted backward to squint up at his friend.

His roughened work jeans rustled all the way up the stairs, and he wiped god knows what off of his with a kitchen towel. "[Y/N], my fellow- a fuckin' possum!- chaos maker, we've done many things that you're capable of needing help with again." He awkwardly shoved the dirty rag in his back pocket, which was about to fall off anyway.

"Do you...remember," You approached him, placing a hand on his arm to slowly guide him to the bathroom, "What we did six hours ago? With the peanuts that you had an allergic reaction to?"

"Oh! Yes, I do!"

"Do you also remember that the lock on the bathroom is very indeed broken, my friend."

"Oh, yes...I do."

"Well." You took a long stride beside Toby, to unravel the contraption consisting of rope, a dining chair, and a few butter knives to unlock the door. "There's something in the bathroom, and it's not the attic squirrels we were trying to bait."

Toby shuffled next to you to peek in, and the remnants of oil and soot that gathered on his clothes (and supposedly the kitchen rag from earlier) made you slightly sick to your stomach. You just hoped the animal in the bathroom wouldn't smell it through the door.

"Oh my god, [Y/N]. What the fuck is that?"

"I don't fucking know man, it doesn't look the least bit of normal." You both peered through the tiny slit in the door, watching the black, wispy-like creature peacefully snore in the bathtub.

Toby took a step back, and crossed his arms over his possibly broken ribcage, "Should we tell Slen-"

"FdgfhghgH???? Are you fucking crazy? No! He'd probably throw us in there with it for attracting it in the first place."

"Hmm." Toby rested his elbow on his wrist, and bit at his oil stained nails, "Maybe we can just...bait it out of the house?"

"Like through the window?"

"No way, we're three stories up! We could just," He made various pointing motions towards the stairs for emphasis, "Lead it out, y'know?"

You blinked a few times, and then glanced between Toby and the door, "Toby, I gotta hand it to you." You clapped him on the shoulder, "I don't know where we'd be without your genius plans."

_____

"...And then I told him to get the fuck out of my way before I use these acrylics to rip his tongue out of his mouth," Jane explained, and then took a sip from her tea mug.

"Don't you think that was a little harsh for Ben? I mean he only wanted to find the pizza rolls."

"You don't understand, Tim, he does this shit on purpose all the time, it's a set up from Je-"

"SEED, NO!"

The manor guardian, Seedeater, was, unfortunately, taking a day off indoors for the day. He works so hard, Jack brings him in to rest once a week to Seed's dismay. But Seed loves the outdoors! He loves chasing squirrels and eating Slender's flowers! It's so boring inside. Luckily, Toby and [Y/N] found a way for him to bathe in an enrichment exercise. Accidentally, of course.

Tim noped the fuck out and let Masky front to handle the situation, and stood to investigate the situation. What Masky didn't expect was a large cloud of smoke, roughly the size of a small cow, barreling towards him with Seed, [Y/N], and Toby following close behind.

"Toby!" You cried out, pointing past the two creatures at Masky, who will no doubt receive internal damage from this incident.

"TobY!!" Masky yelled, more so focused on letting Toby know of his murderous tendencies before getting trampled by the smoke creature, that actually felt like the weight of a small cow.

"Toby!!?" Jane cried out, setting down her tea in a rush, and hurrying over to the two in hopes of at least dragging them away from the danger.

Pieces of wood, carpet, wallpaper, and expensive heirlooms all flown into the air, crashing and breaking in a loud ruckus as Seed chased the otherworldly creature out the front door, breaking that too.

"Toby!" Slender knew exactly who to turn to when such a situation erupts. "Who's responsible for this?!"

"....Toby.." The brunette mumbled with a grimance, an expensive vase falling on cue behind him.

"And [Y/N]," His friend chimed in, joining him in hanging their head.

The tall being sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What am I going to do with you two?"

"You can let us off the hook this time and I'll pinky promise not to do it again!"

"Knowing how the both of you create such a grand scheme of genius ideas, I highly doubt that will ever happen."

[Y/N] rocked on their heels, glancing quietly at Toby. "...Should we tell him about the oil fire in the garage next?"

[mldrgrl]

Broken things 3/24

by: mldrgrl Rating: varies by chapter, rated R overall  See Chapter 1 for summary and notes

Melvin is out the door as soon as Mulder is in eyesight of the ranch house.  He can see the older man step out onto the porch and then stand a little taller and pull the tails of his vest taut.

“Am I wrong, or does my nose detect the makings of noon dinner on the stove?” Mulder calls.

“With the size of that nose, you’re probably smelling what’s cooking in Fort Worth,” Melvin answers back.

Mulder chuckles and brings Blondie to a stop in front of the house.  He motions for Katherine’s bag and then takes her hand while she gathers her skirts and brings her leg over the side of the horse.  He holds her about the waist to help her down and she pitches forward slightly and ends up pressed close to him.  He eases her to her feet and keeps his arm around her for maybe a bit too long, but it feels nice to him to have her there.

“Who’s this marvelous young lady you brung to us?” Melvin asks, and the moment is broken.

“She’s called Katherine,” Mulder answers.  “Send Trevor on out to put up Blondie, I’d like to bring our guest in and introduce her.  Set another plate for dinner.”

“Trevor,” Melvin calls over his shoulder.  He takes a small hop down from the porch and reaches for Katherine’s hand.  “Melvin Frohike at your service.  Welcome to Broke In, lovely lady.”

“The name of the ranch,” Mulder explains to Katherine.  “Alright, settle down, old man.  You act as though you haven’t seen a pretty woman before.”  He kicks Melvin lightly in the seat of his pants just as the young ranch hand that he had requested be sent out appears on the porch with a napkin tucked into his shirt.  “Trevor, excuse me for interrupting your dinner, could you please put Blondie up?”

“Yes, Sir.”  The boy takes the lead from Mulder and takes the horse away.

“Alright, come in, come in,” Mulder says.

Melvin scurries down the dogtrot ahead of Mulder and Katherine.  “You boys make yourselves presentable, we got a lady in the house,” he calls.

There’s a scraping of chairs and utensils.  Richard and Jimmy jump to their feet, wiping their mouths on their napkins.  Jesse stays sitting, slurping from his bowl until he looks up and then jumps up as well, spilling stew on the table and dribbling on his chin.  

Mulder removes his hat as they move down the broad hall and hangs it on a peg just outside the door of the dining area.  He hangs Katherine’s sack there beside his hat and guides her into the room ahead of him.

“Boys,” he says.  “This is Katherine.  She’ll be joining us for dinner and then accompanying me into town.  Katherine, that blonde beanpole over there to the left is Richard, and then we have Jimmy beside him and the creature without any table manners is his brother Jesse.”

“Ma’am,” they all murmur.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” Katherine answers.  

“Go ahead and sit yourself here,” Mulder says, pulling out the chair at the head of the table for her.  After she sits, the rest of the men do as well, glancing at her and each other as though they’re searching for the proper etiquette to resume their meal.  Melvin is already ladling out a bowl of stew for her and he passes it to her along with a spoon and a napkin.

“Some lemonade, Madam?” Melvin asks.  “We got cold tea or coffee too if’n you have druthers.”

“The lemonade would be fine, thank you.”

As Mulder dishes out his own dinner, he observes there’s a slight tremor in Katherine’s hand when she picks up her spoon.  He also notices that her breathing is slightly labored, coming short and fast from parted lips.  It hadn’t occurred to him before, but with nothing in that sod house, this might be her first meal in some time.

“Melvin, do you think we might still have a tin of soda crackers in one of those cupboards?” he asks.

“I reckon we sure might.”  The little man hops up from the table and begins to search the cabinets.  He returns triumphant with a tin which he hands off to Mulder.  Mulder opens it and then passes it across the table to Katherine.

“Stew might be a little heavy for this time of day unless you’ve been laboring,” Mulder says.  “The crackers will soak up the broth nicely though.”

“Thank you,” she answers, with a nod, taking the tin from him.

Normally, the boys rush through noon dinner, eager to get back to their chores and the horses, but they eat slowly.  Jesse even attempts to hold a spoon, which Mulder has never seen him do before.  Trevor returns and has to squeeze his way into a place at the bench seating beside Richard and Jimmy.  Melvin dominates the conversation with business chatter, giving Mulder a run down on what some of the horses have been up to all morning.  

One by one, Jesse, Richard, Jimmy, and then finally Trevor excuse themselves to continue their work.  Each man brings his bowl and cup to a wash basin near the stove and they nod politely to Katherine before they leave.  Mulder asks Trevor to please hitch up the Tilbury to go into town shortly.  Melvin gets up to start cleaning dishes and Katherine quickly rises as well.

“I can help,” she says.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Melvin answers, waving his napkin at her.  “You are our guest of honor, my dear, and you won’t lift a finger.”

“Don’t you worry about him,” Mulder says, wiping his mouth before he rises from his seat.  “Let me show you the place before we leave.”

She looks to Melvin.  “If you’re sure I can’t help.”

“You go on with Mulder.”

“Well, now, you’ve seen our kitchen and dining area, let’s come back through the dogtrot and I’ll show you the rooms.”

“The dogtrot?”

“That’s what we call this open hall here.  We keep the front door open most days and the back door as well.  It’s good for circulation.  In case you hadn’t noticed, it can reach the same temperature as hellfire out here on the coldest summer day.  This helps with the heat.”

“That’s quite clever.”

“I thought so as well.  Now this first door on the left is where I sleep.  And this one here to the right will be yours, if you decide to stay on.”

“Mine?”

“It’s a guest room right now.  Occasionally there’s a need for people that travel through for business dealings with me to have a place to stay.”

“I can’t take that, then.  I could easily just take a bit of space in the kitchen.  If I stay on, that is.”

“You will do no such thing.”  Mulder opens the door to the room.  “It’s not much but the necessities right now but you can make it up however you like.”

Sensing a protest coming, Mulder moves them on to the last room, across from the kitchen and dining area.  He has saved the best for last in the hopes of impressing her.  He pauses with his hand on the knob.

“This is the washroom,” he says.

↭

She’s feeling overwhelmed.  Mulder has just shown her a room, in the house, which holds a copper and wooden bathing tub and an indoor pump and stove for heating water.  He tries to explain a system of pipes and wells and how they work, but he gives up and tells her he actually doesn’t have a clue how it really operates, just that it does.  The boys, he says, don’t trust it, and prefer to go into town for a Saturday night bath and shave.  Not only that, in the back of the room there’s a closet which is really a privy.  She’s never seen anything like it.

After they leave the washroom, the tour of the ranch continues out of the back door.  A rather large water tower stands some yards away.  To the east of the main house is a bunkhouse the ranch hands share and to the west of the house is a barn, stables, and a corral.  She’s surprised to learn that there are more than just horses kept here.  In fact there are chickens, two cows, several hogs and a handful of suckling pigs, some sheep, two goats, and a black and white herding dog called Queenie.

“We call her that because she thinks she runs the place,” Mulder says.

“Mulder!” Richard calls from the barn door.  “Trevor says you want the carriage hitched up.  You want the hackney since Faithful Jenny needs to break in the new shoe?”

“That’s fine,” Mulder tells him.  Richard tips his hat in acknowledgment and disappears back into the barn.

“How many horses do you have here?” Katherine asks.

“Right now, fifteen.  Six of them should be leaving us by the month’s end and then I’ll be bringing back more to replace them.”

“What do you do with them?”

“Take care of the ones that need taking care of.  For the others, break them, train them up.  Sell them.  Board them at times.”

“I can see why you prefer the land I was on.  Why you’d want it.”

“You can?”

“It’s flatter.  More prairie grass.  And full access to the creek.”

“All true.”

Richard and Trevor interrupt the conversation by bringing the carriage out with a horse the color of mahogany and a black mane.  All four of the horse’s legs are snow white and it has a white diamond just above the nose.  She almost gasps it’s such a breathtaking creature.

“That’s the most beautiful horse I’ve ever seen,” she says.

“You like her?”

“She’s so...majestic.”

“That is precisely why she earned the name Lady.  Let’s go get your bag and then we’ll head on into town.”

He insists she borrow a leather valise to use instead of her burlap sack and she transfers her meager possessions into the case.  He carries the bag for her out to the carriage and ties it to a shelf just under the seat.  He helps her up and once she’s settled, he and Richard unfold an accordion top to shade them from the sun.

The carriage rides a little smoother than a wagon.  It bounces a bit and moves fast.  She’s only been to town one time and she’s unfamiliar with the road.  The land is so vast and it all looks the same.  She can’t believe she had been considering walking to Fort Worth.  She would never make it if she tried.

“You know all there is to know about me,” Mulder says.  “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?”

“I’m sure I don’t know all that there is.”

“Everything important, I would say.”

Her palms begin to sweat and she hides her hands in the folds of her skirt.  If she tells him everything about herself, he might change his mind about everything.  He might not be so kind to her.  She doesn’t feel right about deceiving such a nice man, but there are things she must withhold for now.  At least until she’s absolutely certain he would not look at her differently or think less of her.

“I’m not very interesting,” she says.

“You said you’re from Virginia.  Whereabouts?”

“Norfolk.”

“What’s your family name?”

She hesitates for a beat to decide if it’s too much.  “O’Brien,” she finally answers.  It’s a half-truth.  The O’Brien are her mother’s people.  

“Irish?  Did your people immigrate from the famine?”

“I don’t know.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“I told you before, there’s no one.”

“Yes, you did tell me.”

He doesn’t ask her any more questions and she feels a bit ashamed of herself for rebuffing him.  She takes a few surreptitious glances at him to see if he might be affronted, but he appears to be passively concentrating on driving the carriage.

“Would you like to try?” he asks.

“Try what?”

“Driving the carriage.”

“This carriage?”

He laughs.  “I don’t see another out here.  You can’t do any damage, here, take the lines.”

“Oh, no, I…”

“Sure you can.”  He pulls the carriage to a stop and then passes the lines over to her.  “You’re driving from the right, so with your left hand, just lay the strap down over your index finger and hold it down with your thumb.”

“Alright.”  She does as he asks and then looks to him for further instruction.

“And now slide this strap between the third and fourth fingers of your right hand, like so.”

“Like this?”

“Perfect.  I’m going to slide the whip into the grip of your right hand here and you’ll keep it angled with the natural tilt of your wrist.  Now, you just tickle Lady’s back lightly and tell her to walk.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.  This road is pretty straight so there shouldn’t be any worries.  If she acts up, I’m right here.  And if your arms tire, let me know.”

“Alright.”  Her heart quickens a bit so she can feel it thump against her chest and she sits up straighter in the seat.

“Keep the lines slack as well, just like you’re doing now.”

“Okay.”  She turns her wrist a little so that the tassel that dangles from the end of the whip lightly touches the horse’s back.  “Lady, walk now, please.”

Mulder laughs and she smiles broadly when the horse starts to walk forward.  Her grip on the lines feels awkward and unnatural and it takes more effort than she thought it would to keep them slack and light.  Her back and shoulders are soon sore, but she does not want to give up the control that quickly.  Maybe ten minutes pass before she tires to the point that her arms grow heavy.

“I think I need to stop now,” she says.

“Put a bit of pressure on the lines, very slowly.”

“Whoa,” she says, but the horse does not stop.

“Whoa, Lady,” Mulder calls, and he covers Katherine’s hands with his own, adding the appropriate amount of pressure to bring her to a stop.  

His hands linger and her heart quickens again.  She wants more of something in that moment that she can’t understand or describe.  She imagines turning her palms up to him and letting her fingers slide into his.  She imagines pressing a little closer to him and resting her head on his shoulder.  She imagines him putting his arm around her.  She imagines a peace that she’s never even experienced before.

His hands move off of hers and she gives him control of the lines and sits back, rubbing her hands over each other to work out a little of the soreness in her wrists.  He starts the carriage forward again and announces that they should be in town shortly.

[divinerivals]

19 for the prompts :)

A treat this time

Prompt: 19 “You want to go trick or treating?” "Seriously?”

Pairing: Nessian

a/n: Sorry it took a while! my writer’s block has been really bad lately. Enjoy!

Today was Halloween. Her favorite holiday. Not only for the fact she loved the costumes, dressing up, the weather and films, but because it was the night she had met Cassian. If it wasn't for a party six years ago she might not have met him.

However, this year, Nesta Bellator nee Archeron found she wasn't particularly in the spirit of spooky. Not when she looked like an overgrown pumpkin, with her bump jutting out of the shirt. From Braxton-hicks, aches in her lower back, not to mention the swelling in her feet, she was over this pregnancy. At this stage, Nesta's fairly certain her feet were to be permanently stuck that way.

This time around she and her husband of almost three years decided to stay in. Opting for appropriately themed films and eating take-out from her favorite Italian restaurant. The one that made the breadsticks so perfect, the bread seemed to melt in your mouth. A mere thought of them made her mouth dry. She would savor every bite while Cassian rubbed her pudgy toes. Tell her she's beautiful, though in this state, she felt far from it. Half of her clothes didn't fit. Even her maternity clothing seemed to be a struggle. Hell, everything was nowadays. Being ten long days past your due date would do the trick. 

Nesta heard the sound of jostling keys in the door. Prompting her to slide the bowl of half-eaten candy under the Cherrywood coffee table. Candy that was supposed to be for the neighborhood kids. She should feel guilty for eating most of it. In her state, Nesta found she could care less. They weren't miserable and exhausted beyond measure like her. Besides, the kids in their neighborhood didn't need all the sugar. Not like she did.

Hearing the creak from the front door and the click as it shut. A faint sound of heavy footfall from her husband's boots echoed from the hall. The sound becoming louder with each step inching towards her. Nesta stood with a groan from the grey sofa. Settling a hand on the swell of her back. Walking, no waddling, like a godsdamned penguin to greet her husband and the food she was dying to devour. Tonight her pain seemed to worsen.

Most likely from lazily hanging on the couch most of the day. She moved as quickly as her nesting body would carry her to the dining table. The square mahogany table adorned with orange, red, and brown on the runner, matching the leaves littering their yard outside. Nesta winced as she smiled at her hero, walking towards her. With bags of food from Nuala and Cerridwen's restaurant, La Bellezza di Cibo. He dropped the bags and rushed to her side. Nesta hitched a breath as the bags hit the floor with a thud. If her food were a mess, he'd deal with her, her... Nesta clutched the back of a ebony chair. 

"Nes?" he questioned with worry displayed on his ruggedly handsome features, a hand placed gingerly over her shoulder before resting on the swell of her belly, "Sweetheart, are you okay?"

Her knuckles bloomed white from her tightened grip on the rounded back of a dining chair, "fine." Nesta gritted out, glancing between concerned hazel eyes and her food abandoned on the floor.

 Once the tremor subsided, Nesta stood upright. Hands resting over Cassian's warm ones, "Fine," she replied again. Feeling the light kicks and punches from within. By the awe touched grin on her husband's lips, he felt it too, "Just Braxton hicks. As you can tell, he's content in there.

"Nes…" Cassian's thumbs rubbed along her belly, "I think you should call the doctor."

"I think," she huffed out, " you should pick up the food, feed your hungry, very pregnant wife, and rub her grapefruit-sized feet." Nesta realized a moment too late that the words were coming out harsher than intended.

By the way his posture tightened, and his jaw clenched, she knew he was fighting against what he truly wanted to say. That she wasn't in this alone, he should have a say too, and if he's concerned to humor him and call the damned doctor. They had called a few times, and tonight she wasn't doing it. She wasn't going into the hospital yet again only to hear they are Braxton-hicks and have those nurses look at her with slight annoyance—the kind she gave her customers daily. Cassian offered a tight smile, kissing her brow in a silent expression of okay. 

She watched his shoulders slump as he picked up the bags walking to the sofa. Her heart constricted as her gaze continued to follow him setting up dinner on the coffee table. He was trying in the only way he could. 

Cassian didn't know the inside of her body as she did. His only tells of possible labor were her movements and time. He sighed, pulling out her favorite drink, iced green tea, no sugar. Silently she moved towards the couch. Her husband now putting on Practical Magic, one of her favorites. He preferred the gory films. lately Nesta couldn't stomach watching those.

If she weren't pregnant and past due, Cassian being upset for a few minutes would be nothing. Nesta would have rolled her wines and left him be for thirty minutes, an hour, sometimes all night before talking. Now, she couldn't stand it. Bracing herself on the back of the charcoal sofa, Nesta shook away the dull pain in her spine. 

"Hang on," Cassian grabbed the couch pillows settling them against the back of her seat, "okay, now sit."

She did leaning into the pillows as best as she could. Laying a hand on her belly, the other on his thigh. "I'm sorry, Cas. I'm just.. I'm so tired all the time, I'm gigantic and in pain. Calling the doctor and going to the hospital just to be turned away, I can't do it. It's annoying and disheartening. If one of those nurses look at me like that again I will stab them in the eye with a syringe." Those last words she promised as a threat. A sigh escaped Nesta, laying her head against his shoulder, "and I just want to meet him."

 Cassian squeezed her hand, reaching for a breadstick with the opposite. Nesta took it, biting into the bread, still soft and warm. She could feel the sting of tears behind her eyes while she chewed. Cauldron this gods damned pregnancy has ruined her non-crying streak a hundred times over.

"I know. Trust me; I'm ready too. It seems like he has both of our stubbornness," he took her in his arms, running fingers through her hair. Nesta wiped her tears with the back of a hand, "You don't have to apologize, Nes. Yeah, I got annoyed for a minute. I don't know what's happening. I walked in, and you're bent over in pain. I had no idea if this had been going on all day or not. He pulled away, taking her feet in his lap. Gingerly rubbing the expanse from toes to ankles with the hardened padding of his thumbs. Nesta hummed her approval.

"I know."

"And you're not gigantic. I mean you-"

"Don't finish that sentence!" she snapped, cutting him a dry look.

He laughed, grinning like an idiot in the way it made her heart flutter, "You're carrying our child, and you look gorgeous doing it. Better?"

"Yes. But you're at morning foot rubs now and speaking of mornings. Tomorrow you're making me crepes."

"deal."

They fell into a blissful rhythm of silence watching the movie. At some point, Cassian handed her the tea. She didn't eat the chicken parm or touch the Tiramisu Nesta claimed to have been craving for weeks. However, he wasn't sure about that. Cassian, the dutiful husband he is, knew every craving and memorized everything she wants and needs. Learning the lesson from Rhys, who was kicked out for a night for getting the wrong the sauce. Feyre's wrath was nothing compared to Nesta's. Paying careful attention to all her tells he knew she's hurting tonight more than usual, which gave him an idea. It was stupid he knew, but if it worked...

"Nes, wanna go trick or treating?"

Turning, she looked at him incredulously. He chuckled at her mouth fully agape, a bit of breadstick tumbling down her black shirt.

"Cassian, you're thirty-one years old, and you want to go trick or treating?" a nod, "seriously?" a second nod, Nesta sat a little straighter, "Let me get this straight, you want to take your nine and then some months pregnant wife trick or treating?"

"Yes, sweetheart. That's exactly what I'm suggesting. We can paint your stomach like a pumpkin with body paint. The doctor said walking helps a chance of labor, free candy, and I'll throw in a rub as soon we get back. I'll even hold your breadsticks and tea."

Before she had a chance to consider, Nesta felt a rush of liquid flow from her. Like someone, some little one popped a balloon filled with water. Nesta stilled for a moment. Time slowed as her stormy grey eyes moved down to her belly. She could feel her cotton leggings thoroughly soaked. Her jaw fell, and her heart pounded loudly. To the point that Nesta knew Cassian was speaking, yet couldn't hear his words. There were only dull noises and a wet feeling underneath her. This was happening. There was no trickery tonight—no falsified contractions. 

Cassian knelt in front of her. Face twisted in worry, he quickly transferred to a half-smile, realizing Nesta was smiling from ear to ear.

"Sweetheart?" 

Meeting his gaze of amber and green flecked eyes, Nesta finally broke, "We can't trick or treat. Cassian, my water broke."

Tag list: @slightlyrebelliouswriter23 @hizqueen4life @clockworkgraystairs @b00kworm @negativenesta @sjm-things @whataboutmyfries @justgiu12 @illyrian-bookworm @thesirenwashere @ireallyshouldsleeprn @forbiddencorvidae @vanessa172003 @thewickedkings @sleeping-and-books @thefolkofthefic @yafandomsdotnet @aknymph @alittledribbledrabble @iminsanenotobsessed @figuredihadanodustollensofalife @df3ndyr @awkward-avocado-s @maastrash @knifewifejude @st00pid231 @elide-lochan-salvaterre @gisellefigue08 @se-ono-waise-ilia @strangeenemy @The-girl-who-reads-to-much @piratejudedemdji @junipersuns @ladywitchling @superspiritfestival @kendarbahr @shadowhuntersshadow-world @pcarnatio @wanderingjpg @whimsyrhys @bookishwitchling @sayosdreams @theoceanfaewriter @acourtofbookworms

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Unmasked

Spider-Man is forced to fight the Sinister Six while he’s sick, which leads to his enemies making unexpected discoveries about their arch nemesis.

Chapter 3

Ow. 

That was the first coherent thought that registered in Peter’s brain. 

Pain. He was in pain. A lot of it.

It started with the sunlight shining directly in his eyes through the ceiling-high windows. Then there was the sharp ache in his left leg. Then a sting in his shoulder. A cramp in his stomach. A throb in his skull.

And then, everywhere.

Peter was hurting all over. And yet, it was dull, distant, hazy hurt, like he was a ghost floating above his body after it had been run over by a dump truck.

Ugh…

His eyes scrunched into angry lines before fluttering open. His vision was fuzzy, unfocused, and no amount of blinking seemed to fix it. His brain felt like it had been replaced by three tons of bricks.

What…where…

He was…inside someplace. It was bright—way too bright. The ceiling overhead was tall and white. He was lying on a couch that felt like it had never been sat on before.

Am I…dead…?

His muscles were stiff as stone. He feared for a moment he was paralyzed, until he felt his fingers twitch, followed by his toes. It hurt—a lot—but hurt was better than numbness.

Okay. Not paralyzed. Hopefully not dead.

“Mmmgh,” he moaned. Slowly, he slid his hands back and pushed off the couch, lifting himself into a sitting position. “Oh, god…”

His skin was hot and sticky. Every bone, organ, and cell ached. He still felt sick, but now with about seventy extra ailments piled on top of that, which meant he was probably still alive. 

Probably.

But how?

The last he remembered, he was getting his ass handed to him by the Sinister Six. For as long as he’d operated as the masked vigilante Spider-Man, he’d never gotten thrashed that badly. How did he get away? Did someone rescue him? Had the Avengers swooped in and saved his dumb, in-over-his-head ass right after he’d blacked out? But how could they have gotten there in time?

And where the hell was he?

Now that he was no longer lying down, the room had started listing a little. Peter reached up to rub his temple and felt something crinkly stuck to his head. He grabbed hold of it and started peeling it off his skin, wincing from the pain. Once he’d torn it free, Peter held the unknown object in front of his eyes. It was a large, bloody bandage. 

Huh.

Peter’s eyes dropped to his lap. A thin blanket was draped over his body. When he lifted it away, he cringed.

His torso was a gruesome patchwork of Frankenstein-style stitches and bandages. He counted three sets of sutures on his upper body alone, plus four other cuts and scrapes held together with butterfly tape. His entire chest looked like one gigantic bruise. Plus, the burns—some from scraping across coarse concrete, others from actual fire. Every small movement sent waves of pain rippling across his body.

Yeesh, he thought, poking gingerly at the bandages on his shoulder. Well, someone friendly had to patch me up. But who?

Peter let the blanket slip from his fingers. Grimacing, he swung his legs off the couch and carefully placed his feet on the floor. Sweat slipped off his brow and dripped onto his knee.

“Okay,” he breathed. Peter inhaled sharply, then threw his weight forward, standing upright for an instant. Then he collapsed, gasping. Dizzying agony blossomed in his left leg and thumped like a second heartbeat.

“Shit,” he hissed through his teeth. He glanced back and saw his shin had been fashioned with a makeshift splint: two metal rods and ass-load of packing tape.

Right. Broken leg. The sound of the bone cracking in half reignited in his memories, sending a shudder down his spine.

Peter used the sofa to pull himself off the ground. This time, he placed all his weight on his right foot, using his left only for balance. His body ached and trembled with the effort it took to stand, but he managed to stay on his feet.

Ouch. Ugh. Okay. Yeah. That’s a start. The fuzz in his vision was starting to dissipate, but the fog in his brain clung like fungus. It felt like he’d been inhaling a bunch of that laughing gas stuff his dentist had given him back in the 6th grade when he had to get a tooth pulled. His head was heavy and light at the same time.

The room was a lounge area with stiff furniture and minimal decor. A wilted fern sat in the corner alongside a weird, tall block with a piece of metal sticking out of the top that Peter assumed was some form of modern art. The walls were entirely bare except for a small landscape painting that looked like it belonged in a motel bathroom. There were two other chairs across from the couch, a coffee table, a gray rug, and that was basically it. 

Beside the fern, a pair of double doors stood wide and closed. When Peter strained his sensitive ears, muffled voices could be heard conversing in the other room. Curiosity plucked at his chest.

“Um…hello?” he called, voice raspy. He approached the doors, hopping more than walking, gritting his teeth as his injuries burned and throbbed, heat radiating feverishly off his skin. By the time he transversed the room, he was out of breath, lightheaded. He leaned against the wall for a minute and cycled slow gulps of oxygen through his lungs.

Once he’d somewhat recovered, Peter limped in front of the large doors. The voices were louder now, but not loud enough to be recognizable. They sounded mostly male. Peter took a deep breath, reached out his arm, and cracked the door open just a hair to peek inside.

It was a kitchen—that was the first thing he saw. A man stood at the island with his back to the doors. Across from him was a round dining table with a bowl of fruit in the middle.

“How is he?” the man asked, biting into an apple. His voice was definitely familiar.

“Still hasn’t woken up, right?” another responded.

Maybe this is another one of Clint’s safe houses, Peter thought. Or an Avengers’ base I’ve never been to before. Or a secret sitting room in some tragically decorated S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Or—

Seconds before Peter opened his mouth to say hello again, the man eating the apple turned around. When Peter saw his face, his heart jumped out of his chest and splattered at his feet.

“I don’t know,” Herman Shultz said over a mouthful of fruit. “Has he?”

The oxygen around Peter vanished in an instant. It’s Shocker! The guy who broke my leg! W-what the hell? What is he doing here?

“Not from what I’ve heard,” the second voice continued. Another man entered his narrow line of vision, this one lit up like a neon sign, and Peter’s throat seized.

“You’re not being very helpful, Maxwell.”

“I told you not to call me that! I’m Electro!”

Shocker held up his hands. “Right, right, sorry. Electro, then. You’re not being helpful.”

What the shit, what the shit, what the actual, living shi—

“Don’t ask me about these things. Ask the doc.” He lifted his head and grinned. “Look—here he comes now.”

Clank, clank, clank. Heavy, metallic footsteps rang in Peter’s ears and shook the floor beneath him. Horror and disbelief flooded his veins as the eight-limbed scientist stepped in front of him, hardly three feet away, pushing a pair of glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

“Ask me about what?” Doctor Octopus said.

Peter leapt back from the door, clamping both hands over his mouth. 

Oh…my god. It’s them.

“I just wanted to know how he was doing.”

They’re here. They found me. They came to finish the job.

Half of the super villains that had just wrecked his shit were standing in the neighboring room. Hell, maybe all of them were. They’d probably taken whoever had helped him hostage, or perhaps the poor soul was already dead. He wouldn’t stand a chance like this. He didn’t have his suit, his webs, nothing. He’d tried his best to fight them when he was just sick with the stomach bug, and look how well that had turned out for him. If they attacked him now, one solid hit was all it would take to knock him out. Or, if he was being fully honest, kill him.

Peter’s eyes darted frantically around the room. I have to get out of here! He hobbled toward the wall of windows and placed his hands against the glass. It was at least four inches thick; probably bulletproof. But it was his only option. With a shivery grunt, Peter hoisted himself off the floor and crawled toward the ceiling, every step piercing him with flashes of pain.

Okay. Launch off the ceiling, kick through the glass, make a run for it. In his loopy, concussed mind, the plan sounded foolproof. The voices of his enemies were growing louder; Doc Oc’s footsteps were approaching rapidly. It was now or never.

Hanging off the upside-down surface, balancing on his good foot, heart racing, head dizzy and faint, Peter threw himself at the window. He hit the glass with a loud thunk, bouncing off like a bug on a windshield, then crashed on top of the weird modern art piece, shattering the mahogany box into wood chips.

Peter lay sprawled in a heap in the wake of his failure, groaning and dazed. As he forced himself upright, gripping his head in his hand, the doors behind him burst open.

“What the hell?” Doc Oc exclaimed, alarm caked across his expression. When his gaze landed on the young superhero floundering in the splintered remains of his college art project, stunned and disheveled but now awake and wide-eyed, his muscles relaxed slightly. “Spider-Man?”

“Holy shit, he’s awake,” Electro said.

“And he destroyed your favorite sculpture,” Shocker added.

Peter’s eyes dashed between the three men, wild and afraid. He’d been unmasked by his absolute worst enemies—but that seemed the least of his troubles. I’m toast, he thought. Tiny pieces of wood clung to his hair, face, and back. Seeing him conscious for the first time sent a spark of relief through Doc Oc, though he hadn’t expected him to wake up for at least another day; the combination of pain meds he’d given him was pretty strong. When Octavius moved an inch closer to him, Peter scrambled to his feet and backed away, tripping over himself in the process and heavily favoring his right leg.

“Spider-Man—” he began, trying to keep his voice level. Spider-Man picked up a chunk of the destroyed box and chucked it at him.

“S-stay back!” he shouted. His voice was shrill and cracked at the end of the demand. Damn, Otto thought. The evidence of Spider-Man’s youthfulness was clear as day to him now—how had none of them noticed it before? Perhaps they had simply chosen not to notice.

Doc Oc dodged the projectile with ease. “Spider-Man, listen to me—”

Peter made a break for it, gunning for the opposite side of the room. He’d hardly made it two uncoordinated strides before three more figures emerged from a door behind the couch, blocking his escape path: Scorpion, Sandman, and Rhino. He skidded to a stop with a gasp.

“Whoa,” Rhino exclaimed, towering over the half-naked hero. “Would you look at that. Tiny spider is alive.”

Shit! Peter screamed internally. He whipped his gaze in every direction and realized he was surrounded.

“He needs to stop moving,” Otto said, knowing there was no way to accomplish that with words. He raised his tentacles above his head, the pincers snapping hungrily. “Grab him.”

Rhino made the first move, reaching out with his meaty hands to snag the kid by the arm. But Spider-Man ducked and rolled out of the way, moving surprisingly fast despite all of his injuries, though it was obvious the exertion was hurting him. Scorpion and Sandman tried next, lunging for his legs, but Peter hopped right over them and flipped backwards, wincing and staggering once his feet hit the floor and banging into the window.

“You’re going to reopen your wounds,” Octavius warned him. He thrust two tentacles at his torso, but Spider-Man flinched out of their grasp. Otto launched the other two arms at him, and Peter skirted between them, springing on to the wall. The exhaustion and terror in his face were evident. Otto felt bad for scaring him so much, but this was for his own good.

“Spider-Man—please,” he groused. His mechanical arms grabbed and snapped at the air, barely missing the slippery little hero every time. “Just—stay—still!”

Peter wasn’t listening to a word he said. All he knew was that he couldn’t let himself be caught. Every inch of him was screaming in agony. When the tentacles pounced on him all at once, Spider-Man shrunk small and dove underneath them, somersaulting past Doc Oc’s legs and popping up behind him. Peter bolted blindly for the double doors, only to ram straight into Rhino’s giant leg and fall flat on his ass. Three metal prongs clamped around his midsection before he could regather himself, pinning him to the floor.

“Agh!” Peter yelped, tugging uselessly at the claw’s strong teeth. “Let me go!”

Otto lifted Spider-Man off the ground. He continued to strain and squirm, kicking his legs and grappling with the mechanical pincers gripping his waist. The rest of the Sinister Six gathered around the frightened hero, forming a circle with him in the middle. He looked so small against the looming backdrop of super villains. His young face beamed with all the emotions his mask typically concealed—most prominently, fear.

“Spider-Man,” Octavius repeated, holding his hands out tentatively. “Calm down.”

“I’ll pass, thanks!” Peter quipped, betrayed by the tremble in his voice.

“Okay, it’s definitely him,” Electro groaned amusedly.

“I know you’re scared,” Doc Oc continued. “And you have every right to be. But if you don’t stop moving, you’re going to injure yourself further.”

“And if I don’t keep moving, you’re going to injure me further!” He thrashed and twisted valiantly, but it was evident he wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. His movements were slowing down, his attempts to escape growing more and more pathetic. Otto waited for him to burn himself out, crossing his arms against his chest. It didn’t take long.

“Are you quite done now?”

Peter hung his head, breathless and shivery, gripping the prongs around his torso less to try to escape and more to hold himself upright. Perhaps his impromptu acrobatics display hadn’t been his smartest idea. All that leaping and flipping and bouncing around had sapped the last whispers of energy from his bones.

“Ugh…room’s…s-spinning,” he murmured. Otto took that as a “yes.” He held Spider-Man closer and frowned at a red spot on his ribs. 

“And now look what you’ve done, you idiot. You’ve torn your stitches. I tried to warn you. Half an hour’s worth of sewing, down the drain because of your recklessness.”

“What are you…what…what’s…?” Spider-Man slurred. He was suddenly seeing double of everything. He dropped his gaze to his midriff and watched two blurry lines of blood slip down his side.

“I sutured you up, and you ruined it,” Octavius explained. Peter slowly lifted his head and wrinkled his brow.

“You…” he said, blinking repeatedly. “What?”

“Told you we gave him brain damage,” Rhino whispered. Peter looked at him over his shoulder, then swept his gaze around the circle, making eye contact with every member of the Sinister Six. They saw him. After all this time, his face was finally exposed to his enemies. No disguise, no secret identity, no mask. He felt so naked without it. Not having a shirt or pants on didn’t help either. Strangely, their expressions lacked their typical thirst for spider blood. It dawned on him that over a minute had passed, and none of them had tried to kill him. And so far, they still weren’t trying.

“I’m…confusion,” he stammered. “What—what’s happening right now?”

It was somewhat amusing to see Spider-Man so delirious and out of his element. Doctor Octopus lowered him to the ground but didn’t let go of his torso. Peter was almost glad he didn’t; he doubted he could stand on his own right now.

“I tended to your wounds while you were unconscious,” Octavius said. “It’s not a perfect patch job, but I did the best I could.”

Peter shook his head slowly, his big, brown Bambi eyes wide and puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

“I also gave you some pain killers, which might be making your head a bit fuzzy.”

“But…why?” he scoffed. “You did this to me. You’re the ones who…beat me up. You love beating me up. You—you hate me. You want me dead. You’ve tried to make me dead a million times.” Peter jolted suddenly, a cramp shooting through his broken leg. If he was on painkillers, they were doing a pretty piss-poor job. Everything hurt and was too confusing to comprehend. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into his hands, moaning. “Oh god…I’ve gotta be trapped in some crazy fever dream right now. Or maybe…I’m dead. Am I dead? None of this makes any sense…”

“You’re not dead, Peter,” Otto said, stifling a chuckle.

A shudder rippled through the teenager. He lowered his hands, revealing the colorless face behind them.

“How…how do you know my…?”

Shit, Doc Oc thought. It was a careless slip of the tongue. He had meant to keep his knowledge of Spider-Man’s alter ego a secret so as to not frighten him further, but it looked like the cat was out of the bag.

Peter’s gaze shifted anxiously between the six super villains again. Fresh fear clouded over his glassy eyes, and he went back to squirming against Octavius’ hold.

“Now what are you trying to do?” Otto asked, exasperated.

“G-get the hell out of here,” Peter answered. He yanked at the claw around his torso, grunting with effort. “I know what this is. This is—one of those—hrgg—P-Princess Bride situations, isn’t it?”

The team of villains exchanged bemused glances with each other. “What are you talking about?”

“You know—mmneh—when the bad guys—c-catch Wesley, then heal him—just so the life-sucky torture machine thing is—m-more torturous? That’s what this is, right?” His face was flushing red, and more of his sutures were starting to leach blood.

Scorpion threw up his hands. “What’s the brat trying to say?”

“I think he’s saying we only doctored his wounds so that when we kill him, it’ll be all the more slow and painful,” Electro clarified with a shrug. “Which honestly sounds pretty in character for most of us.”

“See? This guy gets it.” Peter pushed at the prongs with all his might. Even as a half-dead, half-conscious mess, the kid couldn’t stop himself from being a smartass.

“I’m just impressed he made a reference to a movie that came out before he was a concept,” Rhino said. “You know, instead of, like, Finding Nemo?”

Otto could see the strain Spider-Man was putting himself through in his pitiful attempts to escape, so he decided to see what would happen if he succeeded. When Spider-Man shoved at his metal pincers again, he let them snap open. Surprise flashed across Peter’s face as he dropped to the ground and wobbled on his feet, followed by weary triumph.

“Ha! See? T-told you I would…I could…”

He faltered and swayed, staggering backwards. Sandman enlarged his hand and caught him before he could hit the floor. Peter sat limply in his palm, breathing heavy, frail and febrile and injured and exhausted. He looked down at the sand-hand that had stopped him from falling, then back up at the surrounding circle of villains, fear and confusion stinging in the corners of his eyes.

“W-why aren’t you...trying to kill me?”

The room dipped into nervous silence. Spider-Man’s gaze continued to jump between them, searching for answers.

“Why did you treat the wounds you gave me?” he continued weakly. With every word that passed his lips, the shake in his voice increased. “W-what do you want from me? Are you trying to…turn me to the dark side or something?”

Shocker stroked his chin. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea…”

“No,” Sandman answered pointedly, shooting Shocker a sideways glare.

“Then what?” Peter snapped. “What’s going on? Why am I here? Why aren’t I dead yet?” Spider-Man dragged himself back to his feet, grimacing harshly. “T-tell me what you’re planning to do with me, or I’ll—I’ll…”

His scowl dropped suddenly, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes went wide and his jaw clenched.

“Or you’ll what?” Scorpion asked in a mocking tone.

When Peter didn’t answer him, Octavius took a step closer. “Spider-Man? What’s wrong?”

Gradually, the terror in his face gave way to dread. Peter sucked in a gasp and cupped his hand over his mouth.

 “I think…I’m gonna puke.”

Otto blinked. “Oh,” he said. That was not the response he was expecting, but it didn’t look like the kid was joking. He lurched forward, stifling a gag, making everyone exclaim and leap back. His pale face hinted a sickly shade of green.

“Oh,” Octavius repeated, animated by a new sense of urgency. He glanced around frantically until he spotted the fern in the corner of the room. He seized it with one of his tentacles, dumped the plant and the soil onto the floor, then slid the empty pot in front of Spider-Man. “Uh, here.”

Peter moaned in defeat before doubling over the pot and retching violently. The Sinister Six turned away in disgust, fighting to keep their own lunches down. There was hardly anything inside him to upchuck in the first place, but his body continued to dry heave for another half-minute. Once the bout passed, Peter was left wheezing and trembling with his head held low. His throat burned and tears were slipping from his eyes faster than he could wipe them away.

“Forgot about the stomach flu,” Electro said, sticking out his tongue. “Blech.”

Peter wanted to ask how the hell they knew he had a stomach bug, among many other things, but he was too fatigued to form words.

Octavius turned back to him squeamishly. The poor kid looked so small, hurt, and sick. It amazed him how quickly his hate for Spider-Man had transformed into a tentative fondness. He felt the need to comfort him somehow, the way adults were supposed to comfort young ones when they weren’t feeling well. But he had no idea how.

Instead, he grabbed a roll of paper towels and a cup of water from the kitchen and placed them both by his side. “Here,” he said awkwardly.

Peter eyed the items and whimpered softly. With miserable, lethargic movements, Peter washed out his mouth and wiped his face, every breath aching in his chest. Shame and fever radiated off him in waves. When he was finished, he just sat there, panting and shivery. Too weak to move.

“I think you ought to lay back down, Spidey,” Sandman said, plucking the hero off the floor between two massive fingers. He returned him to the couch with delicate care, guiding his head to the pillow and draping the blanket over his body.

“No…” Peter mumbled languidly, trying to sit up. When he closed his eyes, he couldn’t get them to open again. “Just…tell me…why…”

Something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, gently pushing him back down. Octavius had grabbed a hand towel from the kitchen and soaked it in ice water. The cool touch against his skin was soothing and unexpectedly soporific. Slowly, his muscles went lax. His tumultuous thoughts faded into sleepy nothingness.

“We will,” Otto lied. “But for now, rest.”

It was almost endearing how quickly Spider-Man drifted back to sleep. Octavius left the towel on his forehead and watched as his breathing eased to a steady rhythm.

“Damn,” Shocker sighed. “Poor kid.”

“We really beat him senseless,” Rhino said.

Electro stood over the slumbering hero with his hands on his hips, tilting his head to the side. “Is it just me, or is Spider-Man, like…kind of adorable?”

Scorpion snorted. “Adorable?”

“You know! In that, like, puppy-dog, dumb little kid kind of way. I mean, look at him! Does no one else think so?”

Sandman shrugged, fighting back a smile. “I mean, maybe. Sorta.” His expression gradually hardened, and he looked at Doc Oc. “So…is what you said before true? Is he really, like, an orphan?”

Otto lowered his gaze. “Not exactly. His parents died when he was a toddler, and he was adopted by his aunt and uncle, who became like parents to him. But then his uncle was killed last year, so now it’s just him and his aunt. He hasn’t had a particularly easy life.”

“And we certainly haven’t helped on that front,” Rhino added.

“It’s insane to me that at his age, this is what he chose to do with his powers. If I’d gotten his abilities when I was fifteen and gone through all that loss, I’d have been robbing every store on 5th Avenue.”

Shocker smirked. “I hate to say it, but...he’s kind of a good kid. Even if he is an obnoxious little dumbass.”

Amidst the conversation, Octavius’ face remained stoic, unreadable. He waited a while before clearing his throat. “I…wanted to let you all know. I, um, spoke to Tombstone this morning.”

All eyes turned to him, alarmed.

“He saw footage of us capturing Spider-Man on the news,” he explained. “He’s offering us two million each in exchange for the kid.”

Rhino’s jaw dropped. “Two million dollars? For each of us?”

“Holy shit,” Sandman breathed.

“What the hell?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“And he just wants the kid?” Shocker exclaimed. "That’s it?”

Otto nodded slowly. “Alive, but yes. That’s all he wants.” He swallowed and looked at the floor. “He’s given us until the end of the week to accept his offer.”

Excitement and dismay swept across everyone’s expressions. Each person waited for someone to speak up, for someone else to say no, we can’t. But it was just too tempting a proposition to dismiss out of hand. They could finally be free to do what they wanted. Free to live as they pleased, villainous or otherwise. Free to punish this city the way it had punished them, if they so choose. Turning over the kid was all it would take. One quick transaction. Hand over their nemesis, their sworn enemy, and it was done. They’d be rich.

“What the hell does he plan to do with him?” Sandman whispered uneasily.

“We don’t have to decide right now,” Doc Oc clarified. “I just wanted to make you aware of the opportunity. We can discuss it more later.”

An air of tentative relief settled over the room. Electro puffed out his cheeks and crossed his arms against his chest.

“In that case, what are we going to tell him when he wakes up again? That we want to sell him to some psychopath so we can all be millionaires? That we think he’s cute and want to keep him as a pet?”

Doctor Octopus shook his head. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” he said. He turned back to his team. “I’ll keep monitoring him and re-treat the wounds he opened. I think it’s best we always have a pair of eyes on him to prevent another incident involving the destruction of my art pieces.”

The rest of the Sinister Six agreed, scattering throughout the complex, the proposition weighing heavily on all of their minds. Otto put on some classical music and began mopping the fresh blood off Peter’s torso.

[to-star-lake]

re: untitled [ pt. 1 ]

pairing | jjk x reader genre | ceo!jk, arranged marriage word count | 5.4k pt. 2, pt. 3, end

“Do you really have to leave?” Taehyung whispered against your skin, his lips pouting and caressing your bare shoulder. “It’s not like he’s waiting up for you.”

You scoffed, scooting to the edge of his bed, picking up your t-shirt from the floor and sliding it over your head. “It’s not him, it’s Namjoon and the goddamn board of directors,” you said, standing up and shimmying into your jeans that were hanging off the armchair beside the bed. “Acting like he’s our guardian or something, that guy really pisses me off with all the curfews and rules,” you mumbled, making your way over to the desk and picking up your purse. 

Taehyung sighed and you looked over to see him sitting up against the pillows rubbing his eyes. “I don’t get it, why doesn’t Jungkook do something about that fool sitting up in his office calling the shots, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit about the company.” 

You rolled your eyes, looping the strap of your purse over your shoulder. “It’s cus he doesn’t give a shit about the company, I’m the one in every single board meeting and strategy meeting and business development meeting.” 

You picked your coat up from the back of the desk chair and walked over to sit down on the mattress beside Taehyung. He leaned forward, giving you a kiss, taking your left hand in his. When he pulled away you saw him look down at your hand in his, his fingers brushing over the shimmering diamond on a silver band on your finger. 

“It’d be nice to see you in the daytime once in a while, you know,” he said softly, leaning his head against your shoulder. You sighed and tried to muster a smile, lifting his face and giving him a peck on the corner of his mouth. 

“I’ll see you in the office, k?” 

Those are the last words you always say to him before you walk out of his apartment, down the elevator, and out to the garage where your car is parked. And you always thought about him on your drive home. About how if maybe circumstances were different, you might love him, and could actually be with him. You caught your gaze shifting to the diamond on your ring finger, glittering from the lights of the city flashing by as you drove downtown to the steel and glass highrise and the penthouse where you lived. 

“Miss Y/N, you’re cutting it close tonight,” Johnny, the valet teased as you pulled up in front of your building, getting out from the driver’s side of your car, tossing him the keys. 

“I set an alarm this time,” you quipped back, pushing through the glass doors into the marble lobby of your building, noticing the security guards at the front desk exchange nervous glances as you walked into the elevator. It rose above 48 floors and the doors opened with a ding to the penthouse suite, and you heard a shrill screech coming from the end of the hallway. 

“What the fuck, Jungkook?!” the voice shrieked, and the sound was followed by a half naked girl, running towards you into the open elevator doors, holding a silk sheet around her chest, a loud revving sound following closely behind. You ducked out of the elevator, and saw a 2-foot long toy tonka truck was chasing her at full speed. Turning, you saw Jungkook at the end of the hallway, wearing nothing but his briefs, the controller in one hand, the other clutching his stomach in laughter. 

“You’re no fun!” he shouted down the hall. 

“You’re fucking insane!” the girl yelled back as the elevator doors closed on her and the toy truck hit the doors at full speed with a thunk, pieces of its hood shattering across the floor and leaving a dent in the bronze elevator doors. 

You rolled your eyes, walking down the hallway towards the open door to the penthouse you shared with the man child in briefs, who slid down to the floor, still laughing. You walked past him without a word, making your way across the marble foyer, straight to the mahogany liquor cabinet beside the large sofas in the living room. Taking the top off of one of the crystal decanters, you poured yourself a drink and heard Jungkook’s footsteps behind you. He reached out and grabbed the decanter from your hand, taking a swig and plopped down onto the velvet ligne roset sofa. 

“Nice hickeys, what is this guy, 15 years old?” Jungkook scoffed as you took off your coat, revealing the trail of purple and blue marks along your neck and collarbone. Already irritated, you were about to snap when you heard the elevator doors ding and looking out into the hallway, you saw Namjoon step out. 

“I just saw a woman wrapped in a bedsheet fuming and stomping out of the building, I can assume that was your work?” Namjoon walked into the living room, stopping in front of Jungkook, whose body is leaned lazily into the sofa, taking another swig. You laughed audibly at this remark but Namjoon turned, also noticing the hickeys on your skin. 

“And you,” he began, holding up his phone, open to a dark and blurry paparazzi photo of you leaving Taehyung’s building next to a photo of you and Jungkook at an art function last month under the headline ‘Marriage or Merger? Billionaire Couple’s Sham Relationship.’ 

You rolled your eyes at this, taking another sip of your drink. 

“This is on page six,” Namjoon pressed on, pushing the phone closer to you, making you flinch and swat it away. “You need to be more discreet.” 

Jungkook chuckled from the couch, gulping down a few more swigs from the decanter. “And who knows how many paps got photos of that amateur’s work on her neck,” he snickered. 

“You’re the one chasing a naked girl around with a fucking toy truck,” you were becoming more irritated by the second. 

“Both of you shut up,” Namjoon raised his hand to his face, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Alright, you,” he said, pointing at Jungkook. “No more chicks in the penthouse, ok, I can’t keep paying your valets and doormen to keep this quiet. And Y/N,” he turned to you. “No more going to Taehyung’s house, and from now on both of you,” he shook his hand back and forth between you and Jungkook. “Both of you go to a goddamn hotel for your torrid affairs like normal, bored heirs alright? And do me a favor and do not arrive or leave with your flings. I don’t get paid enough for this shit.” 

He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm down before continuing. “Now we have a board meeting tomorrow morning at 10, you’ll both be there, right.” 

“Obviously,” you crossed your arms in front of your chest, annoyed at the insinuation. 

“I’m not asking,” Namjoon said, turning and walking out of the apartment.

“What’s got his knickers in a twist,” Jungkook said, drinking down the rest of the bottle before tossing it to the opposite end of the couch. 

You rolled your eyes and crossed the foyer to the other end of the penthouse where your bedroom was. You were pulling your t-shirt over your head when you heard Jungkook’s footsteps. 

“You need to stop seeing that asshole,” he said, leaning against the doorframe, drunk and slurring his words. 

“Fuck you,” you scoffed, sliding your jeans off and tossing them where you dropped your t-shirt and walked into your bathroom, turning the water on in the ivory tub. 

“I’m telling you to stop seeing him,” he raised his voice, walking up behind you, grabbing your forearm. You whipped around, twisting your arm from his grasp. 

“I don’t say shit about all the girls you have coming in and out of here, so stay out of my life.” 

He let out a bitter laugh, “I’d stay out of your life except we’re supposed to be fucking married here,” he held up his hand, pushing the silver band on his ring finger at your face. “We’re supposed to run the company together and you’re fucking the CFO.” 

You unhooked your bralette and slid out of your underwear and climbed into the half filled tub. “And you’re fucking, oh wait, I’m sorry, who is it this week? And don’t act like you give a shit about the company.” 

Jungkook put his hands on his hips, exasperated and averting his gaze from your naked body in the water. He took a deep breath and turned to leave. “It doesn’t matter who I’m seeing, they’re nobody. You’re fucking the CFO. If you fuck this up, he’s gonna fuck us over, don’t think for a second that asshole won’t.” He turned and walked out, slamming the door behind him. 

You felt your anger boiling over and reached for the nearest thing you could get your hands on, a loofah, and threw it against the door. 

“Fuck,” you said under your breath, brushing your hair back and dipping under the hot water. 

You were angry because you knew he was right. And you’d thought about it many times, what could happen if things turn sour between you and Taehyung. But you were so glad to spend time with anyone other than your arranged marriage husband that you didn’t even question it. But despite your anger, you could admit it was possible you were being more reckless than he was. 

It was the end of summer last year and you were in the bedroom of your apartment, packing your bags to begin your first graduate school semester when your parents called, letting you know they were in the city and asked you to have dinner. 

You remembered arriving in the restaurant and when the hostess led you back to a private dining room with gilded wallpaper and dimly lit by a crystal chandelier, you saw that it wasn’t just your parents. You weren’t particularly surprised by this, your parents had been taking you out to functions and dinners with their various business partners your whole life. The Jeons had been friends of the family for a long time and you greeted them cordially before sitting down. 

The conversation was light, which contrasted a stark and obvious tension in the air which you felt immediately that never lifted. Your parents had just begun to tell you about their plans to retire very soon and move to the chateau on Lake Como when the door to the private room burst open and the Jeons’ youngest son stumbled in. 

You’d known Jungkook since you were children, and you weren’t particularly fond of him. You remember him always causing trouble, and was a rowdy, mischievous kid, who followed you around at events and parties, tugging at your hair or smearing food on your clothes when you weren’t looking. You remember his older brother constantly chasing him to sit him down on a couch or chair in time out for misbehaving, and he would jump up and run away into more trouble the minute his brother turned his back. 

It’s been quite some time since the last time you saw him. During his last years in middle school, he’d gotten expelled from the prestigious private academy his parents worked hard to get him into, so they sent him away to boarding school. You hadn’t seen each other since you were 15. 

He’d grown so tall, you thought. His dark hair, which you remembered his mother always kept properly groomed had grown long, strands of it falling over his eyes. You watched him slide languidly into a chair beside his mom, removing his sunglasses and tossing them onto the table. It was 8 PM at night. His father coughed audibly upon seeing his mother’s distressed expression. 

“‘Sup, creators,” were his first and only words that evening. 

Your parents commented amicably on how much he’s grown and asked him seemingly innocuous questions like how was Cambridge, how was his big South America excursion with his friends, and his mother answered for him. You stared at him in awe, at how little he could care to behave in any acceptable way in front of his parents and their business partners. He didn’t lift his face to look at you once. 

A number of agonizingly long and uncomfortable silences passed when your father finally said, “Well, I’m sure the both of you are wondering why we’ve asked you out to dinner tonight.” 

That was the lead-in to both sets of parents informing the two of you that they were planning a merger. And a merging of their two enterprises would be on a scale that the industry hadn’t seen in a long time. But they were getting old, they said, and wanted to retire and do some traveling. Your mother wants to tend to a garden, and Jungkook’s father spoke extensively about the books he wanted to write. 

So they were handing the company over to the two of you. 

And not only that, that the two of you would marry, and that this had been the plan for a very long time. 

You felt your eyes growing wider in shock by the minute but there was something holding you back from blurting out all the things you wanted to say to your parents in that moment, like a heavy rock in the bottom of your stomach weighing you down. You kept glancing over at Jungkook, who sat in the same lazy posture in his chair, pushing his food around mindlessly on his plate with a fork, the same blank expression on his face, while you were panicking. 

You parted ways with Jungkook that evening without so much as a single word addressing each other. His mother asked for your phone number and gave you his in exchange before they left. You expressed your grievances in full to your parents that night. They did not listen. 

The wedding was one month later at your family’s chateau on Lake Como. It was a small, private ceremony, but your mother made sure there were enough photographers and journalists there to cover the event for publicity. The only words you and Jungkook exchanged on that day were your vows, which were carefully crafted by the company’s publicist. 

That night both your families left the two of you alone in the chateau. This was following a lively dinner with close family friends who were invited and flew out to stay in Lake Como for the weekend on private flights. You were not intimately familiar with any of them, and as far as you could tell, neither was Jungkook. 

You studied him carefully that day, nervous, but also resolved that even if the marriage is a sham, you wanted to make sure the two companies’ merger went through properly and that you would do your level best to run the enterprise with him. Despite the arranged marriage, you knew this company was your parents’ legacy, and you would not let it fail in your hands, and certainly not Jungkook’s. 

After everyone left that night, you sat at the boudoir nervously in the silk slip you wore under the custom gown your mother spent weeks with the designers in the Saint Laurent atelier crafting. The doors to the bedroom opened, and you turned to see Jungkook walk in. He had changed out of his tuxedo and into a pair of grey sweatpants and a black sweatshirt, the hood pulled over his head. 

He stood in the center of the room looking down at his shoes for a few moments and you were about to break the silence when he looked up at you and said, “Let’s go for a drive.” 

Those were the first words he spoke to you directly of his choosing. And that was the first time his eyes met yours with any substance. 

You threw on a coat and followed him out of the residence to the white Maserati gran turismo parked on the gravel lot in front of the house. A long and quiet car ride later, he pulled the car to a vantage point at the side of the road. He got out and walked to the overlook, climbing over the stone ledge and taking a seat. You followed suit. 

The two of you sat in silence for a few moments and the stillness of the chilly night air fell upon you. He took a deep breath and turned his head, and your eyes met his, for the first time in earnest. His dark irises shone in the moonlight and they gazed into yours placidly and he said, “What do you want to do?” 

It was a simple question, but both of you were well aware of the gravity of their meaning. What he meant was, ‘What do you want to do about this marriage?’

You looked out onto the lake and thought for a few moments. 

“We will be the picture perfect corporate couple in front of everyone,” you began. You saw him nodding gently in your periphery. You turned to face him, taking a long breath in before saying, “But we will stay out of each other’s personal lives. Let’s not pretend like we actually have any feelings for each other. And I have no illusions about you actually wanting any part of this merger or running the enterprise. But I will not let you waste and wreck this empire our parents worked their whole life to build, so you will stay out of it.” 

You saw his eyes grow wide in incredulity at your words for a brief moment before he turned away and took a deep breath. “Going to be kind of difficult to stay out of it since the general counsel wrote into the terms of the merger that you and I hold equal shares in the merged enterprise and you will be CEO and I will be president of the company.” 

“You’re just a figurehead to represent your father,” you scoffed at his remark, though you were surprised that he actually seems to have read the terms of the merger. “Stay out of the operations. I will run this company.” 

He stood up, smirking. “So that’s it then?” he asked in a mocking tone. 

“That’s it.” 

Both of you were silent on the drive back to the chateau, but you noticed his hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel, knuckles white under his skin, and he drove far past the speed limit. Of course he’s like this, you thought, a child throwing a tantrum and can’t control his emotions. 

You got out of the car but he didn’t, instead, rolling down the passenger side window and calling out to you, “I trust you can find your own way home? I’m sure you can use the jet at your will, Miss CEO,” his mocking tone continued. 

“Where are you going?” you asked, an annoyance and frustration building in the pit of your stomach which you were certain would persist every day of your marriage. 

He shrugged, “I hear Portofino’s lovely this time of year. Or maybe I’ll take a flight out to Majorca. I don’t really know, honestly, since I now have all this unexpected free time from not having a run a company or participate in a marriage.” And with that, the tires of the car screeched from the gravel lot and you stood on the steps of the residence, mouth open in awe at this display while the engine roared down the road and disappeared into the night. 

The entire last year of your marriage and partnership was like this. While you attended strategy meetings with your c-suite and reported earnings to the shareholders, Jungkook was galavanting around Europe, Asia, and rumors of his numerous affairs were well documented by the press. He would show up at random to meetings and events, undoubtedly dragged back from some wild binge by Namjoon, who was appointed acting president by the board when Jungkook’s behavior was finally deemed too erratic. 

Initially you were overwhelmed by the amount of work you had to take on in the absence of the business partner you were supposed to have. Part of you considered calling Jungkook, and asking him to return to help you run the business. But your pride wouldn’t allow that. And the longer his erratic behavior drew on, the more your anger grew until it grew to the point of apathy. And it was then that you found a new partner in Taehyung, the company’s newly appointed CFO. He was calm, collected, brilliant, and more than anything, understood you and the business. He was someone you could confide in. 

---

It was 10:55 AM and you had just concluded the last discussion item on the agenda for this month’s board meeting when the glass doors to the conference room flew open and Jungkook sauntered in, plopping down into one of the chairs along the room’s periphery. 

“Ah, Jungkook, good of you to join us,” Namjoon commented, looking around nervously at all the shareholders around the table exchanging concerned glances. 

He took the sunglasses off his face, “What did I miss?” he asked but didn’t mean. 

“Only everything,” you muttered under your breath as you slammed your laptop shut, but somehow Jungkook did manage to hear your remark. 

“Oh that’s alright, I’m sure Miya would be happy to uh, debrief me after this,” he chuckled, looking over at the secretary seated in the opposite corner, fully blushing at his comment.

“Oook, well, this was a productive meeting everyone, thank you for coming in today, we’ll meet again next month!” Namjoon stood, laughing nervously, clasping his hands together and quickly dismissing everyone before they could think too much on what Jungkook just said. 

“That fucking asshat,” you dropped our laptop onto the desk in Taehyung’s office and he looked up at you his hands raised in surprise at your entrance. You slammed the door behind you, brushing your hair back with both hands in frustration, pacing. 

Taehyung leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen in his hand, “I take it he actually did show up to the board meeting?” 

“Barely,” you muttered, still pacing. 

He laughed softly, but sat up quickly, and gestured for you to look at something. You looked over across the open office floor to Seokjin, the company’s in-house counsel’s office where Taehyung was pointing, and saw Jungkook taking a seat while Seokjin brought over a stack of papers, which Jungkook proceeded to flip through and sign. 

“What the fuck is he doing?” you asked, trying not to stare. 

“I don’t know,” Taehyung responded, equally curious, but less concerned than you were. “I have never seen him have a single conversation with Seokjin, what could he possibly be working on?” 

You scoffed, “Maybe he’s finally being served for harassment in the office.” Taehyung chuckled at your quip, but you were only making a joke to suppress and hide your concerns. You watched as Jungkook shook Seokjin’s hand and left his office. You waited, pacing for a few minutes before rushing out of Taehyung’s office, making a beeline to Seokjin. 

“Y/N! Oh, what a surprise, I wasn’t expecting-” Seokjin jumped in his chair, his glasses falling crooked on his face when you blew in through his office doors. You sat down in the chair across from him and crossed your arms. 

“Well, I uh, this is great timing, because I was actually just about to come to your office,” he tripped over his words in nervousness. “I uh, I need you to take a look at this, please,” he pushed a stack of papers over to you and you could tell from the manila binding it was the same ones Jungkook was just signing. 

“What is this?” you asked, flipping through the pages of legalise. 

“Well, uh, Jungkook just brought in three new defense contracts,” Seokjin replied. You froze mid-motion and stared up at him. 

This couldn’t be true. 

“What?”

“Jungkook brought in three new defense contracts,” Seokjin repeated, enunciating his words. 

“I heard you, I mean how?” you said, impatiently flipping through the pages of the contract, eyes wide at the fact that Jungkook has actually somehow brought in new business for the company. 

“I’m not sure, uh, you’d have to speak with Jimin over in business development for the details on how they executed the contracts, I’m sorry, I just write the terms, protect us from liability, um-” he looked at you nervously, knowing full well he wasn’t answering your real question. “But Jungkook asked me to present you with a plan,” 

“A plan?” you scoffed, looking at the numbers in the contract. 

“Yes, uh,” Seokjin took the pile of papers from you and slid you a folder with more papers. 

“Ok,” he took an anxious breath in, “So, Jungkook wants to give you his shares. And actually today’s board meeting is the final meeting with six of the 11 board members. In the last couple of months Jungkook bought their shares, which made up about 45% of the total enterprise shares. He wants to give you that 45% he acquired, along with his 10%, which, added to your own 10% would give you 65%, making you the majority shareholder of the enterprise, you just have to sign here,” he motioned towards the dotted line at the bottom of the page and held out a pen to you. 

You sat frozen for a moment before standing up, shaking your head and pacing. 

“Y/N?” Seokjin asked anxiously. 

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me he was buying out our shareholders?” 

“Well, I, I can’t speak for the shareholders themselves, but I was told this was need to know only..”

You were in shock, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. “So you’re telling me he went around buying out our shareholders to acquire a majority of the company, just to give it to me.” 

Seokjin nodded nervously. 

“You don’t find this suspicious? He’s bringing in new contracts, he’s buying out shareholders?” 

“Well, there is one stipulation,” Seokjin pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and leaned over the stack of papers, flipping to a specific page. “Jungkook is asking that 5% of annual earnings be dedicated to a new R&D department.” 

“What?” you asked, walking over to look at the page Seokjin was referencing. 

“What does he want a research and development team for?” you were fully perplexed. 

“I’m not sure, maybe he’s trying to work on some things for the defense contracts, I’m not clear on all the details. Again, Jimin could tell you more, or you could ask Jungkook directly..” he stopped, realizing you were glaring at him. “Uh, in any case, the numbers look good, I was going to run them by Taehyung after I got your ok. The R&D will cut into 5% but the new contracts will bring about a 12% growth in revenue so it’s all offset with a good profit.” 

You scoffed, falling into the chair, shaking your head. “Go, get the financials verified,” you said, waving Seokjin off and he sloppily gathered the papers and stumbled out of his office over towards Taehyung’s. 

You stood slowly, and walked in a daze down the hall to your own office, barely registering your secretary trying to tell you something before you turned the knob to the door and walked in and saw Jungkook standing behind your desk, looking out the windows at the city view. He turned when he heard you walk in. 

“Have you talked to Seokjin?”

You took a deep breath in, trying your best to control your tone but failing, “Sure, let’s just get right down to it. What the fuck are you doing buying out our shareholders?” 

He smiled and you couldn’t tell for the life of you if it was genuine or mocking. “I thought you’d be pleased to become the majority stakeholder.” 

You slammed your laptop down on the desk, your anger and impatience growing and you stared in annoyance at him, standing in front of you in a suit and tie, feigning legitimacy. “Why the fuck would I be pleased about that? How the hell did you land those defense contracts?” 

He slipped his hands into the pockets of his perfectly creased slacks and moved closer to you, close enough you could feel his breath on your skin. He lowered his voice and the sound resonated through the air as he spoke. 

“I don’t want to argue and I shouldn’t have to explain myself. You’ve been running the show long enough to know why I’m doing this. Those contracts will bring us 12% revenue growth, and the R&D will give us tax exemptions to put even more in our bottom line. I’m making you the majority stakeholder of the company because you should be the one running the enterprise, not Namjoon and his board of clowns. Let me work on the R&D and the defense contracts, and you can fully own this company. It was never our parents’ intention for us to report to some gaggle of stakeholders dicking around, raking in our money, and if it was, they’re idiots.” 

He walked over to the door of your office, turning the knob and opening the door, and you stood frozen at your desk. 

“Sign the papers, Y/N.” And with that, you heard the doors shut behind you. 

[busterkeatonfanfic]

Chapter 29 Part II

“You want me to what?” Nelly said, laughing. “I’m just about to wash my hair. I can’t.”

“Wash your hair?” said Buster, as though he’d never heard such a preposterous thing. 

“Yes, wash my hair. I told you before, I do it every Saturday.”

It wasn’t just the disruption in her toilette that made her hesitate. If staying at Buster’s bungalow was risky, stepping across the threshold of the Villa door when he was supposedly alone was downright dangerous. She didn’t trust that an important item hadn’t been left behind and that Natalie wouldn’t pop back in at any moment to retrieve it. She could also picture a sudden return due to illness, perhaps indigestion or the heat of the May sun.

“Poppycock,” said Buster, when she aired these fears. 

“How so?”

“They left for the train station at six this morning. Won’t be back for a whole week.”

“Yes, but …”

Buster told her all the ways in which her misgivings were foolish. “You can spend the night,” he added, in a teasing, tempting tone.

“I can’t,” she said. She ignored the instant flash of heat between her legs at his words.  

“Don’t you wanna see where I sleep?” 

The heat prickled. She did. “Do you think I’m that easy?” she said, not ready to quite surrender.

Buster laughed. “I do. Anyway, you can wash your hair here. I have a bathtub, you know. And a shower.”

Nelly gave it some consideration. “You promise everyone is gone?” she said at last. She wanted to add Your children, your wife, and your servants? but trusted he knew what she meant.

“Not a soul except you and me, sweetheart.”

“Okay, I give in,” she said. “Don’t think I think it’s a good idea, though, because I don’t.”

Buster showed up forty-five minutes later, parking a few houses down on Genesee Avenue. He had tipped her off that he was coming in a black Gardner car. It was rather ordinary-looking, his butler’s personal vehicle he’d said, and she understood why he’d chosen it. In the bright morning light, one of his luxury cars would have been more conspicuous than it was in the late evenings when he usually came around. He sat in the driver’s seat almost completely concealed behind a newspaper as she approached, carrying her handbag and a small satchel with some clothing.

“Good morning,” she said, after opening the passenger door and settling herself inside. She couldn’t help herself grinning ear from ear at the sight of him. It was only the third time she’d seen him since he’d returned from New York. 

“Morning,” he said, answering her smile. He folded the paper and tossed it in the backseat. “You ready to be queen of a castle for a day?”

“I will be a guest of the castle,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Joke or not, the idea of her somehow taking Natalie Talmadge’s place at the Villa made her uneasy. Thoughts of Mistress Nell Gwyn, which she’d long since finished reading, flashed through her mind. 

“Alright, guest then.” He turned the key in the ignition and then swung the car onto the road. 

After he had shifted the car up to a comfortable traveling speed, he grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips. She knew him well enough already to know that he wasn't the type to say things like ‘I missed you’ out loud, it just wasn’t him. The kiss said it all the same.

Truth be told, as much as Nelly was glad to see him, she was nervous to be even a guest at the Villa and not simply because Natalie could return at any moment. She could forget that Buster occupied a different world when they were at her apartment or the modest bungalow outside the M-G-M gates; she could not forget it amidst the splendor and sumptuousness of the Villa. Moreover, the Villa was Natalie’s territory, built with her in mind as Buster had once told her. It didn’t feel right sneaking around her house while she was gone. 

When Buster shifted down a gear again, he kept her hand in his so that her hand was also on the stick. He drove that way for several minutes, whistling, caressing her hand beneath his. Nelly was occupied enough without conversation, half fretting about setting foot inside the Villa, half wondering at the mansions of Beverly Hills, sprawling cream chateaus in the French and Mediterranean styles, most with red roofs. They all seemed to be variations of the Villa, or vice versa. 

Her stomach grew jittery as the meticulous, manicured hills of the Villa came into view. Buster went up the drive, still whistling cheerfully, oblivious to her discomfort. He pulled the car through the circle drive with the fountain, shifted down, and turned it off. 

“M’lady,” he said gravely when he opened her door. She handed him her satchel and he took her hand with his free one and helped her down. The fountain burbled pleasantly as she looked up at Buster’s palace. She should have been bright with anticipation, but all that she felt was a gnawing dread. 

“Sure they’re gone?” she said. 

“Sure as anything,” Buster said, burying his face in the side of her neck and kissing it abundantly. For once, it failed to distract her. 

“Alright.”

He took her hand again and pulled her up the steps and to the mahogany door with its interlocking diamond-patterned metalwork. Electric light burned in the large black iron sconces by the door even though it was day. Still holding her hand, Buster turned the door handle and pushed inside. Nelly was now back in the dimly lit vestibule with the red-brick floor. The house was cool and had a distinctive smell, neither pleasant nor unpleasant, which announced that a particular family lived there. It was larger and more sober than she remembered without its gay partygoers. She followed Buster into the foyer. With the great stone staircase and wrap-around stone balcony encompassing the upstairs, the house really did feel like a castle. 

“Loosen up,” Buster said, setting down her satchel and giving her shoulder a squeeze. 

She attempted a smile. “I’m sorry.”

“I wanna show you around,” said Buster. Nelly bent to get her satchel and he tugged her away. “Leave it. We’ll get it later. You can hang up your bag, too.”

Reluctantly, she looped the strap of her bag around the hook of an opulent hall tree. It too appeared to be made of mahogany. Their feet echoed on the marble checkerboard floor. 

“This is the breakfast room,” Buster was saying as they went up some steps and into a smallish room with a simple white wicker table and matching chairs. Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows. He paused to let her gaze around her for several moments before leading her down another set of steps and into a room with a tiled floor, a trickling marble fountain topped with a cherub, and numerous palms and ferns. “And this here’s the conservatory on account of all the plants.” Nelly could only stare, marveling that there was an entire room just for plants. “The kids like playing behind ‘em, the plants, but I don’t much see the purpose of a conservatory,” Buster said, almost to himself. “That’s what it is though, and this next room’s the dining room.”

They ascended another small set of steps. Only one leaf was in the table and only four chairs were gathered around it though additional chairs sat against the walls. It was a table, in other words, for a family of four. It more than anything else she’d seen so far reminded Nelly of Buster’s other life, his real life, the part that she was shut off from. Clearly excited to be showing her around, he still hadn’t noticed her uneasiness, so she smiled and praised the pretty painted ceiling beams and the large, expensive oriental rug that the dining set was placed on.

“Servants are on this side, too, and so’s the kitchen. I’ll show you the kitchen later if you want.”

Next he took her back to the foyer and they went left into the living room. Nelly remembered from the party and said so. It was more cavernous than she’d recollected. There was the great stone fireplace, the sofa, some chairs and a side table with a fresh arrangement of flowers. She noticed another palace-sized oriental rug, a mirror, and a coal box. There were so many expensive items to catch her eye. Before she had time to adjust, Buster was pulling her in another direction. 

“I call this my playroom.” 

The playroom contained a big billiards table, a bar, and a small table the precise size for four card players. The ceiling was wood-paneled and beamed. A phonograph player and armchair sat off to one side.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, and added in a moment of honesty, “It’s a lot.”

Buster came up and put his arms around her waist, resting his head on her chin. He smelled like cigarettes and Brilliantine. She could tell he was feeling amorous, but she was too tightly wound to relax into his arms. “Why don’t you show me the grounds?” she said, to head him off. 

He withdrew his arms, seeming to catch on that she wasn’t in the mood. “Why, sure.”

They went out of a loggia off of the living room and Buster let her explore the grounds at her pace. For some reason, even though she was more exposed outdoors to anyone who might be around, she felt more secure. Buster’s sense of opulence was not restricted to the interior. Nelly saw the tennis court and push-button trout stream, and walked down to the extravagant pool, which looked tempting and refreshing as it glinted in the sun. She sat sideways in a pool chair and rubbed her ankle absently. “It’s a lot of space, isn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Buster agreed. He pulled a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lit it. He stood smoking and looking into the pool. 

“I’m afraid I find it all a little overwhelming,” she said. 

“Oh, I can tell,” said Buster, redirecting his gaze to her. “There ain’t no need to feel that way, you know. It’s a house, is all.”

“It’s a palace, Buster. It’s marvelously beautiful, it’s just …” She looked around her.

“Hmm.” Buster closed the space between them and sat next to her.

Nelly touched his knee. “I just forget sometimes that you’re King Charles and I’m Nell the orange-seller.”

“Bull,” said Buster. 

Nelly traced patterns on his knee and didn’t answer. The water in the pool lapped in a soothing way and smoke from his cigarette drifted into her face.

“So what’s your castle in the air, then?” said Buster, waving away the smoke.

“Me?” She looked into his eyes. “You know, silly. A Shakespeare talkie. What comes after, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten that far.”

“No, I mean when it comes to real castles. What would you do different?” He inclined his head at the Villa.

“Oh, well … I’d shrink it down, naturally,” she said. “Maybe just one story or maybe a bungalow with a little room or two upstairs.” She’d never thought of what her ideal home might look like, but warmed to the idea at once. “It would have plenty of bookshelves and lots of books. Floor to ceiling. I’d have a collection of plays. Maybe I’d have a collection of records, too. There would be space to dance.”

“Even if you were a star?”

“I suppose. I don’t know. It’s hard to imagine having so much money.”

“Easiest thing in the world to spend money if you’ve got it. Everyone does when they do.” Buster flicked the spent cigarette to the marble flagstones and crushed it with his heel. 

Nelly placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be cross with me. You just have to let me get used to it. It all makes me so nervous.”

“I should have figured it would, the way you were acting at my party,” he said, in a somewhat sullen tone of voice. “Guess it’s my fault for asking you over.”

She kissed his cheek. “Give me a chance to get used to it. You know, maybe a drink would help.” She hadn’t shared a drink with him since his party, but figured it was the fastest path to getting more comfortable.

“You want a drink?” Buster said, brightening. 

“Yes. Make me a drink,” she said, squeezing his hand.

They went up the white marble steps past the impeccably trimmed topiaries that lined it and decorated its center and back through the loggia and into the living room. Buster led her into the playroom. “What’ll it be?” he said.

“Something that isn’t whiskey, please,” she said, taking a seat in the armchair. 

“Gin Rickey?” he said.

“That’s fine,” she said, not quite knowing what a Gin Rickey was but happy to find out. 

She stole long glances of the room as Buster stood with his back to her and mixed the drink. She could grow to like this room, she decided. Of all the places in the house she’d seen so far, it seemed the most like the man that she knew, always eager for a game of some kind, in love with his comforts. 

“Here you are,” said Buster, appearing at her side to hand her the drink.

It was clear and bubbly, garnished with a wedge of lime. She took a cautious sip and tasted pine and lime. “It’s delicious,” she said, smiling at him.

Buster returned the smile. “Good.” He went back to the bar to pour himself a glass of whiskey. “Game of billiards?” he said, standing before her again.

Nelly took a generous swallow of the cocktail and although he was sure to have an insurmountable advantage over her said, “Sure.”

She went over to the billiards table and Buster walked over to the wall to push a button. To her marvel, a long, lavish metal light decorated with scrolls descended from the ceiling. He pushed another button and light was cast over the red-velvet billiards table. Buster smiled at her astonishment and flipped open a built-in cabinet, from which he selected a couple of cue sticks. He handed one to her. 

“Ready to get whupped?” he said. “Your turn first.”

“No, you,” she said firmly. “You need all the advantages you can get.”

Buster laughed. “You’re pretty confident, kid.”

It was a lie, of course. She’d never played the game well but didn’t want to show how green she was. She could at least try to mimic his form if he went first. He lifted the triangle away from the balls and went to the south end of the table holding the cue ball. She watched him place it in the left corner of the table and chalk the tip of his stick. Not missing a beat, he laid his left arm on the table and threaded the cue through his forefinger, then pulled his right arm back. It seemed as though he barely tapped the cue ball, but the pyramid of balls went scattering. “I call stripes,” he said, after watching to see where all the balls went.

Nelly took a large gulp of her drink and set it on a nearby table. She was remembering Buster shooting billiards in a film whose name escaped her. Each shot had been impossible. “How did you do those trick shots in that one picture of yours?” she said, grasping her cue stick. 

“Sherlock, Jr.?”

“I think that was the one.”

“What’ll I get for telling?” he said, lifting an eyebrow.

“I’ll let you win, perhaps,” she said. 

That made him laugh. “It was practice. Four god damn months of practice. I had a teacher, one of the best players there is, and it still took us five days to get all the shots. Quit stalling, though. It’s your turn.”

Nelly stuck out her tongue and leaned over the table as she’d seen Buster do.

“No, no, no, you didn’t chalk your stick.” He took it out of her hands and wiped the piece of chalk around the tip. “Here.”

Rolling her eyes, she took the stick back and again set up her shot. She aimed at a solid green six-ball and shot. Instead, she hit a striped eleven-ball and didn’t get anywhere near any of the pockets.

“Oh Nelly,” said Buster, laughing. 

She didn’t mind that she was going to lose to him. It was worth it to see the way his grin lit up his face. “I’m deliberately putting you at your ease,” she said, narrowing her eyes and lifting her nose. She wandered over to her glass of Gin Rickey and finished it. 

“Want another?” said Buster, gesturing. 

She nodded.

They went on like that for the next half-hour, taking turns at the table. Buster beat her handily in three out of three games. “You can’t play at all,” he said with mild incredulity, after all of his balls were in their pockets at the end of round three.

Nelly set her drink (it was her third) on the table and hopped up onto the edge of the table. She was feeling happy and free and relaxed now. “So I told a fib,” she said, smiling and swinging her legs. “So what?”

Buster couldn’t hold back his laughter. “You’re awful bold.” He positioned himself between her legs and tilted his head up for a kiss. She pressed her mouth to his, tasting whiskey. “Want a lesson on form?” he offered. She shook her head, stroking her finger across his lower lip. “Well, what do you want?”

“You tell me,” she said. She traced a finger across his cheekbone and his eyelids grew heavy. His lips parted.

“It involve a bed?” he said, sounding dreamy.

“Maybe.” She grabbed the rest of her drink and finished it. “Where’s your bedroom?”

“Second floor. C’mon.” Buster helped her down from the billiards table and took her hand again. She followed him up the grand stone staircase and onto the landing. He paused a few moments to unlatch a heavy wrought-iron gate. He led her through it and down a short hall, then took a right into a small circular vestibule with an intercom and dumbwaiter. Before Nelly had a chance to ask where they were, he pulled her through the next doorway.

She knew at once that the bedroom wasn’t his. There were too many feminine tells: a mint-green screen decorated with flowers, a lamp with a pink shade, French perfume bottles on a bureau. Buster was nibbling her throat, but Nelly was looking over his head at the photographs of his children hanging on the walls. He steered her over to the edge of the king-sized bed and pushed her to a seated position. It sat atop a platform and was the biggest bed she’d ever seen. He sat beside her and started working on the dress buttons at the back of her neck.

“Oh, we can’t,” she said, pushing his hands away. 

“Huh?” said Buster, looking affronted. “Why not? Thought you wanted to.”

“I do, but not on your wife’s bed. Buster, it would be wrong.” She stood up.

“Look, I never once made love to her on this bed.” He appeared confused. “No one’s made love on this bed. She don’t do that. Not with me, not with anyone.”

“It’s not just that. It’s—I don’t want to take her place anywhere. I don’t want to be in her room,” she said. Her head was fizzy with Gin Rickeys, but she was never more sure of herself. She turned on her heel and walked back to the vestibule. 

Buster’s footsteps followed her. He caught her arm. “Don’t be like that, I didn’t mean to upset you.” His face was so soft and pleading that she couldn’t stay angry with him. 

“I know you didn’t,” she said, though ignorance didn’t excuse his mistake. She stood dumbly as Buster ran a hand up and down her arm. 

“Want me to take you home?” he said, voice remorseful. 

“No. No, I don’t.” She smiled at his doubt and put her arms around him, softening further. “Let’s just stick to other parts of your house, alright?”

“Alright. Well, can I take you to my bedroom?”

She had to bite back another smile at his persistence. “Sure.”

A similar round vestibule preceded Buster’s bedroom. This led to a small hall which led into the main bedchamber. Both his room and his bed were half the size of Natalie’s. The curtains were drawn, making the room dark and cool. Nelly tried not to look too hard at the photographs. There was one of his sons in front of a large dressing mirror that connected his two bureaus. 

“I built that,” he said, thinking she was admiring the mirror and dressers. “Designed it myself. Gabe helped me build it at my old studio.”

She was surprised at this bit of trivia. There were very few areas into which Buster’s talents didn’t extend, it seemed. “It’s a handsome piece of furniture,” she said. She noticed that the picture opposite his sons’ had been turned onto its face and attempted to give it no more thought. 

“Sorry the bed’s not made, but the servants are gone for the weekend.”

“You can’t make your own bed?” said Nelly, turning to him and giving him a playful pinch. Her nervousness had begun to melt away again now that they were out of Natalie’s territory. 

“What’s the point? It’s just going to get mussed up if I make it.” He returned to kissing her neck and this time Nelly tried to force her nerves away. His lips were soft, his breath was warm, and that was all that mattered. 

In no time, they’d gotten onto the bed. Buster bent over her, his leg threaded between hers, kissing her fiercely and clutching one of her breasts. She ran her hands up and down his back as his tongue entered her mouth. The bed smelled like him and she imagined, vaguely, what it would be like to wake up next to him in it, tumbled in these expensive blankets and sheets; to watch him dress and get ready for the studio; to see him off with a kiss and spend the rest of the day in idleness and frivolity, waiting for him to return home so they could go to dinner or attend a party at Pickfair. She couldn’t make up her mind whether that sort of life would be the meaning of happiness or unbearably stifling. Realizing that her thoughts had wandered again, she brought herself back to the present by sliding her finger into the seam of Buster’s button-up shirt and easing one of the mother-of-pearl buttons from its hole. Buster withdrew his hand from her breast and knit his arms behind her back so he could do her the same courtesy, plucking open buttons as they kissed. When all buttons had been accounted for, Buster sat up and pulled his arms out of his sleeves, while she stepped off of the bed and out of her dress. 

“Now,” said Buster, when she was back on the bed. “Where were we?”

“You tell me,” she said, looking down at his lap. He was still wearing his dark grey trousers. 

He grasped her by her bare shoulders and steered her onto her back. As he crouched on top of her, caging her in with his hands and knees, she reached down to undo his trousers. Her fingers brushed against his erection and he moaned, appreciative of the contact. She let her lower instincts drive her when the buttons were undone. It was natural to stroke him just so, to lick at his ear, to tell him how hot he was making her, but these actions, done of intuition, left energy for her mind to resume its peregrinations. It took so little to make Buster happy, and was no great chore to content him in bed. He liked all the usual things that men did. None of the deviations that she’d heard whispered about Charlie Chaplin during his divorce seemed to hold any interest for Buster. He never desired sex to such a degree that it was burdensome. Admittedly, she felt just as passionate for him as he did for her, but she tried to consider what it would be like if she didn’t. She still didn’t see what the harm would be in indulging him, in keeping his bed warm. Too little payment for so great a debt. 

She clung to his neck and kissed it while he inched her knickers down. He entered her with a sigh a few moments later. He hadn’t mentioned a prophylactic and she hadn’t asked. It was easy to forget sense when he made love to her. She forgot, too, what time it was and that they were at the Villa. Instead, her mind coasted along currents of pleasure, following each one to its length until she encountered the next. 

“Flip over,” said Buster, pulling her out of the reverie she’d sunk into. 

“Hmm?” she said.

He withdrew from her body and sat up on his haunches. “Right here.” He patted a portion of the bed to indicate. “But with your head toward the mirror and your feet sorta pointed at the pillows.” He tugged off his undershirt.

Her heart pounded. They’d only ever made love on their sides or with Buster on top. She unhooked her brassiere, wriggled onto her stomach, and stretched out, her head facing the mirror. 

“Now, I’d like it if you…” He sucked in breath as he dragged a finger from the top of her neck to the slight swell above her bottom. “Get up on your hands and knees.”

Her pulse throbbed. To obey him would be downright wicked, not respectable, not ladylike, but the moment Buster made the request she perceived what a superb idea it was. She rose to the position that he wanted her in and arched her back. 

Two words. “Oh, Christ.” She had never heard his voice sound like that, dark and worshipful, like he was a pauper and had been handed a sack full of gold objects. 

He lined himself up behind her, and there was a quick mutual adjustment of legs and feet before he entered her. Following instinct again, she pushed back to meet him. She closed her eyes to savor the new pleasure. As a consequence, it took her a couple minutes to realize Buster’s reasoning behind the position. When she blinked her lids open, in such a daze that it felt like she’d drunk ten Gin Rickeys, she saw them in the mirror together, Buster rising above her backside with abs standing out in stark relief, one arm stretched along her back and anchored on her shoulder. His eyes met hers and she pushed back. Not breaking her gaze, he pushed forward. She’d never seen herself in such a way before, her arms splayed, her hair starting to fall out of its chignon, her breasts swinging with every push by Buster. His breath was fast and hard. He was muttering sweet things to her through his moans, Oh darling and You’re so good. For her part, she’d never been so excited. 

He wouldn’t last like this, but she sensed that he wasn’t meant to. She gave another push back and he broke against her with a choked cry. “I can’t, Nelly, oh I can’t …!” He doubled over her and clutched her breasts, gasping as he came in her. She met his uneven thrusts, grinding herself against him for all she was worth, craving those last frissons of euphoria before he withdrew. She lifted her eyes to the mirror and watched him pull out and collapse on his back against the mound of his pillows, his chest heaving. Her arms were sore as she drew alongside him, but the pain was distant. 

Only when she met his eyes did she realize what had just happened. Buster’s groggy look of pleasure was changing to fear. “I was trying to say, ‘I can’t stop,’ ” he said, feeling for her hand and squeezing her fingers when he found it. 

Impossibly, she’d forgotten that there was no barrier between them. She dipped a hand between her legs and encountered the excess wetness there. 

“I’m so sorry,” said Buster. She’d never seen such an expression of worry on his face.

She propped herself on her elbows, still half in a daze from their love-making. “Do you have a—where are your pants? Your handkerchief.” She had trouble commanding the words. 

Buster slipped off the bed and picked up his trousers, feeling in the pocket. Wordless, he handed her the white square of cloth. She wiped away as much of the wetness as she could. “I’m sure it’s fine,” she said, after she’d bunched up the cloth and thrown it clear of the bed. She was now beginning to feel worried, but only because he seemed so worried. “The chances are very, very small.”

He was standing at the foot of the bed running a hand through his disheveled hair. “If it comes to that,” he said, in a halting way that told her he was still arranging his thoughts. “If it does, I’ll help you sort it out no matter what. Okay?”

“I’m sure it’s fine. Come here.” When he was close enough, she pulled his hand to her mouth and kissed it. “Don’t worry.” In her head, she was counting up the days since her monthlies had appeared last week. She came up to eleven, not quite the midpoint. The midpoint was when most women conceived. She looked up at Buster. The furrow beneath his brows was deep. “Please. Stop worrying.”

He sat next to her and knit his hands together and stared ahead. She thought she detected a peculiar luster to his eyes. 

“Darling, it’s as much my fault as it is yours. I forgot too.” She reached out and brushed the hair back from his forehead. “There’s no point in worrying unless I’m late.”

“I won’t go without a thin from now on,” said Buster, as though he hadn’t heard her. 

Her head began to ache. The Gin Rickeys had worn off. “Please. Please stop worrying.”

Without any warning, Buster threw his arms around her and clasped her tight, so much that he took some of the breath out of her. He held her like that for several long moments, not saying a thing, before releasing her. “Alright, I will,” he said. 

“Good.” She held his cheek in her hand until he looked her in the eyes and she was satisfied at what she saw in his. “Now I’m the one who’s hungry this time. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

Buster seemed to cheer up a fraction. His voice sounded a bit sunnier as he said, “What would you like?”

“Oh, anything. Whatever you want. I’m sure I’ll like it.”

Nelly thought they dressed more somberly than usual this time, collecting articles of clothing from the bed and floor and pulling them on without saying a word. Despite her reassurances to Buster, the weight of her predicament was beginning to settle on her. All the canteen lunches on the set of Steamboat and at United Artists had taught her that there were two choices for girls whose famous lovers had put them into a condition. They could go away for a period of confinement and give up the child when it was born. Or they were put in touch with a doctor who could take care of their situation. 

Buster disappeared as she was buttoning up her dress and she heard the faint sound of his voice from down the hall. He was speaking to someone. She froze. Natalie must be back. She looked around in horror and spotted a doorway to the left of the bureau. She hastened through it and found herself in a bathroom. Hiding in the shower would be absurd, but it was the best place to conceal herself. She decided to wait to hear if footsteps approached first. The seconds dragged on. Her pulse thudded and her head throbbed in an angry way. At long last, she heard someone enter the room, but there was just one set of footsteps. “Nelly?” Buster called. 

She released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and made her way to the doorway. “Are you alone?” she said in undertones. 

Buster, who was standing at the foot of his bed, looked toward her in bafflement. 

“ ‘Course I’m alone. What do you mean?” 

Relief descended and she came back into the bedroom. “Who were you talking to?”

Buster gave her an odd look. “Caruthers. Ordering food.”

Although she was comforted to hear that Natalie had not made an unexpected return, she was dismayed to hear that someone else was in the house with them. “I thought you said everyone was gone?”

“They are,” he said. “I can’t go without Caruthers, though. He does all the cooking. And I need someone to fetch things if I need ‘em. I can’t just go out like you.”

“Oh,” said Nelly, somehow not feeling satisfied with this explanation. 

Buster gave her shoulder a squeeze. “He knows about us, anyway. And before you go worrying, he’ll never breathe a word. I trust him with my life.”

She wasn’t happy to hear that Buster had given away their secret. Though the butler had been friendly the night he had driven her home, she knew that servants gossiped. Perhaps male servants didn’t do it to the extent that female ones did, but she didn’t think it was worth chancing. “If you think so,” she said, not able to keep the skepticism from her voice. 

“Buck up,” said Buster. “Anyway, how else was I supposed to get you a nice dinner tonight?”

Tonight. The Gin Rickeys, the dark room, and the torrid love-making made her forget it was still daylight out, but of course it couldn’t be past two or two-thirty. She stepped toward the mirror and took in her disarrayed hair. “If he knows I’m here, I ought to fix my hair before I go back downstairs.”

Buster smiled and looked self-satisfied. “Ain’t no need for you to go anywhere. Go on and fix your hair, and I’ll call you when the grub’s here.” He took a silver brush from his bureau and handed it to her. 

She stayed in the bathroom until Buster yelled for her, not wanting to be caught in the room when the butler wheeled in a cart of food. It would be too uncomfortable. She stepped into the bedroom but didn’t see Buster. “Where are you?”

“In here.”

She followed the sound of his voice and, feeling cautious, went down the hall and into the vestibule where she saw Buster holding a silver tray with both hands. It held two or three covered dishes. He cocked his head at a dumbwaiter she had not noticed earlier where there was a smaller tray holding glasses and soda pop bottles.

“You grab those there,” he said.

She did as she was told and they went through another door of the vestibule and onto a balcony, where there was a small table and a few bistro chairs. “Oh my,” she said, as she caught sight of the view. The balcony was directly over the east portion of the house, which stretched out at an angle beneath them. That was not what had taken her breath away, however. From here, there was a perfect view of the marble steps, swimming pool, and tennis court, and sloping away from them, the estate wandered down to the great flower bed beside the winding drive that they had come up. It wandered farther still, past the palms and shrubs, and then there were mansions as far as the eye could see in every direction, beautiful mansions so well-arranged on the hills that they looked the very picture of an Italian town. That was where all of Hollywood lived, Marion Davis, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Norma Shearer, Charlie Chaplin, Harold Lloyd, and here she was among them dining with Buster Keaton. For a minute, she felt far removed from her previous life in Evanston and her current one as a humble extra and prop manager, tasting what it must be like to be a movie star. 

“Like it?” said Buster, setting the tray on the table. 

Nelly nudged her tray next to his, considered the warm sun on her shoulders and the breeze, smelling earthy and almost living, and nodded. Maybe it was the view, maybe it was laughing and eating fresh strawberries and cream with Buster after they’d finished purée of potato soup and veal cutlets, but from that hour forward she took a better liking to the Villa and began to see it as he did. Her worries were, for the remainder of the evening at least, set aside.

Notes: Are you surprised by this chapter? I was. What I had in mind was just a nice rendezvous for Nelly with Buster at the Villa, but there was much more tension and conflict and unexpected directions than I’d thought. The length also got away from me, but I hope you won’t mind that.  It’s hard to explain, but when you’re writing--when you’re immersed in your characters--sometimes they just act on their own and you just follow. Did I intend for Buster and Nelly to have unprotected sex that resulted in Buster accidentally finishing in her? No. Did I intend for Nelly to be so resistant to Buster’s home, help, and all the rest? No. I just wrote and the characters’ natural actions suggested themselves without a single thought on my part.  I think I will wrap this chapter up for now and just call the next one Chapter 30, even though it takes place the same day and same place.  And yeah, that’s a photo of Buster in his bedroom. Dreamy, huh?

[let-me-love-you-loki]

In a Day or Two-Ch. 32

Chapter 32

           I took a deep breath as my mother tipped her chin up and practically stalked toward the doorway. It seemed like it was a night where I needed steady oxygen support, more than usual at least. My father shook his head, a faint indulgent smile on his face and his shoulders relaxed as he followed after my mother. He nodded toward Damon, gesturing for him to follow right behind.

           My brother grinned and fell in behind him, walking backward so he could talk to Kenny and me. “Mom’s completely lost it,” he said, circling his finger around his temple. “It’s like she’s trying to run you off with all this stuff. That and make you feel really, really, really small.”

           I felt the blood drain from my face. For a moment, the room spun around me. Caroline Hearst Walker was expertly skilled at one thing, and it was making people feel miniscule in her presence. If that was her goal, I didn’t want to put Kenny through it. I just wanted to run.

           Kenny’s hand slipped into mine, his fingers threading in the spaces between my own. He tugged gently to turn my attention to him. “It’s okay,” he said, the words directed at me even as he looked at Damon. “I don’t scare that easy. And I know people way worse than your mother. Makes all this look like a studio apartment.”

           “Dude,” Damon muttered, his dark eyes going wide with wonder, “you really are a badass.”

           Before Kenny could respond, my mother’s voice practically roared through the hallway. “Don’t keep us waiting!” I rolled my eyes. She sounded like a hateful harpy, and it embarrassed me to no end.

           “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, leaning against Kenny’s shoulder to hide my face. “She’s being more horrible than I imagined.”

           Kenny pressed a kiss to the top of my head and squeezed my hand reassuringly. “I told you, koibito, I’ve faced more formidable foes than your mother. Plus, I have you with me.”

           Damon snapped his fingers. “He’s a keeper, Sha-sha.”

***

           By the time Kenny, Damon, and I walked into the dining room, my parents were already seated at the head and foot of the table. My mother sat on the edge of her seat, back stiff and straight. On the other end, my father sat comfortably in his chair, already looking exasperated by her behavior.

           “You two,” my father said, gesturing to Kenny and I, “come sit by me.” He pointed to the chairs on his right and left. Kenny and I plopped down across the table from each other. I tried to breathe through my racing heart. Kenny looked perfectly at ease.

           I envied him.

           “You look happy,” my father said after a few moments of silence. He leaned toward me, his voice was too quiet for anyone else to hear. “He’s good for you, I think.”

           I smiled, feeling more at ease now that he was here to buffer my mother’s blue blood insanity. “Kenny is… he’s everything I’ve never had the courage to want.”

           My father sighed. “I blame your mother for that,” he mumbled. A breath later, he shook his head. “But I’m to blame too. This life is to blame.”

           Noel appeared with a bottle of wine in her hand. She stepped smoothly up to the table at my mother’s right side and carefully poured a perfect glass. Mother sniffed, didn’t say thank you. Noel moved on, pouring one for Damon, then myself, and my father. Kenny saw her coming and smiled charmingly.

           “I’ll have water, if that’s alright,” he requested. Noel faltered, her cheeks going pink. I watched her stutter and back away, turning to walk briskly to the kitchen.

           She returned a moment later with a bottle of Perrier. She kept her eyes down as she filled his glass, leaving the half-full bottle on the table nearby. Once more, she disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a wide silver tray with five pristine china plates of salad. She placed them in front of us one by one, then sat out six small bowls of different kinds of dressing.

           As she sat the plate in front of Kenny, he looked up with a grateful smile, pressed his hands together, and said “Itadakimasu.” Noel faltered again. He blushed a little. “Thank you.”

           She nodded and then, without a word, she melted into the background.

           I felt another spike of hatred for what my mother was doing. We’d had our disagreements before, and I loved my Momma, but my mother was a beast of an entirely different sort. She was too much.

           My father leaned his forearms on the table as he picked at his salad. His head was tilted toward me. “I love your mother, Shaye,” he murmured, side-eyeing her at the far end of the table. “I married her because she understood what it was like to have the burden of a name that was New York royalty. But I wish I’d fought harder to get the two of you out of the city. I wanted to raise both of you upstate. To give you some sense of a normal life.”

           “Damon, for God’s sake, act like you have some sense,” my mother snapped, pulling the two of us out of our conversation. I looked over to see my brother sitting cross legged in his chair, smirking. Something whispered that he was keeping her attention occupied and off Kenny and me.

           I smiled across the table at Kenny, remembering the unusual existence that I’d had when I’d been in Japan with him. How happy I’d been beneath the stars and neon lights of Tokyo. How much I desperately wanted to go back.

           “Normal life doesn’t seem to suit me,” I replied. “I’m more suited to a more… nomadic lifestyle, I think.”  

           My father glanced from me to Kenny. The two of them looked at each other for a long moment before one of them spoke. “You’re a unique gentleman, Kenny. Those matches with Okada… those were impressive.” My father leaned toward him, smiling openly. “You show a lot of heart and passion. Do you like what you do?”

           Kenny smiled in return, although I could tell he was trying to look humble. “Yes, sir. At one point, I was training for the NHL. Then a family friend introduced me to wrestling. I was good at it. I loved it, and I still do.”

           “Why Japan?” The salads disappeared. Bowls of soup took their place. I felt my body relax at the scent of potato, onion, and thick creamy broth.

           Unconsciously, my eyes caught Kenny’s. I knew this story, the why and how of his decision to move to Japan. Pain flashed over his face as he thought back over the years before me. An image of warm almond eyes and shaggy mahogany hair floated to the forefront of my mind. It triggered an ache deep behind my ribs. For a moment, I thought I was going to puke.

           “Japan takes wrestling very seriously. Not that people here don’t, but it is much more of a competitive sport and true theatrical storytelling there,” Kenny replied slowly, as if he were choosing his words carefully. “The best in the world compete there. I knew if I wanted to be the best, I had to compete against the best. So that’s where I went. I’ve been—I don’t know if I’d say lucky—rewarded let’s say for the work I’ve put in. And I’ve made some very, very good friends.”

           Conversation died out for a while after that. My mother sat like ice at the foot of the table, alternately glaring at Kenny, my father, and then me. She hardly touched her food. I did my best to ignore her. And, when the silence became too much, I asked Damon about school. Suffice it to say, he had incredibly strong opinions about being shipped off to a boarding school in Norway.

           The soup was replaced by a grilled chicken and braised vegetable entrée, then a vanilla bean ice cream with crystalized pineapples and chocolate sauce. Not long after the dessert was set in front of us, my father grinned.

           “Welcome to the family, Kenny,” he said enthusiastically. “Whenever you’re in New York, you have a place to stay. Your friends, too. We’ve got plenty of room.”

           “We most certainly do not,” my mother shrieked from the other end of the table. “How can you say such a thing, Jeremy? There is nothing about this boy that is appropriate for this family! And I don’t want the rest of those amateur ruffians in my house!”

           The room got quiet. So still I swore I could hear it if a feather dropped. I wished I could take Kenny’s hand. That we could run out of here and never come back. I was absolutely certain that I was about to throw up everything I’d just eaten.

           “The only thing inappropriate right now is your behavior, Caroline,” my father spit back. He took a sharp breath and turned his attention to me. “You’re a grown woman, Shaye. Your life is whatever you want it to be. And if Kenny is what you want, then take it. I will support you in any choice that you make.”

           My mother shot out of her seat, scowling. “You might as well pack her bags for her, Jeremy. She’s going to go right back to Japan with him and act like she has no sense of her family responsibilities.”

           “Maybe,” he replied. “But at least I can assure that she’ll come home every once in a while. If you have your way, she’ll leave and we’ll never see her again. And that’s the end of it.”

           Damon clapped and whooped. “Go Dad!”

           “Shut up, Damon,” my mother and I exclaimed together.

Tag List

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[criticizing-blogger]

Fudge

Pairing: Dean x reader

Warning: cursing, gore

Word count: 3423

In a small, snowy town of Minnesota, a black Chevy impala drives into a motel parking lot and settles into an empty spot up front. Two men, brothers, stepped out. The driver was a shorter man with a crew cut style;  his hair a straight, dark blond, matching his smooth forehead to his strong cheekbones and chiseled jawline. His eyes were hues of a forest, an earthy green that revives grass from the harsh winter. His stature is short, a brown shirt covered with a black and red flannel and that covered by a brown, leather jacket as his pants were blue going over his brown boots.

The passenger was tall, taller than his brother. His hair was shaggy brown and long, shoulder length to be exact but brought wonders to his features. The man’s eyes were the softest of brown, infused with a deep green as if he held a forest inside them. He wore a blue and white flannel with a grey, denim jacket. Pants were a light blue and like the other man, they, too, covered his dark brown boots.

The two looked at each other before walking into the motel. The bell on the entrance door jingled signaling the employees that customers were walking in. A plump, ederly woman who stood behind the check-in counter smiled and greeted them. “Welcome. Bed for one?”

“N-no...we’re not….we’re not together.” The taller man of the two stuttered.

“It’s okay sweetie. No need to be ashamed. We don’t judge here.” .

“Yeah, no need to be ashamed, honey.” The short man spoke as he spanked the taller man, grinning in amusement.

He gave his brother a look of annoyance. She gave them 2 sets of keys and he grabbed one before walking off.

“He's something, isn't he?” He winked and walked away with his key. 

The brothers walk out of the building and towards their shared room. Walking in, the walls are a dark, plain green with brown wood trims and the flooring white carpet. By the door to the room was a mahogany desk with a small, black desk lamp on top, a painting of a forest hung above. A dresser, the same color as the desk, stood against the wall with a small green dining table and matching chairs beside it. Across the table on the other side of the room were two separate beds with an end table in between and a large lamp on top. On the far side of the room across the entryway stood a door to the small bathroom. 

The bathroom, on the other hand, consists of a small, white sink on a grained counter top, the sink cabinet matching the dresser. A white toilet sat on the black and white tile floor, towels neatly folded on a silver rack above.  And next to the toilet was an off colored white bathtub with a few unknowable light brown stains on the sides; white tiles stuck to the walls and a silver showerhead attached above.  The bathroom walls are beige.

Dean slams the door shut and drops his bag onto the bed closest to the entry. He rummages through the bag grabbing out a black and white suit and a gun. Sam does the same before walking into the bathroom to change as his brother changes in the main room.

 “Witnesses first?” Sam shouts.

“You can question witnesses,” Dean spoke, fully decked out in his suit as Sam was when he walked out of the bathroom. “I’ll check out the crime scene.” 

Both men tuck their guns into the back of their pants and the fake FBI badges in their front suit jacket pockets. The same routine they do in almost every case. With their feet covered by white socks with black dress shoes, guns and badges ready, they headed out the door and to the first crime scene.

The small parking lot of the only hardware store in town, had attracted plenty of locals who stood behind yellow tape and two police officers at each end keeping them in line. Police cars and ambulances swarmed the outside, officers questioning witnesses all the while the EMTs checked for injuries. Despite the lot being small, Sam and Dean were able to maneuver around everyone. They found the sheriff talking to the owner of the store. 

“Excuse us, sheriff.” Dean spoke causing the man to look up from his phone.

“Can I help you gentlemen?” he asked, putting his device away.

They pulled out their badges from their front pockets flipping them open. “I’m Agent Page and my partner here is Agent Young. Can we ask what happened here?”

The sheriff squints his eyes at the fake I.D.s and sighs. “According to crazy Doreen-” pointing a finger at an elderly lady with an annoyed officer watching her- “there were small men walking out of the store wearing bloody clothes and holding tools stolen from inside.”

“Mind if I check it out?” Dean asked. The sheriff gestured towards the store.

Sam stayed to talk to the man while Dean went inside to check out the scene. The first thing he noticed was splatters of blood over the walls and counter where the checkout counter is. He carefully leaned over the counter so as to not get blood on his suit or mess up evidence, his eyes roamed over the area to see a man dead, multiple stab wounds to the chest. He leaned back away from the counter to look over it. Smack dead in the middle of the blood splatter was a tiny handprint; as small as a child almost. Dean took out his cell and shot a picture and sent it to Sam.

Turning away he looked down at the floor for any further evidence. The blood hadn’t gone too far as most of it laid where the man is. Less clean up he supposed even though he knew it wasn’t the time to make jokes but does it anyways. Dean kept walking throughout the store. Nothing could be spotted on the floor. Even the shelves didn’t show signs of anything supernatural. They just looked ransacked. 

But something shiny caught the man’s attention from the corner of his eye. A bell. A small, gold bell. He walks towards then bends down to pick the object up. As it sat between his thumb and index finger, he slowly inspected the object. What the hell, he thought. Unfortunately he couldn't think further as his ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming up from behind. Dean quickly stood and turned only to let out a sigh of relief. It was just his brother.

“What did you find?” Sam asked, noticing Dean a little tense.

Dean opened his palm and showed him the bell. Sam’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. He picked it up to inspect it. As it is just a bell, nothing more. He pockets it and starts to tell Dean what the elderly lady had said. “According to Doreen, when she was walking past the store, she saw little men walking out with sets of tools covered in blood, the same for their clothes. Apparently they were wearing red and green striped pointed hats that contained bells on top, the shirt and pants matched and the shoes were pointed upwards on the end of them, also with bells on top.”

Dean looked at him like he didn’t believe any of the words that just came out of his mouth. And he doesn’t believe Sam. “So dwarves? You’re saying dwarves. Like Santa’s little elves.”

“I-uh, I mean, I guess,” he shrugs as he rubs the back of his neck realizing the elderly woman might actually be crazy just as the sheriff said.

Dean rolled his eyes. “Does any other witness say anything actually useful?”

Sam shook his head. 

“So no one else saw elves? Not even Rudolph?” Dean sarcastically spoke, making it Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Come on, let's go.”

Dean sat in his car parked in front of a small house with the window rolled down talking, no, flirting to a woman while Sam sat inside a house talking to the family of the dead employee from the hardware store. The woman, Dean learned whose name is (y/n), was trying her hardest not to laugh at his failed attempt of flirting with her. Which, he was epically failing and miserably. 

“Okay dude. Look, you’re cute and all but you are literally the walking cliche of James Dean. I’m not interested.” she spoke before walking off just as Sam was coming out of the house having heard everything and chuckling. 

“That was awesome.” he states getting into the impala.

“Oh shut up,” spoke  Dean, annoyed, as he started the car and drove off. “What did they say?”

“According to the mother, nobody told her and her husband that their son is dead. The sheriff said that the guy, whose name was Greg, died sometime around six this morning. And despite it being several hours later, they never got a call.”

“Anything useful?”

“She said that Greg had been seeing little men for about three days and shrugged it off as drinking too much. It seriously sounds like elves.”

“Yeah, no. There is no such thing as elves.” Dean spoke, obviously still not believing Sam.

“Do you remember the case with the girl that was in a coma and her dad was reading her fairy tales?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, so?”

“What if this is something similar except the whole disney sugar coating? Like how the mice were turning into servants and how Cinderella was being abused by her stepmother except this time it's elves.” Sam explains.

“Unless they’re dwarves from Lord of the Rings, I’m not buying it.”

.    .    .    .

Seven in the morning rolled around when a bedside alarm goes off. A hand reaches out and slams the top of it shutting it off. Yawning, (y/n) pulls back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed and stretches. She gets up and walks out of the bedroom and into the bathroom to do her business. When finished, she walked back into her room changing into some black leggings with a red sweater and white socks. After changing she walked downstairs putting on her black boots lined with white fur and a dark red double lapel jacket. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the door.

The weather outside was freezing causing her to slightly shiver. The ground is covered with pure white snow. Her boots leave small prints in the snow from the front door to her vehicle. She quickly gets into her car and lets it run for a few minutes before turning the heat on and leaving. She was used to the cold weather as she has lived in Minnesota for most of her life so the snow didn’t bother her.

The first place she headed for was the small cafe in town where she had breakfast almost every morning. The owner, Mrs. Smith has lived here for all her life and the cafe was passed down generation to generation. (Y/n) has known her since she moved here with her parents when she was younger. Mrs. Smith used to babysit her when her parents had to work. They were close and still are to this very day. The cafe has changed interior multiple times over the years as to keep up with modern times. But the outside has never changed. 

By the time (y/n) has arrived and walked into the building, her usual breakfast consists of fried egg, bacon and cheese on a toasted bagel, a bowl of maple and brown sugar oatmeal with sliced bananas and black coffee, in her spot she claims as hers in the far corner of the building in the booth. It was her favorite spot as she could watch customers for inspiration for her writings.

While she ate and watched people come and go, two men in black suits came in, taking a seat a couple booths away from her. One of them, the same one she talked to, well, technically watched him fail at flirting with her yesterday, caught her eye. He puts on a charming smile fixing his jacket while he says something to the other guy, who seemed amused to see him fail again, and made his way over to the woman. 

He sits across from her. “Morning.”

“Morning, Agent.” she smiles, leaning back into her seat, waiting to watch him fail for the second time.

“I think there’s something wrong with my eyes. I just can’t seem to take them off of you.” 

She couldn’t help but snort while she took a sip of her hot coffee.

“Boy, that coffee looks hot. Just like,” Dean started before sheepishly saying, “hi.”

That caused her to raise her eyebrows. “Okay, now that was kind of adorable.”

Dean perked up. “So, did it work?”

She stood up, her breakfast finished. “Nope.” And with that, she walked out of the cafe with an amusing grin on her face. Dean’s mouth was open with shock. He’s never been rejected by a woman in years. Especially twice. He lets out a groan before closing his mouth and sitting at the same table Sam currently sat at. Sam was grinning letting out chuckles at his older brother’s failure.

“Oh shut up.” Dean told him as he grabbed a menu covering his red face of embarrassment while he looked for food. “So, what did you find from research last night?”

Sam who already knew what he wanted to eat pulled out his laptop from his computer bag and placed it in front of him. “According to Wikipedia, in Germanic mythology, a dwarf is a human-shaped, usually bearde, entity that dwells in mountains and in the earth and is variously associated with wisdom, smithing, mining, and crafting. But in this case, it's around Christmas time so instead of it being dwarves, we could be dealing with elves.”

Dean deadpanned and looked at the man across from him. “Please for the love of Chuck, you’re joking.”

Sam shook his head.

“I thought elves were supposed to be nice. Not all murdery.”

Sam shrugs. “I think at this point from all the shit we thought wasn’t possible, this goes along with it.”

“But why would elves start killing people and taking hammers and shovels and whatever else?” Dean spoke confused as hell. 

The only thing Sam could come up with is, well, he couldn’t come up with anything as they never went through something even remotely close to this. They didn’t have much to go on since they only talked to very few people and saw one crime scene. He already knew this odd case was gonna take more than a few days unlike most of the ones they have been on. 

“Sam sighed. “I don’t know. We need to look at the other scenes and see what happened there. Like the one lumber yard.” 

Before Dean could say anything, a waitress came up and asked them if they were ready to eat. Dean ordered a large, meaty breakfast, something likely to give you a heart attack if you ate enough of it while Sam got something small and healthy so he could keep his physique up. She wrote it all down, eyes widening when Dean spoke what he wanted and giving Sam a flirty smile as she took the meus from his hand, letting their fingers touch before letting them know she’ll be back with coffee and walks away with an extra sway of her hips. Dean watched her backside as she walked away till he couldn’t no more. He looked at his brother eyebrows raising up and down and smirking at him. “She’s hot.”

He just ignored Dean’s behavior as he was used to it. 

“Dude! You should go for her.” Dean states.

“No thanks.”

“Oh come on, you need to get laid. That’s probably why you’re so tense all the time.”

Sam looked at his brother with annoyance and rolled his eyes. “Last I checked, saving lives is more important than getting some.”

“If you won’t have her, I will,” Dean grins. “What happened at the lumber yard?”

Sam pulled up the local newspaper, called Morning News written on top in huge black letters, on his laptop. Everything that had happened over the last several days here covered a good part of the first page. On the left column showed rebuilding the bridge that connects the two surrounding towns as it was falling apart and unsafe to drive on. It didn’t give an estimate of how much it would cost to demolish it, which Sam knew was gonna be expensive, but to build another was gonna be much, much more. 

On the right column was a ten-year-old boy being awarded for selling the most chocolate in time for the holidays. He won a two hundred and fifty dollar gift card and got to leave school to go to any restaurant for lunch. He remembers middle school used to do that but he was never able to because of his father, John Winchester. He would’ve liked to do normal activities growing up, and still does, but with the line of work they do, he can only do so many normal things every other human gets to do. Otherwise, nothing of importance.

And on the bottom of the page showed the weather for the next seven, cold and snowy. No sun or warmth which of course is normal with it being winter. Before Sam could get off topic in his thoughts, he read the column of the murders until it told him to turn to page nine. The whole entire page, he notices, was covered about the murders of two men but three crime scenes. Sam didn’t bother reading the few paragraphs of the scene at the hardware store. Next, it showed what may have happened at the lumber yard which apparently happened first before the hardware store as the man who chopped wood there was found with an axe in the back of his head.

“So it says here a man, Finn Huckle, was found at three am two days hunched over the tree stump. His legs hacked and an axe stuck in the back of his head as his body laid over the tree stump he was using to shop wood. It looked like a regular murder accoring to the police until they saw Finn holding a pointy hat in his hand. It looked like he tried fighting back because he had skin under his nails. But when the lab tested it, the skin didn’t belong to anybody. Like whoever, or whatever, did this, doesn’t exist. However, at the last scene, at a children's park, in the sand box was a large, gaping hole with what they know is snow, surrounding the area.”

Dean took everything his brother said in. This was definitely something they haven’t dealt with, even heard of. But Sam says he thinks its elves seem to be making more sense, oddly to him, the more they learn what's happening in town. But why elves? Weren’t they supposed to be nice and make presents for good boys and girls? This case seems to be getting odder and odder. 

“Say it is elves, did they lose their mojo or something? Maybe they ran out of alcohol. I’d be all grumpy if I ran out of alcohol and had to deal with shit ton of kids.” Dean spoke gruffly.

Sam suddenly perked up, an idea as to why, if it is elves, acting dangerous. “What if they were hit with some potion making them angry?”

Dean furrowed his eyebrows as he thought. Okay, maybe it is Santa’s little helpers, or logically, it's not. This is definitely something new. Before they can confirm what they think, they would need to see the hole at the park. His thoughts were interrupted with the pretty waitress bringing their food. She gave Sam his first, again, giving him a flirty smile then gave the other man his food, looking at him. Dean winked at her as he gave her his world famous smile he uses on all the ladies causing her to scoff and roll her eyes before walking off. Sam laughed at Dean’s flabbergasted look on his face. “Rejected by two women in one day. Got to be a new record.”

Dean rolled his eyes and flipped Sam off before digging into his food, annoyed.

___________________________________________________

DEAN X READER TAGS:

@akshi8278

[lemonietrinket]

Traditions ||| Prince!Yeosang x Princess!Reader

Genre: Fluff, Fantasy, a bit of angst but a happy ending Warning(s): inferences to death (succession) and natural disaster tragedy  Word Count: 4005 AN: Happy Birthday Yeosang blessed elfin prince. Just thinking about how princely he appears was the only inspiration for this entirely. you can tell i find yeosang beautiful and i will not apologise for that. feminine-presenting Reader Royalty AU

~~~

Wind whistling outside the murky visage of dark stained glass, you made your way through the long corridors to the dining hall. The cold air that nipped at your cheeks was only rebuffed by the delicately carved firebrands that lined the walls, hooded by rouge. 

Even though you wished you had taken Beatrice up on her suggestion that you wear a dress that would match one of your several coats, you couldn’t say you entirely regretted your decision. The way the silver tresses that entwined across your waist was worth the goosebumps beneath long draping sleeves. The amaranthine shine gave you the firm yet free light that reflected in your eyes, gracing all who could see with not only your true colours but also a sight for sore eyes. You’d always suited the soft violet silk, for years having been a private signature that made you feel unique behind closed doors. It did not provide its own form of stability to the people, however, quite like the vermilion did. Knowing that in these times they needed it in every capacity, you garbed yourself in red for the world, while violet remained a treat.

Besides, you knew there was another benefit to the tremors of shiver that ran up your spine and pooled at your exposed shoulders.

Taking the last corner you could finally see the large oak doors that led into the hall in the dim light. They were closed, but a thin sliver of gold broke through their seal, its promise of food inviting you in. However, a few feet away from the corridor’s end, something else stole your attention entirely. A shimmer of auburn in the thick of the night.

Distracted you slowly made your way over to the nearest window, excitement pooling in your chest and fluttering like a bird wishing to be set free.

one pair of small but intricate heels that had been clicking against the rich wood behind you suddenly slowed. Peering back without hesitation, you saw your second lady in waiting’s grin glimmer in the auburn light as she skipped to the nearest window.  Forcing yourself to look beyond the hazy reflection of yourself, you chased the lucrative gold that pierced the night. Your eyes began in the wrong place, too high, where the road began to sink into the distance, but they quickly trailed down to the castle-side, where you spotted, far below, a carriage flickering beside firelight. A warm smile you’d come to know well warmed upon your lips.

“He’s early,” you announced to the air, feeling slightly guilty when the guard stood firmly by the door offered you a startled look

“Who is, Your Royal Highness?” he stuttered, a panicked undertone as he assumed that you’d been talking to him.

You chuckled, feeling relieved as he visibly relaxed, “Why, Graves, my husband of course!” It was clear that he tried to hide the surprise in his expression, not realising that he shared with you.

“I know, absurd right?” you said, sweeping over to the door as he returned your grin at last, before imploring to him in a whisper, “I won’t eat you, Graves, I promise. I’m not like my father.”

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” He bowed in acknowledgement.

Praying that the interaction would dispel any residing fears, you passed through into the dining hall, tall and imposing. You hadn’t liked it all that much, it was too tall and grand, with chandeliers the size of sleeping quarters and columns whose cracks were filled with molten silver. It was a bit much, especially just for a place to eat, but you knew how much worse it could be. You’d seen your older sister’s, you’d seen the drapes of handwoven silk cast in bright crimson and the intricacies of the hand-carved floorboards, dictating the legends of the early days. As vulgar it was, it was how your father built castles for his kingdom, and it was no wonder that it would be the one you would inherit. 

Ignoring the painted ceiling you ran your eyes along the long mahogany table at the numerous platters dotted across its surface at both ends, lids retaining heat and disguising the beauty inside. You wondered why they always made so much for you when you never ate it anywhere near it all.  The firelight from the large hearth that filled the room with a homely scent of warmth and tranquil danced across the varnished floor, painting it with muffled shades of gold and pink. And there, on the other side of the hall was a shadow that disjointed said light.

Tilting your head up confidently, your fingers interlinking at your waist, you found the man who you had waited for every time, waiting for you.

Having shed his onyx coat and draped it across the back of his chair, you were blessed with just how well suited the deep azure of his kingdom. The satin across his back almost glittered in the light, adorning his neck that craned to let him look off to the left. His shirt was tucked neatly into black leather trousers, that you caught yourself staring at for way too long for the ‘checking for stains’ excuse to run even now (you were pretty sure he hadn’t believed the excuse in the first place anyway, but he hadn’t asked you to stop nor ever brought it up again, and you were pretty sure you’d caught him a few times staring at you so, who were you to complain?) that then slipped into comfortable laced boots. He had to have changed, he couldn’t have possibly worn them outside in such poor weather, and the thought just added to how your heart fluttered—he didn’t have to dress up at all, especially since he would have to go out again tomorrow.

His hand lifting from his hip, he removed his sword in its scabbard and leant it against the wall, before finally turning around.

Even at such a distance you were awestruck. Those gorgeous eyes that stared so knowingly at the world now gazed over at you, leaving you feeling a new shade of vulnerable that had taken a while to get used to, but now you weren’t sure you could live without. As with that vulnerability came his gentleness, the curve of his full lips that uttered sweet things despite his stoic nature, and the touch of his hand that rose to meet yours when you addressed the people. He had confused you at first, worried you the next as neither of you spoke. Now you understood his insecurities and threw any misinformed regrets to the side. Now you could see how his hair seemed to effortlessly curl to frame his face but also to carry a crown. 

His fringe then was mottled with damp, his hat adorning the chair with his coat having had only so much success protecting him from the rain. But he still looked ethereal as he always did, and sounded it too.

“Your Royal Highness,” he greeted as he was taught, a deep bow with his hand pressed to his heart. Even though the awkwardness had subsided between the two of you, you still greeted each other like this, despite what you’d discerned. 

“Your highness,” you returned, unable to hide your wince. Why couldn’t you greet each other like you wished you could? Ignore the rings on your fingers and the arrangements made by family and do it all properly.

He smiled at you and waited for you to take your seat, deep eyes following your every move. You sighed mentally, feeling the small doubts begin to regrow in your mind. Perhaps you’d misjudged entirely and your affections led you to just reach into the dark and cling to the first light that appeared.

Taking your seat, your eyes not leaving his, he at last drew his chair back at the opposite side of the table. You let him get comfortable before removing the closest lid to reveal a huge portion of neatly sliced venison seasoned with a variety of spices and coupled with copious vegetables—half of which you didn’t recognise. It smelt delicious and you took the cutlery into your hands, but with your mind preoccupied with another important matter you didn’t feel like eating at all.

While you ran the sharp edge of your knife across the tender flesh, Yeosang tucked straight in, not that you blamed him. His journey home had been long, sustained mostly on fish that would only remind him of home—that and your cooks being truly something special.

“So, dear husband,” you announced across the long table with a coy smile, timing your words just right so he would have his mouthful when he had to answer you, “how was your trip outside Cresciel’s borders?”

“Hmm...” He noticed the mischief in your lips, opting to take his time mulling your question over as he chewed even slower than before. It was moments like these, where he played along with you and teased in return, that questioned whether doubts should be sown. “It was long, mostly tedious. Earl of Blouze is an utter nightmare.”

“As usual,” you chuckled, the same mix of sympathy and humour bubbling in your chest as when you had found out who he would be travelling with. Yeosang hadn’t found it amusing and had sulked for the rest of the afternoon while the packing began. He looked adorable with a pout on his lips though, and you only cooed at him six times. “And Caillteo?”

He nodded. “Recovering well for how much damage was done. The mines are back up and running again, a good harvest this autumn and they’ll be back on their feet without aid. The people are still on edge but they seem hopeful, and you were right, Caillteoans are tough: they’ve leapt into construction and sharing resources between themselves fairly.”

“That’ll be Xena’s example,” you noted, taking a sip of your drink. Surprised at the sweet kick, you coughed before laughing at yourself, “they’re always leading by example—I’m fine Yeosang, really.”

You spotted the worry in his expression through how it turned blank. He’d explained it to you, bathed in the gold of the afternoon sun that did little to ease his mind. He didn’t want to panic the person in concern anymore than they perhaps already were. That had been the day where you’d run your fingers through his hair, locks smooth as silk and scented of the roses found on the mountainsides. He had softened in your embrace, letting you hold him delicately in the peace of the royal garden, closing his omniscient eyes that were cursed to catch too much. It had proven that just trying to be the stable option for the nation resulted in a chaos of the mind.  You wished he would rely on you more. You were used to it, your sister confided with you her plans to disappear, your mother on the will, your cousins when they visited. You didn’t get the choice in some of those circumstances, but you were willing to take on what Yeosang needed. 

You felt heat flush to your face. Since when had you become so attached to him? This hadn’t been what you had expected to happen at all.

“Yes, they truly are. I listened to their grievances, they were furious at how little respect they had received from Cruter, and extremely thankful for the aid we sent them. It was vital for them to get the waterways up and running again, otherwise it would have flooded the sewage system further and...” he came to an unexpected halt, as if a weight had rolled onto his tongue and forced it still. You placed your knife upon the plate quietly, inclining to listen to what finally followed. 

“Yeosang?” you murmured, though due to the distance you couldn’t be sure he even heard it.

“...Xena was glad to see where my allegiances laid, that seeing me gave them and Caillteoans hope. They wanted me to make it clear to you that their kingdom’s alliances are with you—us—alone.”

“They’ve turned away from your grandfather completely?” You couldn’t hide the surprise that filtered into your voice, but watched him carefully as you spoke in response to it. “He’s turned his most loyal—?”

“It’s what he deserves,” Yeosang interrupted, eyes turned towards his food. He’d paused eating, a cut of meat levied on his fork and he stared it down as if it were Cruter himself, “and I think they know how my father’s reign is going to go.”

He took the bite as if out of spite, digging in thoroughly once again. Meanwhile you were left frowning. “Have they managed to predict Idina too, do you think?” After he didn’t respond, you straightened your posture, worry beginning to sink in. “Yeosang? I don’t rule Cresciel yet, and if the plan falls apart I won’t have much power at all! A-as far as anyone else is aware, my sister is going to inherit the—”

“I don’t know,” he finally replied with the shake of his head, his frown mimicking yours, “that’s all they said.”

With eyes met across the vast mahogany dotted with silver and the firelight, silence seeped into the room, only dispelled momentarily by the crackle of flames. 

Your thoughts gathered in your brain, clustering and talking over one another, interjecting and splitting, producing more and more like a disease.  If others could work it out then it would only be a matter of time before your father would, and that would put both your sister and you in danger. Even being a beacon of calm for the future to the people and surrounding kingdoms wouldn’t be enough to hold your plans together, and if things went truly wrong, not only would you be at huge risk of losing your husband and all the arrangements your marriage made, but there would also be mayhem for the innocents you had subtly promised would be safe.

Your breath came out ragged and you swallowed it to steady. The situation was sticky, but you would pull through. You’d make it work. The King of Caillteo was on your side, and that strengthened what you had. Cruter could hardly have endeared himself to his subjects through his ignorance towards the tragedy—especially since word carried that the angered storm had affected the outer towns upon his Siyanirean borders too. With that in hand and your plan just in the waiting process, it wouldn’t be long before Yeosang was King in his grandfather and father’s stead and the kingdoms were united, working peacefully instead of warring like they always did.

Digging your nails into your palms, you wondered why your nerves wouldn’t simmer down. You’d gone over the plan hundreds of times, and things were moving in your favour—both should have eased the sudden attack of worry. But they didn’t, and you were left with bruise-purple divots in your palms, and quivering fingers. You wanted them to be held still, you didn’t like the sight of them fragile. You wanted to be held, by Yeosang—no other would do, as no one else understood it all. He was the only one who knew the details of the full plan, knew what the pressure was like. But he was on the other end of the table.

It seemed ridiculous that a table and a (comparatively) short distance was holding you back. There were no physical barricades, the grandiose chairs tucked in neatly, the food too cold to even eat and get you to stay. Yet, even though your feet twitched, your body didn’t move to go to his side and ask for comfort, like you’d given to him that golden afternoon before.

“Did you miss anything,” your mouth spoke out of the blue, “while you were gone?”

Had your husband looked up he would have noticed the disjoint between your calm tone and your stony expression. But he didn’t, not yet. 

“Not my ship if that’s what you’re asking,” he retorted, assuming you were teasing him once again. After finishing another bite you stared as his face softened, “Though I guess I missed some company.” When you didn’t speak up, voice trapped in your throat as your brain ticked over what he meant, he continued, “The nights were cold, so I thought I missed the warmth of here. They were also quiet, and so I thought I missed the sounds of here but... the more I thought about it, the more I realised that this castle is just as quiet as the other ones I stayed in, and when I added blankets it made no difference. 

“And then I had to speaks to others and, well... every time I met with the nobles, it felt as if they looked down on me, as if I wasn’t really one of them despite my claim. I knew it shouldn’t surprise me, as my grandfather is, well, my grandfather and no one knows just how poor my father’s health is but... even the people didn’t believe I was the real deal, and they were the nice ones. Others I’m sure couldn’t comprehend I was capable of making a difference at all.”

As he trailed off, with your eyes hazy you countered plainly. “And you wanted me there so they somehow wouldn’t? If I was there they wouldn’t look at you at all.” You would have winced at the harshness of your words, consoled him with an apology and the distraction of food or a change of scenery, but you didn’t. You cursed yourself for being selfish.

Yeosang however didn’t seem to take it to heart, trying to explain clearer. “No I mean... it’s easier to chase the doubts of my own abilities away with you at my side. Because you believe in me.”

After cleaning his plate his pretty eyes flicked up to take you in at last, only to become flecked with worry. “Why aren’t you eating?”

Debating and answer in your head you remained silent, gaze dropping to your lukewarm food without a single chunk missing. Clutching your hands together in your lap in an effort to control the quiver in them, you avoided his stare. “I really mean that much to you?”

Out of your peripheral you caught his nod. “Of course. You’re my closest friend, my rock, I don’t think I could have ever succeeded like this without you.”

You peered up at him at last, to catch the sincerity on his features. The apples of his cheeks had a blushed hue, so did the tips of his ears. But you couldn’t make out the etches upon his lips, or the birthmark adorning the corner of his eye. He was too far away, all because of stupid rules. “Then why are you so far away?” you poised.

There was a heavy silence that seemed to even mottle the crackling in the hearth. Your gaze trailed over to the dancing flames, warm and dynamic like the flushes of first love—like your heart.

“Because I didn’t think you wanted me any closer.”

Your head whipped up to him as soon as his words graced the air and the creak of wood scraping across wood resonated through the floor. Yeosang, with footfalls cautious, was making his way across the dining hall towards you. You straightened your back, mouth agape but with no words to fill the space.

Even though it felt like the journey took hours, he was suddenly at your side, brow creased with concern as he placed one hand tentatively on the back of your chair. 

“Y/N, I...”

“I missed you too.”

Chin tilted up you took in the sight of the man you had married properly. How his jaw curved, how his chest rose and fell as he breathed, how his hair slowly fell out of place to cover his eyes while he peered down at you. Months of past worry trickled through from your subconscious as you remembered the anxieties you’d had about your marriage. You trusted your mother’s decision, but that didn’t mean you didn’t interrogate yourself nightly on whether you could be happy being married to a man you didn’t love romantically, one that you didn’t desire sensually. 

You hadn’t slept the night before the castle doors opened to welcome in your chosen suitor. You’d been informed it was a tough and arduous selection process but you had blanked most of it out. With a stone-set face you had been helped into a dress of your sister’s—flowing scarlet with gold lace at the neck—before adorning your neck with an amethyst necklace despite the advice you were offered. Then you took those wide grand stairs down to where your soon-to-be fiance waited, arm interlinked with your sister’s. She had smiled and said something to you, but you hadn’t paid any attention—this time for a good reason.

After days on end of worrying, you were confronted with a meek young boy who could easily have been mistaken to be years younger than you. Garbed in rich navy, he stood prostrate at his father’s side, his posture displaying confidence as he was instructed while his stare flit upon the engraved ground.  When you had taken the final step and swept across the varnished pearl beneath your feet your families greeted heartily while you stared at the boy who eventually worked up the courage to stare back. ‘He isn’t real’, had been the first thought to flash in your mind. After all he had full cloudy cheeks and wide set dark eyes that made him look as if he was borne of another realm. You wondered if the pink blemish upon his temple was a sign of that: a deity’s way to prove that he was in fact human and not an angel. Eyeing him up and down you had found a body just out of proportion to be considered finished, but you guessed he would grow, and fit his elfin face one day in the future.  Overall, he had washed your worries away and replaced them with a newfound curiosity that you hadn’t mentioned to him before.

Of course, you had been right, he did grow. His shoulders broadened and chest filled out while his cheeks retained the majority of their softness. He grew then to become more open, a smile flourished on his lips and once that happened it was only a matter of time. Regardless, despite all his changes that young boy was still there, still watching carefully, even now.

Yeosang stood at your side quite like he had done all those years ago—back rigid, eyes trailing away from where he wanted to focus them. And it softened your heart, practically turned it to pulp, when he finally spoke in a voice completely different to the boy from your past, “I think I might be falling in love with you.”

You watched as he bit his lip disappointedly, as if he’d admitted something wrong. 

“Me too,” you breathed, dispelling his worry and turning it into a startled expression as you stood with him. Your fingers came up to his collar, straightening it out absentmindedly as you met his eyes properly this time. “Forget the rules, forget the traditions, Sangie?” you suggested in a whisper.

He nodded, a smile rising to his lips so bright that you couldn’t hold yourself back anymore.

Cupping his cheeks in your hands gently, he dipped in to let your lips finally meet, a hum bubbling through your chest in satisfaction. He was finally close to you, and he felt so different from what you’d imagined. His embrace pulling you close he radiated warmth. His lips tasted of the berries that he had drank and his touch was so fluid and soft across the skin of you back. You didn’t mind, you liked how wrong you were. 

Because he kissed you just like the tradition didn’t dictate, and though it had been the arrangements of others that brought your love to you, it was time to do it your way.

~~~

AN: I was going to make yn a duchess bc like princess is overdone and then i got confused and like shite just bc im british doesnt mean i understand the royal family one bit, let alone the hierarchy of titles

so yeah yn is a princess wbk

also this is much longer than the other presents only bc i got carried away i realise i like royal aus and this just wrote itself i promised myself i wouldnt do this with bday presents but oop

any names of the staff at the royal household were randomly generated place names were made using various words put into indifferentlanguages.com +  the word combiner on wordunscrambler.net (so any resemblance to rel places is unintentional)

(also none of yeosang’s relations are based on any of his real family of course, theyre just made up. i imagine yeosang loves his family very much and so this is just creative license)

~~~

Masterlist

[blackswaneuroparedux]

Dinner with the Queen

About twice a year, Queen Elizabeth II hosts a State Banquet in honour of a visiting head of state. In recent years, at least one of those banquets has been at Windsor Castle.

Windsor Castle guests dine at a massive mahogany table. The table, which seats 160 people, was made in 1846 and is composed of 68 leaves. To polish it, men in socks stand on it and push padded implements that look like croquet mallets across the surface.

It takes two days to set the table. That includes setting 2,000 pieces of silver-gilt cutlery and 960 glasses. With an eye for possible TV coverage from above, the position of everything on the table is measured with a tape measure. Before the meal begins, chairs are place exactly 27 inches from the table. The Queen herself makes a last minute check of the arrangement.

Each guest has six glasses. There's a champagne glass for the toast, a red wine and a white wine glass, a water goblet, a champagne glass for dessert and a glass for port after dinner. The glasses are from the Order of the Garter and the Coronation sets of crystal.

George IV's Grand Service takes three weeks to clean. The Grand Service consists of silver-gilt serving pieces, platters, plates, centerpieces, candelabra and special serving utensils. There are 8,000 pieces and each one must be hand washed, dried and polished. It takes a team of eight to do it.

Windsor has the oldest working kitchen in Britain. No doubt the appliances, utensils and so forth are a bit more up to date than that. And nobody at Windsor Castle - staff or Royals - realized that meals were being prepared in Medieval kitchens, dating from the reign of Edward III. But when fire struck Windsor Castle in 1992, the kitchen ceilings collapsed, revealing the original, 14th century timbered ceiling.

The walls and ceilings of St. George's Hall are covered with colorful, heraldic crests. These are the crests of each member of the Order of the Garter. Here and there you may see a blank one. Those represent members who have disgraced themselves and the order by serious crime or treason - like plotting against the monarch. There are only a few of those.

Even the Queen likes to show off her dishes. The first course and the meat course are served on silver-gilt plates. Pudding is served on one of the Queen's many porcelain services and the fruit course is served on another porcelain service, accompanied by the port.

Nobody starts their meal until the hosts - HM Queen and then Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh - start to eat. As soon as they are finished, and apparently neither of them mess about, their plates are cleared...and so are the guests' plates. In her book, Barbara Bush: A Memoir, the former First Lady described sitting next to former Prime Minister James Callaghan at a state banquet. As soon as the Prince was served, he began eating and then his plate was instantly whisked away. Callaghan was last to be served and Mrs. Bush said to him, "Don't put your fork down or your plate will be taken." Callaghan laughed and put his fork down and his plate was whisked away with hardly a bite touched.

The menu is always in French as per tradition. This recently presented a problem to visiting President Donald Trump - the State banquet in his honour was at Bunkingham Palace - who couldn’t find the French for cheeseburger, fries and diet coke on the menu. The Queen - who speaks perfect French - had to translate the menu for his benefit. He was reportedly miffed that the Queen finished before he did and had his plate removed.

[lovedinsecret]

Bella Vita

So, @bambixxblue gave me a fluff prompt because all I've been able to write lately is angst. The prompt was: Spearmint, hand holding, and "I made your favorite." I hope I did okay.

Steve taps his fingers impatiently on the side of his laptop. Three hours ago Billy sequestered him up here like a god damned Disney princess. Told him he wasn't allowed to come down for any reason. And when Steve balked and started citing emergency reasons, Billy had actually swatted him on the back side, stuck a finger in his face and told him to quit being a brat, and then slammed the door in his face. He's fucking lucky that Steve loves him so much. That, and curiosity has got him like woah. This isn't like Billy, and so, for now at least, Steve's willing to wait and see what comes of it.

He leans back in his chair, unwraps a stick of Billy's spearmint gum, and starts to chew. Smacking freely and loudly since Billy isn't here to be annoyed by it. No "Jesus fuck Harrington, didn't your rich ass parents tell you it's rude to smack?" Perhaps he's feeling petulant. Perhaps he is a bit of a brat.

He should be doing homework, but he can't think, can't write an essay on the philosophical implications of the Holocaust or whatever while he's wondering what Billy is concoting downstairs. He's managed to while away his time by watching marble races on YouTube. But he's absolutely bored of that now and for fucks sake it's been THREE HOURS. What the hell could Billy possibly be up to?

He's pulled shit like this exactly once before, except that time Steve had been barred from his own room for all of 15 minutes. Long enough for Billy to strip down to nothing, stick a cold six pack on Steve's desk, light about ten candles, and write in FUCKING ROSE PETALS 'I want your dick' on Steve's bed. It was the most memorable Valentine's Day Steve had ever had. If that's what Billy could do with fifteen minutes, then whats going to come of three hours? What if it's nothing at all?

He's about to claw through his skin when his bedroom door abruptly opens with a bang as it swings fast into the stopper. He jerks at the sound, damn near dropping his laptop, and glaring at Billy who is now filling the door frame. Billy, who's in a completely different outfit from three hours ago. He'd been in gym shorts and a faded Metallica t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Now he's in tight blue jeans and his nice navy button down that he usually reserves for date night. He looks fucking fantastic while Steve is still in his sweat pants and Hawkins high basket ball shirt, feeling under dressed in his own home during a shelter in place pandemic. What the fuck.

"Do you trust me, Pretty Boy?" Billy purrs and its then that Steve notices the bandana balled up in his left hand.

Steve could say no, irritated by being ignored for hours on end stuck in his room, but then he wouldn't get to know the surprise then would he? Plus it wouldn't be the truth anyway. Billy sits at number one of the list of people Steve trusts. It's a short list, but longer than Billy's.

"Of course I do, babe."

"Good then come here." Billy motions for him and Steve comes willingly.

He's fine with the idea of being blindfolded, at least until he makes it to the landing of the stairs and balks.

"Billy..." He says, anxiety laced in the edges of his tone.

"Relax, I've got you."

And he does. Billy comes out in front of him, taking the stairs backwards as he glides Steve down them step by step while holding both of his hands to keep him steady.

Steve had noticed immediately upon leaving his room that the house smelled amazing. It was clear that Billy had utilized his time cooking, or well mostly anyway. He's wracking his brain to pinpoint what the smell is, because it's familiar.

"Billy what did you do?" He asks as Billy leads him around to wherever he wants him to end up and suddenly Billy stops him, heat licking up his body as Billy leans in close.

"I know you were upset that we had to cancel our anniversary plans because of the whole pandemic thing-"

"Not really, I mean safety is more important than a reservation I've had in place for a month." Steve defends.

"Babe, you're allowed to be upset." Billy presses a kiss to his cheek. "And I'm allowed to fix it."

Steve snorts, but he's still leaning into Billy all the same. "Fix it? Three hours to make the vaccine? That's impressive"

"Shut it, you. Come on, just a bit more." And he ushers Steve forward and to the right. And then he is pressing down on his shoulders to get him to sit down. The familiar chair is apparent once he's sitting in it. The formal dining room, not the small breakfast nook where they usually take their meals. "Now keep your eyes closed, I'm taking off the bandana now."

Steve blinks in the sight before him, candles litter the long mahogany table, along with two place settings using his mom's fine China. His hand automatically reaches out and grasps for Billy's even though he only just let go. There's a platter of bread, fresh baked by the look of it, and two plates of seafood linguine with vodka sauce. Exactly what they would have ordered at Bella Vita because that's all they ever get there.

"I made your favorite." Billy says, sitting down still holding his hand. He's chewing on the corner of his lip and looking down, bashful. "I, uh, may have Skyped Juan. I wanted to make sure it was right."

"You did all of this for me?" Steve asks.

"It's our third anniversary, babe. I wanted to make it special. Don't get too stuffed on the pasta. I made creme Brule too. Then of course there's the after dessert, dessert." He winks.

Turns out quarantine makes for a memorable anniversary after all.